Clean Cut (7 page)

Anna returned to her desk as Harry Blunt passed with two mugs of coffee; he placed one down for her.

‘Thank you,’ she said, rather surprised.

‘Good work–that photograph was a piece of luck. That animal could have hung out for weeks, maybe months; the filth he was living with, they could have started to kill together.’

Anna sipped her coffee. Harry seemed loath to move away. ‘I’ve got a daughter the same age as Irene Phelps’s little girl,’ he told her.

‘Did her father come and see her?’ she asked.

‘Yeah, she’s going to be living with him. Won’t be easy; he’s got two kids with another wife and, at her age, moving schools, new environment…Poor little soul.’ He slurped his coffee and then sighed. ‘You know, there are no excuses over this bastard. Everything that could go wrong did go wrong, and what makes me puke is that no one is going to take the blame, and they should. His effing so-called probation officers should be sacked. Whoever gave that son of a bitch a low-risk category should be fired; better still, be made to look at the dead woman’s corpse–ask them then if they still think he’s a low risk. Do you know how many murders last year were committed by low-risk bastards freed on parole?’

‘Not right off, no, I don’t.’

Harry leaned forwards. ‘Nearly fifty. I dunno how they think we can do our job; we no sooner get them to
trial and banged up than they let them loose again! Bloody frustrating. I tell you what, if that creature in there had killed my daughter, then I’d strangle him. Why not? Gimme twelve years–good behaviour, I’d be out in seven, probably less. I’m not kidding. The Home Secretary said there was a crisis–a fucking
crisis
? I’d say it’s a lot more than that. My mate’s a prison officer, and he says his pals have been warning the Prison Officers Association: there’s overcrowded wings, riots and hostage taking–something he’s gotta face every week, and you know what? The Home Office pays forces nearly four hundred quid for each prisoner, that’s if you count it up; a bill to the tax payers of over ten bleedin’ million, and are they building new prisons? Are they hell as like. That’s how fucking pricks like Murphy get out early. And now you know they are giving inmates friggin’ keys to their cells, so they gain respect? Jesus Christ, I dunno what the world is coming to.’

He drained his coffee and stood up. ‘Sorry,’ he said with a rueful smile. ‘Just needed to get it off my chest.’

‘Do you ever talk about your work with your wife?’

‘No, I try to close down when I walk out of here, but on this, with my daughter being the same age…I kept on looking at her, then looking at my wife and thinking, what if it had happened here, in my house? My home invaded by that madman, and one that should never have been let out on the streets? Well, look at poor old Jimmy.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Langton. Fucking illegal immigrant got him and nearly killed him, and from what I’ve heard, he’d have been better off.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Well, he’s not going to walk again, is he?’

Anna flushed. ‘Yes, of course he is. I don’t know who you’ve been talking to, but he’s making a remarkable recovery.’

‘Just a bloke I knew who was at the rehabilitation home, released a few days ago; he told me. May have got it wrong, sorry.’

‘Yes, you have got it wrong, Harry.’

‘Well, I’ve said I’m sorry, love. I know you and he are–what exactly? Living together?’

Anna stood up, packing her files. ‘I hope you will put your friend right. James is really hoping to get back to work soon.’

‘Oh well, good on him.’ Harry moved away, leaving her feeling tense and angry, but thankfully no longer thinking about Arthur George Murphy. She would not allow him to invade her life. Langton already had.

She felt so protective towards Jimmy and, moreover, so upset that rumours were spreading that he would never walk again.

A
s soon as Anna had been released from duty, she called the rehabilitation home to see if she could speak to Langton to confirm that she would, unlike the previous night, be there to see him.

‘Hi, how you doing?’ He sounded unlike himself.

‘Well, we caught the killer and he’s admitted it. He couldn’t really get out of it; we had enough evidence.’ She listened. ‘Hello, are you still there?’

