Ladykiller

36

Chapter 1

To the untrained eye there was nothing to set him apart from the hundreds of other pedestrians that on a daily basis made their way across the walkway connecting the short term departures car park to the airport. The man was in his mid-twenties, six foot one, medium build, short blond hair, dressed in the smart-casual attire of the affluent young professional, black leather briefcase at his side. Walking through the concourse he glanced at the Tag Huer on his wrist, and, noting that there were still ten minutes to go, joined the other shoppers browsing in the large, open plan newsagent situated on the right-hand side of the cavernous hall, a bureau de change to its right, a fashion boutique to the left. The airport was teeming with people as was normal in the mid-afternoon, which was one of the reasons why he chose this time. There was always the danger of bumping into someone he knew, but he figured he could cover himself without arousing suspicion: Meeting a business colleague flying up from London on the shuttle. Little bit early so I thought I’d take a look around. The airport changes so quickly these days.

There was an element of truth in the statement for the airport was in a constant state of flux as the marketing men and realities of modern day economics dictated policy, forcing the owners to utilize every available square foot, cramming more and more retail outlets into the limited space available, determined to relieve the traveller of as much of his cash as possible before sending him on his way. Black out the large glass plate windows at the far end of the concourse that provide a panoramic view of the business end of the operation, planes of varying make and size sporting the colours of their carrier tethered to the piers that jut out into the concrete apron, and the first-time visitor would find it difficult to differentiate between the internals of the airport and the small shopping malls that litter the country. The names were the same, the signs were the same, the layouts were the same, the goods for sale were the same; homogenous offerings in a sanitized world.

Browsing through the paperbacks on one of the many shelves that lined the walls he kept one eye on the milling crowd through the open front of the shop but, as expected, he saw nothing to arouse his suspicions. The business man in the dark suit, briefcase held to his side, striding purposefully across the concourse towards the door marked British Airways Executive Club, full of self-importance; the middle class family heading for the winter sun, father already changed into knee-length khaki shorts and designer polo top, mother shepherding her excited brood towards the departures lounge; the fat man in his tracksuit trousers and Nike trainers, washed-out t-shirt advertising a long forgotten Grateful Dead concert, bulging arms displaying an impressive display of artwork, dragging his partner towards the Bricklayers Arms, the holiday mood upon him, determined to start as he meant to continue. He took all this in. He remembered once reading somewhere that you are what you eat. Forget it, pal. You are what you wear.

It would be time to get out soon; nothing lasts forever and sooner or later somebody was going to make a mistake. He had made plenty of cash and so a few more trips and he’d pull the plug. It wouldn’t be easy, he couldn’t see them taking kindly to his decision. It wasn’t like working for the gas board. You couldn’t just arrive at the office one day and inform your colleagues that you had decided to take early retirement. He intended to disappear. No announcements, no preparation, no little clues, just fucking vanish. Hare today, gone tomorrow, he thought, smiling to himself, the slight alteration to the punch line to a joke he couldn’t quite remember. Some people could tell jokes and some people couldn’t, now there was one life’s great truths, he thought. Him? No, he couldn’t tell a joke, couldn’t hold the audience. Probably why he never remembered them. He glanced at the watch, five more minutes.

He didn’t know how big they were and that was part of the problem. But not that big. Not big enough to seek him out, exact punishment. No, they’d swear and curse a bit, call him a few names, do a bit of digging around, but after a few weeks it would all blow over. They’d forget about him, find a replacement, get on with their lives, too busy making money to give a monkeys. He saw himself on the Mediterranean coast, Porto Banus area; secluded villa, swimming pool, Jacuzzi, nothing too ostentatious. Maybe a yacht in the harbour, elegant clothes, sophisticated friends, the bohemian lifestyle. Accompanied or alone? The relationship was good but with a wad in your pocket you could take your pick. There were only two ways of gaining entrance to the more exclusive clubs and bars of the southern Mediterranean, and probably every other up-market joint in the world: you were either stinking rich or you were young, nubile of body, with film star good looks and a willingness to come across. The vision flooded his brain. The sun reflecting off the blue waters of the swimming pool, reclining chairs tastefully covered in lemon yellow cushions, palms providing a dappled shade, the bright purple of the bougainvillea against the white wall of the villa, the young body bent over the patio table, him behind, feeling, exploring, awaiting the moment. He quickly shifted the briefcase in his right hand to cover his embarrassment, glancing again at the watch, waiting a minute for the erection to subside.

