Sacrifice Page 22

  He nodded. ‘And guess who the bloody clowns are.’

  Chapter 28

  Cameron Boyd sauntered into the prison interview room with the air of a man who knew he had the upper hand. The steel door slammed closed, and he slumped into the seat on the opposite side of the table from Gemma and Heck.

  ‘Smashing to see you again.’ He displayed his orange bib. ‘How do you like my new gear?’

  ‘Suits you,’ Heck replied.

  ‘It’s not very stylish.’

  ‘You’ll get used to it.’

  Boyd grinned his brown-toothed grin. ‘I’m not so sure, actually.’

  ‘Cut the bollocks, Boyd,’ Gemma said. ‘You’ve dragged us off an important investigation so please don’t waste any more of our time than is necessary.’

  Boyd eyed her as though amused. ‘You like to go at stuff fast, don’t you, Miss Piper? I thought you’d have learned to be a bit more cautious after last time – when you nabbed the wrong bloke.’

  ‘You know, Cameron,’ Gemma said, ‘this “what a clever villain am I” act would be more convincing if you weren’t facing a long stretch inside.’

  ‘Funny you should mention that. Because that’s what I want to talk to you both about.’ He leaned forward, still grinning. ‘You two think you’ve taken me off the streets for quite some time, don’t you? But I’m not the one you really want.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Heck said. ‘You’ve been a distraction, nothing more.’

  ‘In that case, you can put in a good word for me.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Gemma said.

  Still Boyd grinned. ‘The last time we spoke, you asked if I could remember when someone might have grabbed a handful of my hair. Well guess what … I now have.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Ah-ah …’ He wagged a finger. ‘There’s no such thing in life as a free lunch. Well, there is in here, I suppose. It’s fucking shit, but it always tastes better when the taxpayer’s footing the bill. Anyway … I can tell you exactly who pulled my hair out, and exactly when it happened. But you’re going to have to do me a favour.’

  ‘Go on,’ Gemma said.

  ‘As you know, me and Tezza Mullany are going to stand trial for three aggravated burglaries. We haven’t got a cat in hell’s chance. We’ll get fifteen years each, easy.’

  ‘That’ll be a shame,’ Heck chuckled.

  ‘Be a shame for you too, you pig bastard!’ Boyd snapped.

  ‘Keep this friendly, Cameron,’ Gemma warned him. ‘Or we’ll walk and you’ll get no kind of deal.’

  ‘I want the charges reduced. Knock ’em down to ordinary everyday burglaries – take out the “aggravated” bit – and I’ll tell you what you want to know.’

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding.’

  ‘Do I look like I am?’

  ‘You tied people up in their own homes,’ Gemma said. ‘You held sharpened objects to their throats, to their eyeballs.’

  ‘They’ll get over it. Look, I’ll still go down … only difference is it’ll be three or four years, tops.’

  ‘Some kind of justice, that,’ Heck said.

  Boyd sat back. ‘That’s the price of my intel.’

  ‘It’s too high,’ Gemma said. ‘I dealt with the paperwork for those home-invasions you and Terry Mullany committed. I liaised with the Manchester detectives who were investigating them. They were among the worst I’ve ever seen. As far as I’m concerned, fifteen years would be too short. You and Mullany should be going down for life.’

  ‘In which case this interview is finished.’ Boyd stood up. ‘You sure you don’t want to think this over first?’

  ‘There’s nothing to think about,’ she said firmly.

  He grinned again, and banged on the door. ‘Your loss.’

  The rain had stopped outside, but it was still cloudy and cold. Gemma didn’t immediately climb into Heck’s Volkswagen, but stood thinking. She glanced back at the soulless mountain of brick that was Strangeways Prison.

  ‘Boyd’s a major bullshit artist, you realise that?’ Heck said.

  ‘Well … now I don’t suppose we’ll ever know.’

  ‘Have you considered giving him what he wants?’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Just because he’s charged with burglary doesn’t mean the judge won’t be made conversant with the facts. He’ll hand down a stiff sentence.’

  ‘It’ll still go a lot easier for him than it should.’

  ‘Agreed, but it seems pretty simple to me.’ Heck loosened his tie. ‘Whoever obtained Boyd’s DNA is a link to the Desecrator. They could lead us straight to him.’