‘Yeah, but listen, I’m feeling really whacked out, been doing a lot of work in the gym. I’m just going to crash out and have an early night. Let’s say you come tomorrow?’

‘Well, it’s up to you.’

‘So, see you tomorrow. I’m glad you got a result. G’night.’

The phone went dead. She sat holding the receiver, feeling wretched. He really hadn’t sounded like himself–not even his moody self. She waited a while and then called again, this time to speak to the nurse. By the time that call ended, she felt even worse.

Langton had not been working out in the gym–far from it. He had overstretched himself the day before and
now had an infection in his knee joint; he was unable to walk and in great pain. The swelling was the size of a football and they were very concerned; having already had septicaemia once, they were worried there might be a recurrence. He had been given morphine to dull the pain and was, as they spoke, being taken back to his room to sleep.

Anna wanted to weep. Had this so-called friend of Harry Blunt’s been right, and would Langton never walk again? She went over everything the nurse had said and was certain that if Langton did rest, did not push himself, the infection could be controlled and he would be able to return to exercising, in moderation.

She cooked herself an omelette but hardly touched it, and was about to go over to Langton’s flat to collect his mail, when the doorbell rang. It was Mike Lewis; he apologized for not calling her and just turning up, but he had been to see Langton himself.

Anna passed Lewis a glass of wine; he sat, glum-faced, on her sofa.

‘He’s not in good shape, Anna.’

She said she’d called the night nurse and knew about the knee infection.

‘Well, that’s part of his problem.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, it’s all the other stuff, you know.’

‘No, I don’t. What do you mean?’

‘His head; his mind is all confused, and he’s so bloody angry.’

‘Wouldn’t you be?’ she said defensively.

‘Yeah yeah–of course, but I can’t help him Anna. I can’t do what he wants.’

‘Which is what, exactly?’

‘Track down this bloody illegal immigrant that knifed him.’

‘Has he asked you to do that?’

‘Christ, he’s on the phone every day asking me how far I’ve got, what I’ve come up with, but you know there’s been a dedicated team trying to locate the bastards. I’m already on another case and I don’t have the time to do what he wants.’

‘How far have you got?’

‘Well, that’s the point–I haven’t. There’s no trace of them. I reckon they’ve already skipped the country, but telling him that is like a red rag to a bull. He refuses to believe the bastard could just walk away, or fly, or whatever he’s done, but we can’t get a trace on either of them. The team handling the search have done no better.’

‘Have you got any details with you?’

Lewis sighed and opened his briefcase. ‘I’ve the original case file, which I should not have made copies of, but I did. The rest is all I’ve been able to get so far.’

‘Can you leave this with me?’

Lewis nodded. ‘Sure, but you won’t get any help from anyone. I’ve just come across a brick wall. I don’t know what else to do.’

Anna made Lewis a sandwich and changed the subject, asking him about his son and how Barolli was doing.

‘Well, we’re all missing having the boss as our SIO; no one comes up to him, have you found that? I know you’ve been working with that prick Sheldon.’

Anna smiled.

‘Anna, there is nothing I wouldn’t do for him, same with Barolli, but it’s fruitless.’ Lewis hesitated. ‘You
know, what
is
important is that he concentrates on getting fit. As it stands, he’s never going to be able to work again; he’ll have to go before a physical assessment board and no way will he come through it. I think he’ll get signed off.’

Anna showed Lewis out. By this time, it was after eleven and she didn’t feel like going through the files he had left. She had too much to think about, predominantly Langton’s physical condition. She set her alarm for five o’clock, to give her time to read up on the file. She had no notion of what it contained, but if she could do anything to help, then she would make it her priority.