As the minute hand approached three minutes to four he left the shop, retraced his steps to the entrance to the concourse, took the lift down to the lower level, and made his way down the short corridor that led to international arrivals, past the lost luggage office, airline enquiry desks and bureau de change, and out into the reception hall. He barely noticed the rows of metal tubular framed seats, the overhanging monitors or the newspaper vendor. The gents’ toilets were off to the left at the end of a short passageway.

The location was well chosen. Nobody could follow him down the corridor without him being aware of it. Precisely on the stroke of four he pushed through the inner door of the toilets, saw that there was only one other person in the small room. He placed the briefcase on the floor and braced his back against the inner door to temporarily block the entrance for anybody who may have been following. The other man nodded to him in recognition, pulled back the zip on the large blue holdall, extracted an identical briefcase, replaced it with the one he had placed on the floor, zipped up the bag, swung it over his shoulder and headed for the door. The exchange had taken less than ten seconds.

As the courier exited from the toilets the man entered one of the stalls, lowered his trousers, and settled down for the statutory five minutes before leaving himself. Back in the car he tumbled the combination locks on the black leather Antler briefcase and opened it a couple of inches, just sufficient to glimpse the contents. The used twenty pound notes were neatly stacked in bundles of one thousand, an elastic band around each bundle. Seeing the cash always made him feel good. He would count it when he was safely ensconced in his flat. It would all be there of course, it always was. There was no point in anybody trying anything on. After all, it was what the business theorists called the perfect deal; one where both sides made money, and plenty of it.

The woman walked down the street in the dark cold February morning, the Jack Russell bouncing along beside her still tethered by his lead but excited by the prospect of what was to come, conditioned by the daily ritual to a knowledge of freedom soon to be his. She looked at the dog and smiled to herself. There was a time, years ago, when she herself would have been similarly excited by the prospect of an outing, anticipating the possibilities that the as yet unrevealed future might offer. What happened to that girl? Responsibility, she thought, responsibility and life. Her mind drifted back to a time long ago. I wonder what happened to Chuck, where he is now? Dead, probably, she thought glumly. Her life would have been so different with Chuck. She had been a gay young thing then, bit of a reputation round the village, bit too flirty with the boys, he the most handsome man in the world, the debonair pilot, the sophisticated self-confident traveller. In reality he was rear gunner on a B52, a tall, gangly twenty-year-old with a thick mop of unruly dark hair, a crooked grin and a ready supply of cigarettes and chewing gum whose only experience of life prior to arriving in England was the butchers shop in Chicago and ten weeks at training camp in a field five miles outside Cincinnati.

But she had fallen in love, really in love. Sweet seventeen and completely head-over-heels in love. She had lost her virginity that summer, her virginity and her innocence. It would hardly make headline news today but in those days it was different. She remembered the look of horror when, unable to contain herself any longer, desperate to share her secret, she’d confided in her best friend, Maisy.

And you did it? All the way? My God! She didn’t regret it. She had the memory, which was more than the rest of them had, and that was all that counted when you reached her age. Chuck was transferred back to the states in the autumn of 1945, full of plans for the future, promises of a better life. Three months later the letters stopped coming and she spent the next four months locked in her bedroom, imagining the terrible circumstances that must be preventing him from writing to her, inventing stories in which she arrived at the final hour, breathless but determined, ready to save him from the terrible fate, the two lovers finally united to live in blissful harmony. She slowly emerged from her purdah, youthful exuberance overpowering teenage dramatics, the pull of the Saturday night dance too great to resist.

