Concrete Evidence (18 page)

              “Yes, Guv.”     

              Stirling and Becky moved with purpose. Alec couldn’t help but notice the physical contrast between them, beauty and the beast. The door clicked closed. “How long on the forensic results?”

              “Kathy has prioritised the secretions,” Annie said checking her emails just in case. “Nothing yet but she said we would have them later tonight or early tomorrow. The sooner the better,” she sighed. “We’ve got so many angles to come at this from that I’m not sure what direction to focus on.”

              “Rationalise it,” Alec said. “From my perspective, we have two ritualistic murders. The killer took his time to swap the victims’ homes and identities, which tells me he had prior knowledge of who they were and what they did for a living. The women have a possible connection to a murder four years ago and they both had a mystery benefactor shortly after the main suspect walked.” He paused. “Unless the forensic evidence tells us differently, my money is on Peter Barton. Fumbling about in the dark is a waste of resources and energy and until we have concrete evidence from Kathy’s team, we focus on the links that we know exist.”

              Annie stood up and stretched her back. She caught her reflection in the window. The darkness outside had turned the glass into a mirror. Scar, scar, scar, her mind shouted at her. She walked over and closed the blinds to block the image. “That makes sense,” she smiled thinly and didn’t finish her sentence.

              “But?”

              “But what about the other details that the killer left for us to fall over?” Alec had a confused expression on his face as she spoke. “The script on the body, the pentagram, the incendiary device, the words that he daubed on the mirrors and the money in Jayne Windsor’s mouth. I get the feeling that some, if not all of that, was for our benefit. I just can’t see where it all fits.”

              Alec smiled and nodded his head. He walked over and squeezed her shoulder before heading for the door. “Did you ever make a model airplane when you were a kid?”

              Annie frowned and shrugged, “I was more of a Barbie girl to be honest but my Dad made a few with my younger brother,” she looked sad for a moment, “they would spend hours painting them before they glued them together.”

              “Exactly,” Alec grinned and the dimple on his chin deepened. “Your dad did things properly. I on the other hand, would always have a handful of pieces left when I had finished. I didn’t see the point in fiddling about with the bits that no one could see so I didn’t use them let alone paint them. I wanted my airplane to look like an airplane within ten minutes of me taking it out of the box.”

              “Is there some deep and meaningful lesson to be learned from this?” Annie said with a puzzled expression.

              “My point is that when they were finished, no one could tell that all the pieces weren’t put together perfectly. My airplane looked just like the picture on the box. No one could tell that not all the pieces were in place.” He opened the door. “I need to get to the press room.”

              “Guv,” Annie called after him.

              “What?” Alec poked his head around the doorframe.

              “You had a set of instructions to follow didn’t you?”

              “Yes,” he grinned. “Good point.”

              Annie smiled as he closed the door and she thought about which pieces she could leave out. She decided very quickly that despite Alec’s reminiscence she didn’t want to have any bits left over. She wanted all the questions answered.    

                            CHAPTER 21

              The MIT office was unusually silent. Annie had never heard it so quiet. The calm before the storm, maybe. She was perched on the end of a desk staring at the bank of screens, waiting for Alec to appear. Every pair of eyes in the room were transfixed on the Crimewatch presenter, who was introducing him. Alec had wangled a thirty second slot into an already packed program. Detective teams from across the land were desperate to get their cases featured on the monthly broadcast and the waiting list was endless. Annie wasn’t sure how he had managed it and she didn’t care. The fact that their investigation involved the death of a serving police officer, a female, made it an extraordinary case. It was an especially brutal double murder, which had obviously persuaded the producers to find thirty seconds somewhere. The introduction was detailed and brief. Liverpool’s MIT were looking for ‘this’ man in connection with the brutal slaying of a serving police officer and her friend. Annie was pleased at how much detail Alec crammed into his half a minute and their suspect’s photograph was displayed through the entire piece. When the camera switched back to the presenter, the team applauded. Annie smiled and a knot of excited anticipation tightened in her guts. It was a feeling that only her work gave her. Nothing outside the world of tracking dangerous criminals came close to it.

              “He looks even more like that pesky chef on the television than he does in real life, Guv!”

              “Except he doesn’t say ‘fuck’ as much, Guv.”