The file contained copies of all the murder enquiry paperwork: witness statements, documents from the arrest of the suspect, and numerous photographs. Added to these were Lewis’s notes and, in a small black notebook, Langton’s own private notes on the case. Langton had an expression: ‘it’s in the book’. He would tap the breast pocket where he kept it. Jokes about train spotting or ‘one for the book, Gov’ were often heard around the incident room. He would say it whenever anyone screwed up–that could even mean forgetting his morning coffee! When Anna had asked him about it, he had grinned and said it was common knowledge he had a terrible memory; he had started, when he was a rookie, just making notes of things he shouldn’t forget–sometimes, it could be just to remind himself to collect his laundry. Over the years, it had become a habit and then a talking-point; then he noticed that he could make detectives very edgy if they saw him jotting something down whilst he was with them.

‘Like to keep my team on their toes,’ he laughed.

She said to him that she had never seen him use it.

‘Ah. That’s because what I jotted down about you had nothing to do with police work.’

‘You’re telling me you needed to be reminded of whether or not you fancied me?’

Again he had laughed, dismissing it with a waft of his hand. ‘The date of your birthday? Now forget it. It’s just a joke anyway; and besides, you constantly have your nose in your official notebook–more than any other officer I have ever worked with.’

It was true; in fact, her father had tipped her off. He always said to write everything down, because the memory can play tricks. If you are required to recall in detail an incident for the courtroom, your book becomes your security blanket.

Langton’s notebook had a red elastic band wound tightly round it. It was slightly curved, as if it had taken the shape of his chest. Anna eased back the elastic band, and wrapped it round the palm of her hand before she opened the book. His small, tight handwriting covered every page, back and front, until three-quarters of the way through, when it stopped abruptly. The thin pages were stiff; a couple she had to blow apart, which made her think that no one had read the notes recently. Maybe Lewis hadn’t bothered; if the notebook was such a joke, he might not have thought it of any value.

The writing was meticulously neat, but not that easy to read; she peered at page one.

The call out for the horrific murder of a teenage girl called Carly Ann North came in at 9 a.m. The body had been discovered on wasteground behind King’s
Cross station. Although only sixteen years of age, North had already been convicted of prostitution and sent to a young offenders’ institute. She was from a very dysfunctional background, both parents heroin addicts. She had been knifed and her wounds were horrific; the killer had attempted to decapitate her. He had also tried to remove her hands, to avoid fingerprints being taken. A police officer had disturbed the killer, having seen three men loitering near the wasteground. He caught him, but the others, obviously acting as lookouts, ran off, leaving their friend fighting with the officer. The killer was an illegal immigrant. The judge had ordered at his trial that, after serving a sentence for rape, he should be deported. Underlined was his name:
Idris Krasiniqe
, aged twenty-five.

Anna then turned from the notebook back to the case file. Krasiniqe had a string of offences, from possession of cannabis to common assault; he’d had community punishment when only eighteen years of age. His last offence was the robbery, when the judge had ordered his deportation after sentence; yet eight months after his release, he was still at large and this time had murdered Carly Ann North.

Anna sighed. It was just unbelievable, especially with the ongoing case against Arthur Murphy. How could this man have been allowed to stay in the country, after a judge’s order for deportation!

In the same meticulous writing, Langton had made a few personal notes: one about Barolli being too overweight; another, that Lewis was slacking, as his wife was expecting another child and, with a toddler, he was often tired and late for work.

Anna sat back. She wondered how many of these
private notes he had made about her, but she didn’t have time to continue looking over the file. She had to get herself to work on time!

The day went slowly. Murphy was taken before a magistrate. Bail, as they knew it would be, was refused and he was shipped off to Wandsworth prison to await his trial.

Anna returned home to change and get ready to leave for Glebe House. First, she picked up Langton’s keys and went round to his flat.

There was a stack of post, mostly junk mail, on the doormat. She picked it all up and took it to the dining-room table, to sift through it. There was a similar stack already on the table. The flat was quite tidy; she wondered if his ex-wife had been round. Anna knew she often stayed there with Kitty. If this was the case, she hadn’t bothered to empty the laundry basket in the bathroom. Anna stuffed everything into a bin liner to take home to wash, and then went into his bedroom.