  Gemma shook her head. ‘I don’t think I could get those charges reduced even if I wanted to. I wasn’t kidding in there … those aggravated burglaries were bloody serious. GMP would be all over us like a rash if we tried. And they’d be right to. Sorry Heck, but there’s got to be such a thing in this job as principle. Boyd and Mullany need to be kept off the streets for as long as possible. I’m not going to prevent that happening, whatever I stand to gain from it.’

  ‘Even if it means other lives may be saved?’

  She gave him a haggard stare, but before she could reply her mobile began bleeping. Her face fell even more when she spied the number of the caller. ‘Hello, sir,’ she said.

  Heck waited patiently while Gemma nodded repeatedly, occasionally getting a word or two in: ‘Yes sir … of course … tomorrow, yes.’

  ‘Tomorrow then, eh?’ Heck said when she’d hung up.

  ‘First thing in the afternoon … Joe’s office.’

  ‘You’re at the Old Bailey later this week, aren’t you?’

  ‘I am, as it happens. Cooper v Regina. Joe says come down a day early. We can kill two birds with one stone.’ Gemma gave him a wan smile. ‘Was nice knowing you.’

  ‘It’ll just be a progress report.’

  ‘And look how much I’ve got to show him.’

  ‘Going to mention Boyd’s offer?’

  ‘Am I bloody hell! I know what his response would be – I’m a high-ranking, highly trusted police officer. I should be catching criminals, not bribing them. And if I can’t do that, someone else will.’

  ‘There’s no harm in telling him that Boyd made the offer. Least that’ll take the burden off your shoulders.’

  She gave him another frank stare. ‘Do I look like I need the burden taking off?’

  ‘Do you want the truth?’

  ‘Just get in the car.’

  They drove the twenty-five miles back to Merseyside in almost complete silence, not even commenting on the heavy early-evening traffic. Halfway there the rain returned, grey pulses of it sweeping the bleak, post-industrial landscape. Still Gemma said nothing, just sat there, gazing past the thudding windscreen wipers.

  They pulled into the car park of their motel, and gazed up at the unimposing structure. It looked faceless, functional. Little wonder, on the first day, they’d christened it the ‘Motel-With-No-Name’.

  ‘We don’t need to go in, you know,’ Heck said. ‘We could go for a drink somewhere. Just to unwind. Can’t hurt … we’re both wrecked.’

  ‘No.’ She gave him a studied sidelong glance. ‘I don’t think that would be smart. Because if we go for a drink together, the way I’m feeling right now … this time it’s me who might jump on you. And like I said before, that wouldn’t be good for either of us.’

  She climbed from the car and closed the door.

  ‘Speak for yourself,’ Heck said under his breath.

  Chapter 29

  ‘Heck!’ Garrickson yelled across the MIR.

  The DCI was seated in Gemma’s chair, but he didn’t look especially comfortable; if anything he looked harassed. His tie was uncharacteristically loose and his jacket had been tossed into a corner; his attention was divided between various forms splattered across the desk and his open laptop.

  ‘What’ve you got in your diary for today?’ he asked without glancing up.

  ‘We’re wor
king our way through the staff at the zoo,’ Heck replied. ‘I thought it might help to draw up a list of ex-staff too. Anyone who’s been and gone recently.’

  ‘Good idea. Stick it in the log and give it to someone else. I’ve just had a call from DI Kane in the Leeds Incident Room.’

  ‘Okay?’ Heck didn’t like the sound of this.

  ‘He’s got another corpse for us.’

  ‘Oh, Jesus …’

  ‘But personally, I’m not sold on this one.’ Garrickson swung his laptop around.

  Heck stared down at more grainy crime scene footage, this time with a West Yorkshire Police insignia in its top right-hand corner. The quality was so poor that at first it was difficult to see what exactly was going on. The harsh glare of lights didn’t help, while water was dripping from some gantry overhead. By the looks of it, a ragged figure lay huddled in foetal fashion amid a mass of crumpled, rain-soaked cardboard. Its head resembled a soggy shoebox squashed out of shape, but the blood that drenched it had turned black.

