A Very Private Murder (27 page)

‘Oscar hasn’t been seen since last Thursday,’ I told her. ‘He was at a party for his birthday. He got quite drunk and started flashing a handgun around. We haven’t found the gun that killed Arthur, but it seems reasonable to believe it’s the same one. We’re worried that he’ll shoot someone else. Do you know where he might be?’

She said no. After some prompting she suggested the places where we’d already looked, then admitted that Oscar had found a new girlfriend recently – someone ‘nearer his own age’.

After a long, burning silence I said: ‘Do you want to tell me about it?’ I told her that I wasn’t taking notes but would have to arrest her and take her to the station, where she’d be interviewed officially and a decision taken whether to charge her or not. She didn’t reply, so I said: ‘Let’s have that coffee, eh?’

I followed her to the kitchen and leant on the door jamb as she rattled the cups and struggled with spoon and coffee jar. ‘No milk,’ she remembered.

‘That’s right.’

I carried the tray into the other room and set it down on the table. Before I took my seat again I looked out of the window and saw the hardwood table and chairs where she and Oscar had sipped their lemonades in the sunshine before rutting each other brainless, nearly a year earlier. She hung back, then followed me with a plate of biscuits. I shook my head when she showed me them.

‘Oscar was upset about the Curzon Centre,’ she told me, ‘and was mad about Arthur’s involvement with it. He decided that ridicule was the best weapon against Arthur, and came up with the graffiti idea. It worked a treat, but unfortunately didn’t produce the desired effect. Ghislaine Curzon was too popular with the press and they united to save her from embarrassment. The plan fell flat.’ She took a sip of coffee and went on: ‘In fact, it backfired completely on Oscar. He became more and more annoyed about the whole thing. He used to ring me, late at night, saying what he’d like to do to the man who’d built the Centre and also driven his father away. One night he said he’d shoot him if he had a gun. I said: “I have a gun.”’

‘I was in the garage, looking for his golf clubs, when I found this wooden box that I’d never seen before. It was locked and it intrigued me. We have a biscuit tin containing all the keys we’ve accumulated over the years: spare door keys; spare car keys; spares for suitcases; the windows; the garage. You know how it is.’

‘I recognise the picture,’ I said.

‘Well, I found the key to the box and opened it. There was this funny-looking gun inside, and some bullets.’

‘How many bullets?’

‘Three, I think.’

‘Go on, please.’

‘I thought about it for a day or two and decided to do nothing at first, but I’d keep it, just in case. When it all came to light about Arthur and his girlfriend I decided I’d shoot him. I thought about it a lot, decided that was what I wanted to do, but I couldn’t find the courage. Then I told Oscar about it.’

‘Oscar came straight round,’ she continued. ‘He was intrigued by the gun, couldn’t stop playing with it.’

‘Guns are like that,’ I told her. ‘They affect some people like a drug. Give them confidence, feelings of power. Most people recognise it for what it is and enjoy the moment, others start to believe it, think they’re God’s messenger. They go to a shopping mall or a school and loose off at the crowd. What did you do next?’

‘We planned and plotted. Oscar knew all about forensic science. He said the problem was getting rid of the weapon and the other evidence. We came up with a plan. I’d shoot Arthur then completely change my clothes. Oscar said that if I had no blood on me, I couldn’t have done it.’

It was a simple plan. Mrs T would do the deed, then go to the supermarket. They’d park next to each other at the quiet end of the car park, away from the CCTV, and Oscar would help her transfer her shopping into the boot of her Day-Glo Ford Focus. They couldn’t do anything about the distinctive paint job, but that was a risk they’d have to take. Oscar would drive a long way away and dump the bloodstained clothing and the gun; she would go home to find her husband dead on the bedroom floor. Except that Oscar had taken a liking to the gun, and decided to hold onto it.

‘What will happen to me?’ she asked, after she’d finished relating her story.

‘You’ll be charged and remanded,’ I told her. I recited the caution and told her to make up an overnight bag. We drove to the nick in silence, the sky an impossible blue, the colours of the clothes on the pedestrians brighter than I remembered them, other drivers courteous and obliging. The bakery opposite the nick had just taken a batch out of the oven and the smell wafted across the car park.