The bed had been made and the room looked reasonably neat. The only photograph on his bedside table was of Kitty, sitting on a pony and beaming into the camera. Anna checked for any unpaid bills on the dressing-table, but there were just some ten-and twenty-pound notes left with change on top. She opened a drawer to take out some fresh pyjamas and, as she did so, she found a photo album. Anna felt guilty about looking through it, but couldn’t resist. It was of his wedding to his first wife. She was, as Anna had been told, very beautiful and they looked very much in love. At the end of the book was a small remembrance card from her funeral.

Anna replaced the album and shut the drawer. Just
as she turned away, she noticed a piece of newspaper sticking out of another drawer. She eased it open. It was crammed with newspaper articles, cut out and pinned together. Anna checked the time and reckoned she had better get a move on, or she would be later than ever to see Langton. Collecting them all, she put the cuttings into her briefcase.

Langton wheeled towards her in the reception area, beaming. ‘I was just about to give up on you.’

‘I’m sorry. I went over to your flat to collect some clean pyjamas.’

‘Any mail for me?’

‘Yes, I’ve brought it. Can we go somewhere and sit down?’

‘I already am,’ he laughed.

Langton spun round and headed towards a lounge area, banging the double doors open with his chair. Anna gave a rueful smile; even in his wheelchair, he still had the habit of forgetting she was behind him, barging through doors and letting them swing back in her face.

‘As you can see, it’s a hive of activity,’ he said, gesturing to the empty room.

‘Well, that’s good, we can have some privacy.’

‘They’ll all be watching some crap on TV, or in the bar; you want a drink?’

‘No, thanks. Have you had something to eat?’

‘I think it was fish, but it could have been Christ only knows what; I could have used it as a table-tennis bat.’

She sat in a comfortable chair and placed her various bags on the coffee-table. Langton manoeuvred the chair to sit opposite; as she took out the mail, he glanced through it, muttering that it was all rubbish.

‘I left a load of junk mail behind,’ Anna told him. ‘I think your ex-wife had been there and left even more. There’s a few bills you need to pay.’

‘Yeah yeah, leave them–I’ll sort them.’

‘Do you have your chequebook with you?’

‘Yeah yeah, and my credit card, so no problem.’

She laid out his clean clothes. He kept twisting in his chair.

‘You look well,’ she said. He didn’t. He was unshaven and he smelled of drink. ‘Been in the bar, have you?’

‘I have; there’s nothing else to do, and don’t ask about the conversation in there–load of fruits. Can’t have a sane conversation with any one of them.’

‘I’m sure that’s not true.’

He suddenly went quiet. ‘Nope. It’s not, just making conversation.’

She leaned forwards. ‘How’s the physio going?’

He bowed his head. ‘I can’t walk yet and it’s painful, but the bastards won’t give me any more painkillers. They count them out like I was ten years old.’

‘Well, they have to do that for a reason; you don’t want to get addicted to them.’

‘What would you know about it?’

‘Well, I’m really glad I schlepped all the way here, if you can’t be pleasant.’

‘I hate this fucking chair.’

‘You seem to be very adept at wheeling about in it.’

He shrugged. ‘I might be in it for the rest of my life.’

‘Of course you won’t.’

‘I hate it–hate being so dependent, you know? I can’t even take a piss without falling over.’

‘Well, you were told it would take time.’

‘Oh, stop talking down to me as if I was mentally screwed up as well as physically.’

‘You know, undergoing a life-threatening operation, and then—’

‘I know what I went through. Sometimes I wish I’d never pulled through.’

‘Well, I for one am glad that you did.’

‘Are you?’ He cocked his head to one side. ‘You fancy being attached to a cripple, do you?’

She took a deep breath. ‘Well, if you want a straight answer: as it is, you are pretty unpleasant, but—’

He interrupted her. ‘Well, I’ve given this some thought, and I want you to know that I’m not coming back to your place. In fact, I think it’s probably better if we call it quits right now.’