That was all behind her, of course; the daily grind of old age was now her lot and she accepted it with grace. She’d had her day and she couldn’t complain. Not that she was the complaining type.

Two years later she met Arthur at one of the regular Saturday night dances and eighteen months after that they were married. It wasn’t the same, would never be the same again. But they had been happy, had brought up the kids as best they could, and the family was more than compensation for the lost passion. They’d lived in the pre-war semi on George Street for over 40 years – she still thought in terms of ‘we’ even though her husband had been dead for nine years now. The dog had been his idea.

Give me some company now that I’m retired. Something to get me out of the house. After forty-three years’ service with the gas board, retirement for Arthur lasted precisely eighteen months before the coronary stopped him in his tracks. Didn’t seem fair really, but best not to dwell on these things. The park was just five minutes walk from the house which was one of the reasons why they chose it. When the children were young it had been ideal: pick up the football (or hula hoop or whatever the latest fad was), walk down the street, across the road and there you were. Now it was just her and Sammy. The kids were still there for her, of course, but Janet, her daughter, and husband Charles and the grandchildren lived in London and Steve had joined the Navy so she didn’t see much of them. They had their own lives to leave, she understood that.

The entrance gates to the park were about fifty yards along a drive that branched off from the junction where the town’s two main streets met. A towering beech and assorted shrubbery flanked the drive, obscuring the view of the imposing gatehouse from the road. The woman walked straight past the entrance and on down the lane that flanked the southern side of the park, the boundary wall to her right and a modern housing development, lights in some of the windows testament to the early risers preparing for the day ahead, to her left. It was only 6.45 in the morning, still dark, and she knew that the gates to the park would not yet be unlocked. One hundred yards further down the road she turned right into the entrance to the golf club that was formerly a part of the park, strode across the car park, her feet scrunching on the gravel underfoot, and turned left up the small track leading to the first tee. She’d been taking this route for nearly two years now. The dog gave her the idea. One day he had run into the car park chasing some imaginary quarry and, though wary about crossing the threshold protected by the members only sign, after ten fruitless minutes calling after him she had been forced to follow. She knew that the course bounded the park at this point; she had often seen the golfers beyond the fence while walking in the park, their brightly coloured clothes contrasting with the verdant background, trolleys dutifully pulled along behind them. Following the dog’s distant barks she had crossed the car park and walked down the small path leading to the first tee. Standing on the tee, the fairway stretching out before her, the early morning frost turning the entire scene a surreal white, she noticed the stile in the fence to her right that marked the boundary between course and park. It was about sixty yards from the tee, presumably built to afford errant golfers the opportunity of retrieving their sliced drives from the out-of-bounds beyond the fence.

The stile presented the alluring opportunity of an illegal stroll in the early morning half light. The first few times, creeping through the car park before hurrying down the path, she had actually felt a certain youthful fission, the excitement of doing something slightly illegal, but now it was just routine. She was sure they knew, the golfers that is. Whenever there was a hoarfrost she left an unmissable trail of footprints leading straight to the stile. But if they were aware of her pre-dawn trespasses they showed no concern.

Safely in the park she released Sammy from his lead. Her choice was either to turn left down the dirt track that led eventually to the hall or backtrack to the right to join the main tarmacadam driveway. In the summer she would have taken the dirt track but at this time of the year the rain turned it into a quagmire in parts so she opted for the cleaner route. It didn’t really make any difference, the two ran pretty much parallel to each other, the drive being fifty yards to the right of the dirt track. The walk was the same every morning and she knew from experience that she would be back at the main gates shortly after 8.00. Reaching the main driveway she turned left and started to walk towards the hall, her eyes becoming accustomed to the darkness, able to identify the darker shadows of bushes and trees dotted among the rolling parkland to either side of the driveway. Her friends often told her she was mad, walking in the dark as she did, but it didn’t worry her; maybe she had always been a bit mad. Sammy was his usual self, she could hear and sometimes see him as he scurried from one side of the drive to the other, searching out the early morning smells and chasing long gone rabbits.