Sitting in the car, I said: ‘I’ve done my bit, Janet. I’ll let one of my colleagues do the interview. You need the best defence lawyer money can buy. You can afford it. Mental cruelty is a powerful defence. If you say you’ll live at your sister’s, and promise to behave, we might not oppose bail.’

‘Thank you, Inspector,’ she said, ‘and can I apologise for all the trouble I’ve caused you?’

‘C’mon.’ I said. ‘Let’s go.’

We were having our debriefing meeting and on a high when the shout came. The lab had run some more tests on the dog pee and now were telling us that although the guilty dog wasn’t Bruno, there was a definite relationship between the two of them, probably siblings. All we had to do was find the second dog.

‘Lean on young Bratty,’ I said. ‘Use his dog as leverage. Lead him to believe that Bruno could be put down but might be saved if we found the true culprit.’ I was about to tell them that in my opinion Terence Bratt hadn’t been totally forthcoming with us, and wondering how much meaner I could get, when an internal phone started beeping.

Brendan picked it up and after a few seconds raised a hand to silence the babble that always breaks out when there’s an interruption. ‘He’s here,’ he told the caller, making eye contact with me. ‘I’ll put him on.’ He passed the handset my way, saying: ‘It’s control. Young Sidebottom has been sighted.’

He was on the move and a mobile had spotted his Mini heading west between York and Leeds. Within minutes he was being followed and units ahead of him were waiting to take over. I brought the ARVs off the motorway and told them to stand by.

We guessed that he was heading either to Leeds or Heckley. He had contacts with animal rights activists in Leeds who would no doubt give him a smelly mattress for a night or two, or he could be heading to his mother’s and an Egyptian cotton, down-filled duvet. On the other hand, there wouldn’t be a nubile media studies student at his mother’s to take the chill off the sheets and his mind off his recent troubles. My money was on Leeds.

‘Lima Sierra 3 to Heckley control. Target vehicle on A64 approaching A1M turn-off. He’s signalling left. Now he’s on the slip road. Can confirm he’s heading south on the A1M. Can someone take over from me, please?’

I was wrong. He was coming home. We told the chopper pilot to warm it up and issued firearms to a couple of panda crews who were authorised to carry them. Twenty minutes later it was obvious he was coming to Heckley and we deployed all available units around the snazzy converted mill that housed his mother’s apartment. The adjacent streets became filled with cars that cruised silently to a standstill and waited, lights off, burly occupants not speaking. The reformed smokers felt for the Polo mints they always carried, took one and offered the tube to their partner. Declined with a shake of the head; mints returned to the foetid gloom of trouser pockets.

Hotel Yankee 2 radioed in to say that a light had gone out on the fifth floor, below where Miss McArdle’s apartment was believed to be, and a few minutes later a Toyota RAV4 had left, driven by a woman. I leant across in front of the controller and pressed the
Transmit
key. ‘Did you get the number?’ I asked.

‘Hi, boss, that you?’ came the reply, irreverent as always. ‘Course we got the number. We remembered our training. Always get the number, we were taught. And besides, it’s the most excitement we’ve had since the shout came.’

Excitement. That’s what most of us joined the force for, although we didn’t admit it at the interview. Then it was all about putting something back into society; making communities that were safe for women and children; helping any brother who’d strayed off the straight and narrow to repair his ways. We didn’t mention the pension scheme or the housing allowance, either. Or the decent football and cricket teams. Or the like-minded female officers, some of whom looked sensational in or out of uniform. What was it that Confucius said?
May you live in exciting times
. Except he meant it as a curse. He was right, though. I’ve had enough excitement to last me to the end of my days. Sometimes, on a winter’s morning, a little piece of metal wedged against my spinal column reminds me what excitement feels like, and I can do without it. A decent penalty shoot-out on
Match of the Day
satiates my adrenalin craving on any day of the week.

So why was I in the back office, grovelling under the counter, looking for a stab-proof vest that still had its Velcro tabs attached and didn’t have a family of mice nesting in it? Because of Hotel Yankee 2, that’s why. The crew might be irreverent but at any minute they could be asked to outface a nutter with a gun, and I’d put them there.