  ‘This was shot in Manningham, Bradford, about two hours ago,’ Garrickson said. ‘Some tramp’s had his head bashed in with a stone.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound like one of ours,’ Heck replied.

  ‘My thoughts too. But local plod have told Kane they think this might be the place where the Jane Doe in the crocodile pool got abducted from. Seems the clothing we circulated is very similar …’ he glanced at a notebook, ‘to that worn by a local tom called Chantelle Richards. She went missing from her normal pitch with a mate called Gracie Allen the best part of a month ago.’

  ‘And this is the pitch?’

  ‘Sounds like it. I suppose it’s possible this poor sod saw whoever took the two girls and got his head caved in as a result …’

  Heck nodded. This was worth looking into. ‘Good job Ben Kane’s on the spot.’

  Garrickson switched his computer off. ‘Ben Kane’s taken charge on our behalf. I’ve scanned him over the dental X-rays we took from the crocodile girl. He’s taken them to a local clinic where this Chantelle Richards used to go for health check-ups. But Kane’s already DSIO on the Father Christmas murder. So he can’t do it all himself.’

  Heck knew what was coming next. ‘I’m guessing you want me over there?’

  Garrickson sat back. ‘Why not? You’re our Mr Roving Commission … or so everyone keeps telling me.’ He scooped up the documents on the table – Heck recognised them as fax sheets – and shoved them across in no particular order. ‘Here’s the necessary paperwork. Chop fucking chop, sergeant … we’ve got some killers to catch!’

  Though Bradford wasn’t far away in real terms, about fifty miles – and the M62 motorway ran straight over there, rising and falling like a rollercoaster as it breasted the high Pennine moors – the traffic was sluggish, and it got worse. As Heck crossed Rockingstone Moss in snail-like fashion, a thunderstorm broke. Clouds so pregnant with rain they were bruised a livid green and purple, split open amid blistering flashes of lightning, and a cataclysmic downpour commenced, drumming on vehicle roofs, thrashing on windscreens. The tussocky moorland grass lay flat beneath its onslaught; soon there was several inches of surface-water on the road.

  Heck finally entered West Yorkshire’s second largest city several hours after he should have done, in early afternoon. Still the rain teemed down, drenched pedestrians dashing across the gridlocked streets, sheltering beneath brollies or briefcases. Heck’s sat-nav at least was unaffected by the elements, and finally brought him to the correct coordinates, a decrepit district of empty lots and condemned properties. But so many local police vehicles, both uniform and CID, were already crammed into the narrow side-streets here that he had to park about half a mile away. He zipped himself into his anorak, pulled up the hood and headed along an alley running between two rows of boarded-up terraced houses. In the near-distance blue lights flickered on the underside of a decayed railway viaduct.

  DI Ben Kane’s usual ‘lecture hall’ garb was hidden beneath an all-enveloping sou’wester. He was waiting at the crime scene’s outer cordon, on a cobbled backstreet jammed between a derelict mill and the viaduct, the extensive area beneath which was a forest of rain-sodden trash: dumped fridges, car wrecks, broken furniture, and rotted, mould-covered mattresses.

  ‘Where’s everyone else?’ Kane said, seeing that Heck was alone.

  ‘Who else were you expecting?’ Heck replied, glancing over the tape; thanks to the big arc-lights West Yorkshire had set up under the gantry, the tramp’s motionless body was visible even from a distance of thirty yards.

  ‘You’re kidding me, right?’ Kane said. He indicated various men and women, presumably West Yorkshire officers, some in Tyvek, others hatted and coated, standing in watchful silence under any bit of shelter they could find. ‘This lot already think we’re a bunch of fucking idiots.’

  ‘They’ve been reading the newspapers too, have they?’ Heck said.

  ‘They hardly need to. They’re waiting to find out whether we want this or not, so they can process the scene. I don’t think they were expecting to wait all day.’

  Heck nodded at the corpse. ‘He’s in no rush, is he?’

  ‘Very funny. The point is we still can’t pronounce whether it’s ours or theirs five hours on. And when I ask for some assistance, I get one man.’

  ‘We have a few other victims,’ Heck reminded him. ‘Time of death?’

  ‘Doctor reckons around twenty days ago.’

  ‘Same night this Chantelle Richards went missing?’

  ‘There or thereabouts.’