She was about a mile down the path, the light starting to appear on the horizon, the vast expanse of water to her right, and the birds excitedly announcing the start of a new day, when the dog started playing up. There was a small copse twenty yards to her right, halfway between the path and the Mere, and she could hear the dog barking and growling in among the trees. Continuing on her way she called the dog to her, knowing that as she disappeared into the distance he would eventually give up the chase and search her out. But he ignored her shouts and continued barking. She retraced her steps and walked back towards the copse. In the half-light she could see the dog prancing around, barking, and she could make out the outline of something lying on the ground. At first she was unsure. A dead or wounded sheep, a bundle of clothes? No. It was clearly a man lying on the ground. She could see the back of the head, the dark overcoat and the lower legs and shoes protruding from the bottom of the coat. The lack of movement initially quelled her fear. Her first thoughts had been a tramp, an alcho, and she was frightened at the thought of the reaction the early morning wakening might induce. She moved around, still about six feet from the man, to try to get hold of the dog. As she did so she saw the man’s clothing was open at the front, exposing the bare flesh of the stomach and chest. The shock of the wounds was almost too much and she gagged as the vomit rose in her throat, the sweat glistening on her forehead. Without looking again she reached over and grabbed the dog and hurried back to the driveway. Her heart pounding she reached inside the shopping bag she always carried with her and found the mobile phone the kids had given her for Christmas. At the time the present had been a disappointment, she couldn’t see that she’d have much use for a mobile phone. Now she punched in 999 and waited for an answer.

Chapter 2

The ringing finally brought Mike to life and, fumbling for the phone on the bedside table, he noted the green luminous figures on the clock radio showing 7.05. Lifting the receiver he was aware of the fuzzy, ‘not quite with the world, almost a headache’ feeling that a combination of one too many lagers, that damned cigar and the early morning call had induced.

Hello?

DCI Judd? questioned the voice.

Yes.

It’s PC Bradley, Sir. Afraid we’ve found a body.

What’s the SP?

Lady out walking her dog in Tatton Park has just phoned us on her mobile. Sounds pretty messy. She was very upset and not making too much sense so until the patrol gets there we don’t have much information. But from what she said it sounds like you need to take a look. One dead body, blood and guts everywhere, was the gist of it.

Have scene-of-crime officers been informed?

We’re still trying to contact them, it’s a bit early in the day for those boys.

Mike’s brain was slowly coming to life. He’d been seconded on a couple of violent deaths as a DI but this was his first one as a Chief Inspector. The fact was, despite the impression given by the television such situations were rare. To be landed with one just two weeks after his promotion was a bit of a bugger. Or an opportunity? If I cock this up it could be a very quick end to the fast-track career path, thought Mike as he tried to gather his senses.

Get hold of the patrol. Tell them to seal the site but not to touch anything. Also, get SOCO down there as quick as you can. I’m on my way. As an afterthought, he added, Better get the pathologist out as well.

Will do, Sir.

And where the hell is Tatton Park?

Forrest Gump looked expectantly up from the settee, face raised, the doleful brown eyes almost hidden by the thick black fur, mouth open, pink tongue hanging out, ready for the start of another day.

Forrest, what have I told you about sleeping on the sofa? Get off there, he said in an exasperated voice as he gave the dog a playful whack on the backside. For the thousandth time he wondered what on earth he could have been thinking about. Sure he was down at the time – Suzie had kicked him into touch for the third and final time – and yes he liked dogs and they probably were a lot more reliable than women when it came right down to it, and it was true that the little puppy had been ever so cute. But a Pyrenean Mountain dog, I ask you? Forrest had two missions in life, eating and growing. Mike made his way through to the kitchen – the dog barging against his legs, pushing him out the way – emptied the last half of the tin into Forrest’s bowl, shook some of the biscuits on top and filled the water bowl from the tap.