              “I’ll be sure to pass on your comments,” Annie laughed. She was about to comment on the piece when a phone began to ring. A detective picked up the handset with the speed of a gunfighter at the OK Corral. Then a second, third and fourth joined a cacophony of ring tones. It was like turning on a tap. Information from the public began pouring in. The floodgates had opened. Crimewatch had the morbid ability to fascinate the public and millions tuned in every month in the hope that a face that they knew would appear. It transformed the Union into a nation of wannabe informers. Within a minute of the appeal, the phone lines were jammed.

              Annie walked around the desks listening to one way conversations. She looked at the notes that were being scribbled down onto notebooks and entered into computers. The majority of calls were coming from in and around the city. A small percentage were crackpots claiming to be the killer. One man was adamant that he hadn’t just killed their victims; he was also responsible for releasing the Ebola virus into Africa via a popular brand of energy drink. Such calls were cut short and the details kept to pass onto the uniformed division at a later stage. The callers would get a severe warning but not much more. Annie thought that it would be more productive to have hoax callers sectioned for a while. The experience might dissuade them from doing it again.

The office was filled with hushed chatter and the atmosphere was palpable. Annie saw several names being offered as their suspect. She noted a few in her mind but one name in particular was given more than a dozen times by different callers. Tod Harris.

              “We need to look at this guy, Tod Harris,” Annie said to Stirling. “See what we have got on him. Let’s hope he’s in the system.”

              Stirling tapped the keys on his laptop and the screen began to scroll through the police database. A photo of Tod Harris in a custody suite popped up within seconds. Although years younger, the arrest photo was undoubtedly that of Tod Harris. Stirling looked over his shoulder at Annie and nodded. “Are you reading this?”

              “Well well,” Annie smiled, “it looks like Tod has been working his way up from date rape to murder. He’s been at it for years. He has a sexual assault charge on a relative when he was thirteen. As an adult, assault, sexual assault and a rape conviction that didn’t stick.”

              “All the victims claim that he drugged them,” Stirling growled. “We’ve got an address in Halewood. Coincidence?”

              “I don’t like coincidences.”

              “Me neither.”

              “Becky!” Annie called across the office.

              “Yes, Guv.”

              “Have you got an address for Peter Barton yet?”

              “Yes, Guv,” she lifted a pad. “He lives on the Oak Tree estate, Halewood.”

              “That’s about four miles from where Harris lives. Another coincidence,” Stirling raised his eyebrows.

“We need a warrant for Tod Harris too, Becky,” Annie called. “Send the details to her computer.” Stirling tapped on the keys again.

“Sent.”

              “Got it. I’m on it, Guv,” Becky nodded. “Judge Ryland is happy to sign off whatever we need.”

              “Send his details over to the forensic lab,” Annie added, “Kathy can run his DNA against the samples. She’ll be pleased that he is in the system.” 

              “Hold on, Guv,” Google shouted from his desk. He was compiling the computerised data as it was being entered in by the detectives on the telephones. “We might have a problem.” He frowned and tapped at his keyboard. “We’ve got three recent sightings of Tod Harris. All of them this week.” He frowned again and kept typing. “You’re not going to like this.”

              “Give us a clue, Google,” Annie rolled her eyes. She could feel her heartbeat racing. Alec stepped out of the lift and clapped his hands together, happy to see that every telephone was in use. He looked expectantly at Annie. She nodded and smiled. “We’ve got a name, Guv.”

              “Do we know him?”

              “Oh yes,” Stirling said pointing at his screen. Alec leaned over and squinted to read the records. He whistled as he digested the details.

              “Google?” Annie asked impatiently. “What have we got?”

              “Six callers all giving the same location, Guv.”

              “Which is?”

              “Benidorm.”

“Benidorm?”

              “Spain, Guv.”

              “I know where Benidorm is.”

              “Of course you do,” Google blushed. “Sorry, Guv.” He typed furiously, oblivious of the smirks around him. “The last sighting was yesterday in the area of the Old Town.”

              “Okay,” Annie pressed her palms together beneath her chin. She closed her eyes for a second. “Find out which flight he took out there and where he is staying. Run his credit cards and contact the local police. We need them to hold him until we can get out there and drag him back. Can you sort authorisation for us to travel, Guv?”

              Alec frowned as he thought about the situation. “No problem. Should be simple enough to track him down and the Spanish won’t want to obstruct the removal of a scumbag like Harris.”     

        “What about Barton, Guv?” Stirling asked. “What do you want us to do about him?”

              “There was nothing in your television pitch that would make him think that we’ve connected him to the victims yet but I think that his own sense of self preservation will make him join up the dots,” Annie said. “What do you think, Guv?”