  ‘Anything back on the X-rays?’

  ‘Not yet. The medical centre where I sent them … it’s a kind of walk-in place. A lot of street people get fixed up there. Going like a chippie twenty-four-seven.’

  ‘Well we can’t make living patients wait for dead ones.’ Heck glanced around. ‘I can see this is the arsehole of Bradford, but it shouldn’t have taken someone three weeks to find this poor bastard.’

  ‘He was wrapped up in that box,’ Kane said. ‘Could have been there a lot longer, but West Yorkshire turned up here when two local toms spotted a Crimestoppers flyer concerning the crocodile pool girl, and thought they recognised the clothing. They decided they hadn’t seen these two mates of theirs, Chantelle Richards and Gracie Allen, for quite some time and reported it.’ He handed over two documents in clear plastic envelopes. ‘Here are their witness statements. Apparently, this was Richards’ and Allen’s regular pitch, so West Yorkshire came and had a poke around, and lo and behold …’

  Heck glanced across the waste-ground beneath the railway. ‘What about the other dossers? Did no one else see anything – the girls being abducted, this fella getting his head smacked in?’

  ‘Fuck’s sake, Heck! I only found out about this a couple of hours ago, and I’m supposed to be running the Incident Room in Leeds. I haven’t got the time or the men to go scouring the streets for homeless lowlives who may know something. That’s why I’d hoped her ladyship might have sent a team over.’

  ‘Do either of the missing women have families?’

  Kane again consulted his notes. ‘Chantelle Richards does. She’s got two kids, but she doesn’t live with them. They’re officially in the care of her mother.’

  ‘Have they been shown pictures of the clothing?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Do they even know she’s been reported missing?’

  ‘Course they do. Well, the mother does. She’s probably worried sick.’

  ‘Gee, do you think …’

  ‘Look, I know what you’re getting at.’ Kane’s voice became a harsh whisper. ‘You reckon someone should get down there. Well, I’ll tell you now, if you think I’m going to be the one who tells some sweet old grandma and two tiny tots that their beloved mum may – may, Heck! – have been torn to pieces by a fucking crocodile, you can forget it!’

  Heck could hardly upbraid him for that. It wasn’t the kind of duty any police officer would volunteer f
or. ‘What about Family Liaison?’

  ‘We haven’t got anyone on this side of the Pennines … the only victim we’ve got to date over here is Ernest Shapiro and he had no family.’

  ‘Can’t West Yorkshire help us?’

  ‘I can ask, I suppose.’

  ‘You haven’t already?’

  ‘Don’t even think about judging me, Heck! I’m up to my eyes as it is. Anyway, we need to wait for the results from the medical centre. With luck they’ll tell us it’s not Richards. Then we can hand this whole mess back to West Yorkshire and get on with what we’re supposed to be doing.’

  ‘Whether or not it turns out Chantelle Richards is the croc girl, the mere fact that she may be is a development. We can’t just not tell them anything because we’d rather someone else did it.’

  Kane shoved his hands into his anorak pockets. ‘In that case, DS Heckenburg …’ his expression was bleak, ‘you’re the guy from head-office.’

  Heck opted not to wait for the results from the medical centre, partly because it was only right that the family be updated, and partly because something else now nagged at him.

  Above the city’s tower blocks and old, industrial rooftops, thunder still boomed in a prematurely darkened sky. Rain fell in sheets as he tried to negotiate a chaos of late-afternoon traffic, his headlight beams slashing through the downpour.

  ‘Garrickson,’ said the voice on the other end of the line.

  ‘It’s me,’ Heck shouted into his mobile, at the same time trying to follow his sat-nav to a place called Great Horton.

  ‘Anything?’ Garrickson asked.

  Heck glanced at the witness statements. ‘The crocodile woman’s clothing has been identified by some of this missing girl’s fellow sex-workers. I mean, black stockings, denim skirt, pink high heels … ten-a-penny stuff individually, but when all taken together it’s a hell of a coincidence. I think this’ll turn out to be our girl, which means the dead tramp is ours too.’

  There was a brief silence as Garrickson took this in, no doubt wondering how the hell they could operate an incident room in Bradford as well. ‘Shit … look, we need to be sure before we officially take charge.’