That should keep you going for a while, partner.

He grabbed a cup of tea and a quick shower, threw on the chinos, casual shirt and fleece jacket, the standard uniform among the plain-clothed brigade, and jumped into his police issue Ford. Forrest sat next to him on the passenger seat, upright, front legs braced, staring out of the windscreen invariably causing a stir among other road users as they realized the ‘passenger’ was in fact a large black hairy beast. Mike had moved up from Birmingham two weeks ago on the back of a promotion and had temporarily moved into a police flat in Sale. The flat was functional and served his needs for the time being although he’d have to sort out a place with a garden soon.

We’re going to the park, he said by way of explanation to Forrest. The house in Edgbaston was on the market and he’d decided to wait until he had a firm offer on that before starting to look for somewhere on his new patch. Enquiries at the local gym had put him in touch with a lad that ran a five-a-side team, nothing heavy, a friendly game against like minded souls on a Wednesday night. Last night had been his first outing and all things considered he’d not performed too badly, scored a couple of goals; with any luck they’d invite him back. The so-called quick drink afterwards was responsible for the slightly hung over feeling this morning. That and the cigar. He’d sworn to give up the fags once and for all when he left Birmingham and could just about hack it except when he was in the pub downing a lager. He compensated with a small cigar from behind the bar. Trouble was that one cigar made you feel ten times worse the next morning than the half dozen fags he would normally have smoked. Sorting out a social life was in many ways the hardest part about moving to the new area. The job followed the same routines but finding new friends, particularly now he was a DCI and not just one of the boys anymore, was proving more difficult.

Pushing through the gears he drove down the Washway road, a major artery into Manchester, moving against the main flow of traffic, the two lanes opposite already choked with the beginnings of the morning rush hour as the commuters made their way into town for the start of another day of toil. Leaving Altrincham the drive became easier; the road a dual carriageway now with less traffic to hinder his progress and the urban sprawl on either side replaced by green fields. Crossing over the M56 he was temporarily delayed by the traffic lights at the roundabout before continuing his journey and reaching, four miles further on, the set of traffic lights with the Swan Hotel on the left. Following the instructions he’d received over the phone he turned left at the Swan, the road becoming narrower as it twisted through the Cheshire countryside, the large, individually designed house appearing on his right-hand side as he made his way through the millionaires’ retreat known as Mere. Mike looked in awe as mansion after mansion passed by on the right-hand side, catching occasional glimpses of the stretch of water beyond the grand houses that gave the area its name.

Five minutes later he found the drive leading up to the park and turning in he rounded the bend to find two patrol cars and an old Volkswagen Golf parked in front of the large Victorian wrought iron gates. The gates were fully twelve feet across and nearly fifteen feet high, housed within an impressive gatehouse built of sandstone blocks with smaller pedestrian gates on either side.

As he opened the door and stepped out of the car the uniform standing by the gates walked over to him.

What’s happening? asked Mike.

Nothing to concern you, Sir. If you could just get back into your car and move on please, Sir. Mike fumbled in his inside pocket and extracted the leather wallet that held his warrant card.

DCI Judd. What’s going on?

Srry, Sir. Didn’t recognize you. PC O’Neil, Sir. The gates are locked. They aren’t opened until 8.00 and we can’t find the key holder. Mike glanced at his watch, 7.25.

So how do we get in?

The pedestrian gate on the right-hand side is open, Sir. It’s just that we can’t get the vehicles in.

So the side gate isn’t locked?

It wasn’t when I arrived, Sir, so I suppose not.

How far to the body?

It’s about three quarters of a mile down the road and then about twenty yards off to the right.

Who’s there now?

PC Roberts and PC Walker plus a lady from SOCO. She arrived about 10 minutes ago so she’ll just about be there now. We thought I’d better wait up here and deal with any of the public who show up.

What about the woman who found the body?

She’s sitting in the patrol car. That’s her dog tied to the railing over there. She’s badly shaken.