I’m a trained hostage negotiator. There’s a note in my HR file that says so. I remember doing the course but don’t think I’ve ever been formally notified that I’d passed. Once in a blue moon I’m on standby, and I’ve been called upon just once, otherwise it’s one of those skills that we take for granted in all police officers, like traffic point duty or delivering a baby, neither of which had I ever been asked to perform. I couldn’t do any negotiating from Heckley nick so I threw the stab-proof over my shoulder and drove to where I hoped the action was.

As I rolled to a standstill behind the firearms unit’s Transit, two streets away from the address, somebody broke radio silence with: ‘Charlie’s here, look busy,’ in a stage whisper.

The sergeant in the Transit was more respectful. Firearms officers usually are. I explained about the humane killer and emphasised that I wanted young Sidebottom in custody, alive and kicking. He gave me the spiel about shooting to kill, but only if an innocent life was at risk. In that case, I told him, I wanted to talk to Sidebottom before any of his men had him in their sights.

It was about then that it started to go pearshaped. The mill had been converted into what is known as a ‘gated community’, designed to insulate the inhabitants from the grubby realities that surrounded them. There were two gates: a wide one for vehicle access, controlled by a keypad on a post but overridden by a built-in vehicle recognition system; and a small, unlocked gate for pedestrians.

Oscar’s car was tracked by mobile units, the helicopter and CCTV all the way from the motorway to Heckley town centre. Right on cue, Hotel Yankee 2 reported that headlights were approaching, then turning into the little precinct where his mother lived. Straps were tightened, breathing regulated, the desire for banter suppressed.

‘False alarm, false alarm,’ they reported. ‘It’s the woman in the Toyota.’ They informed us that the gate was trundling open automatically, and the RAV4 was moving slowly forward, anticipating the widening gap.

We all relaxed, resumed breathing, then came: ‘As you were. Second set of headlights approaching. Coming fast. Recommend moving in.’

‘Can you make a positive ID?’ I shouted into the microphone.

‘Sorry, boss. It’s a new-style Mini, that’s all. When he turns in will get a visual of his reg mark. Wait for it … Wait for it … Yes, it’s him. Move in, move in.’

But fate was on the side of youth, for the moment. Or perhaps his spatial timing and judgement were more finely tuned than that of the ageing policemen who were pursuing him. Either way, tyres squealing, he made it through the gap with millimetres to spare, Hotel Yankee 2 didn’t. The Rover 25 panda tore the gate off its wheels and demolished the post holding the keypad, which jammed under the car, and came to rest behind the pedestrian gate, rendering it permanently closed. Fourteen highly trained cops, bristling with weapons, jogged on the spot in a disorderly queue as they tried to pursue their quarry.

Earlier, two firearms officers had concealed themselves in the shrubbery inside the precinct, and now they jumped out, shouting the warning about being armed, but to no avail. The woman thought they were car thieves, after her top-of-the-range Toyota, and fled as fast as her fake Jimmy Choos would allow, towards the door of the apartment block, closely followed by young Sidebottom, who caught her as she held her electronic key against the sensor. Once again, his timing was faultless. The door slammed shut behind them and quarry and pursuers exchanged brief glances through reinforced glass until Sidebottom roughly grabbed the woman by the arm and pulled her towards the stairway and out of sight.

She’d been for a takeaway and had left a trail of prawn crackers, bean sprouts and fried rice from her car to the security doors of the apartment block. She lost her appetite when the door shut behind her and she realised she’d backed the wrong side. Sidebottom unwrapped the humane killer and ordered her into the lift.

* * *

I was out of my depth so I sent for help and a superintendent from Leeds was called in. Before he arrived I’d evacuated all the residents, who promptly notified the media and organised a street party. The locals heard about it and came to enjoy the fun, so I cordoned off the whole area before a balloon artist and a stilt-walking juggler could make their contribution to the carnival atmosphere. The superintendent, who’d arrived in full evening regalia right up to cummerbund and dicky bow, organised listening posts on either side of Miss McArdle’s apartment and the woman herself was found in her office at the Curzon Centre. At fifteen minutes past ten, after full coverage on local TV, Sidebottom could contain himself no longer. The news item told him that ‘the police hunting the killer of a local businessman have arrested a
forty-eight
-year-old woman, believed to reside at the same address.’ He appeared in the Juliet balcony that graced the window of the master bedroom, fifty feet up, and ordered us to leave the building. I’d always wondered what they were for, and now I knew: hostage negotiation.