OK. Keep her here for now. I’m going to walk down and take a look at the crime scene then I’ll come back up and have a talk with her. Make sure nobody gets in until I say so. Try to get hold of the bloody keys. And radio the station and tell them to get DC Daniels down here ASAP.

During his induction week at the station Mike had interviewed the five DCs under his command. The opening with DC Jack Daniels was too obvious to miss.

Your parents certainly had a sense of humour.

Not really, Sir. I was christened John. In those days I don’t think the majority of people in England would have the faintest idea of what a Jack Daniels was. My family calls me John. It was only when I went to college that some bright spark came up with the Jack bit. I guess I’m stuck with the handle now.

Daniels was forty-seven years old, some twelve years older than himself. He had an excellent record and seemed to accept the command of the younger man without any of the rancour and back biting he thought he detected in some of his other DCs.

He retrieved Forrest from the car, attached the lead, and headed for the gate. Giving the dog some exercise, he muttered to the constable as he passed him, feeling slightly ridiculous, realizing that this wasn’t helping his image any, the huge dog straining at the lead pulling him along. Mike suddenly stopped, leaning backwards against Forrest’s eager pull.

Has anybody touched the main gates?

Sir?

The padlock, the gates. Has anybody touched them?

Not as far as I know, Sir, although the other patrol was here before I was so they may have tried to undo them to get in.

Right, well make sure nobody else does until SOCO have had a good look. The bugger must have got in here somehow.

Once inside the park he set the dog free, watching the huge bulk rampage around, still a frisky puppy at heart. That was a close one, thought Mike. A cardinal sin. Failing to secure a potential source of evidence. Any slipups like that and he’d get bloody crucified at the debrief. Still, now he had the chance to collect his thoughts as he walked down the driveway that dissected the park. First, the weather was on their side. It was a cold crisp February morning with a clear blue sky and no sign of rain. He remembered that from the training courses. With outdoor murders the biggest problem is bloody rain. Everything gets covered in mud, people squelch round and pretty soon the whole scene of crime becomes a quagmire, plus morale drops through the floor after a couple of hours of standing around in the wet and cold. Second, he was dying for a fag. He’d given up two weeks ago apart from the odd cigar in the pub. He’d managed so far but knew he was going to really feel it today. As every nicotine addict knows, you think that bit more clearly and calmly in a crisis after a fag. Third. Well, there wasn’t a third at this point.

The light was improving by the minute and Mike spotted the small group off to the right of the path while still some distance away. Red and white tape was secured between convenient tree trunks marking a rough rectangle around a patch of brown earth in the middle of which he could see the bundle of clothing lying on the ground. The two uniformed officers were standing at one corner of the rectangle outside the tape, the woman from SOCO on her hands and knees to the right of the bundle intently examining the ground. He called Forrest to him and put him back on the lead.

Seeing Mike approaching, the uniformed officers stood up rigidly and he guessed that the PC at the gate had radioed ahead that he was on his way. He walked over to the uniforms.

Who was first on the scene?

We were, Sir, replied the one on the right. The woman phoned in just after 7.00. We were out on patrol. Arrived here about ten past.

Was the side gate open when you arrived?

Yes, Sir That’s how we got into the park.

Hold on to this for a minute, will you? With a sheepish look he handed one of the constables the lead.

Approaching the tape he called across to the woman examining the ground.

Alright to enter the crime scene?

The woman looked up from the ground and gave him a not very welcoming look.

Depends who the hell you are.

DCI Judd, replied Mike in a tone of voice that he hoped conveyed an air of authority. She seemed unimpressed.

Right, enter by that tree over there, walk straight to the body and leave the same way. Oh, and it’s pretty gruesome so don’t go throwing up all over the evidence. You’re going to need more bodies down here pronto. Could do with at least half a dozen scene-of-crime to have a good poke around. It’s not like a house; there you have natural boundaries. Here we don’t know how far to go to secure the scene. Maybe the whole bloody park.

While the woman was talking Mike had followed the instructions and walked carefully towards the body that