              “The link between him and our victims may be tenuous but we cannot ignore it and neither will he. I think that he will be concerned at least,” Alec agreed. “The women responsible for his release have been murdered. That means that we’re going to connect him to them sooner or later whether he was innocent or not.”      

              “Take an armed unit and a forced entry team,” Annie said cautiously. “I want him shaking in his shoes when he gets here.”

“You need to take an officer from the Bomb Squad too,” Alec added gravely. “I don’t want any risks taken. His face darkened. “If he was involved in the murders, he may have rigged the incendiary device and if he was watching Crimewatch, he’ll be expecting us. I don’t want any nasty surprises.”

                                    CHAPTER 22

              The Barton residence was a detached house situated on the outskirts of Halewood. It was the last house on the row before the road snaked onwards through a green-belt area made up mostly of arable farmland, woodland and grazing land. It was to all intents and purposes, the border of the city. Stirling watched the front of the house through night vision glasses. A small garden that consisted of two small lawns dissected by a path offered no obstacles to their entry but gifted them no cover either. It was a hundred metres from the pavement to the front door. There were no doors or windows on either of the side elevations of the house. They couldn’t see the back of the house at all and the rear garden was shrouded by coniferous trees.

              “There’s one light on in the downstairs room to the left of the front door,” Stirling noted. “The rest of the house is in darkness.”

“Thermal imaging is giving one heat signature, which is in the room with the light on.” The Bomb Squad officer added.  “Your suspect is sat in an armchair watching the television.”

              “I’ll send two men to the rear. As soon as they’re in place we’ll make entry through the front door.” The Forced Entry Team leader said nonchalantly. “The quicker we do it, the less chance we have of him rigging the place, right?”

Stirling nodded. “What do you think, Lieutenant?”

“If he has rigged anything up then we won’t know until it’s too late.” The Bomb Squad officer smiled. “He could have sensors on the windows, pressure pads behind the front and rear doors, infrared sensors in the hallways and stairs. If he has, then they’ll be battery powered so there’s no point in cutting the power. You’ll be blown to bits before you cross the welcome mat.”

“That’s helpful,” Stirling mumbled. “Thanks for that.”

“I’m just advising,” the lieutenant shrugged. “The possibilities are endless but if you were the suspect would you rig your home to blow and then sit in the living room watching the television?” he patted Stirling on the back. “My advice is to make sure that it’s your suspect that is home first. If he is and he doesn’t cooperate, smoke him out. Bring him to us. That way there’s less risk.”

“That makes sense,” Stirling agreed. “We’ll stick to the same plan, two men at the rear and the rest of us out front. We’ll call him out and if he refuses, we’ll use the gas as a last resort?”

“I’ll get the men in place. We’ll be ready to go in five.”

**************

Inside the house, Peter Barton was drinking whisky and surfing the internet. The Crimewatch program had rattled his fragile world. He always watched the news and read the newspapers. His interest had become an obsession. But it only confirmed how much evil there was in the world. He couldn’t handle anymore evil. Not another drop. For as long as he could remember, he had wrestled with the evil inside himself. It was a constant war of attrition but he knew that ultimately it was a battle that he would lose. He would lose because he was weak. His stepfather had told him from as far back as he could remember that he was weak. He was useless and he would never make anything of himself. His abuse was often spat out in his native Ukrainian tongue interspersed with the odd abusive word in English for good measure. The message was usually reinforced with a good hiding from his stepfather’s belt. Sometimes the belt was wielded like a whip and other times he would wrap it around his neck and choke him until he passed out. He often woke up bruised and battered lying in his own urine. The leather belt with its heavy metal buckle in the shape of an eagle was now hidden in his box with his other mementos. It was the only thing that he wanted to keep when his stepfather had finally died from cirrhosis, a reminder of the harsh and brutal upbringing he had endured. He left money too but he didn’t want it. The money that he left went to a good cause. He was the only mourner at his funeral and when the vicar had gone, Peter went behind the curtain at the crematorium and pissed on the coffin. It was the best piss he had ever had.

After watching Crimewatch, he knew that the police would come for him. It might not be today and it might not be tomorrow but they would come. It was only a matter of time. He couldn’t go back to prison. Not for a day. His time incarcerated following Simon’s disappearance had been a nightmare. He had loved Simon, no one listened and no one understood. It wasn’t perverted or dirty; he loved him like any uncle would. They made it sound dirty. They twisted everything.  He was locked up as a child killer, a paedophile, a pervert, a nonce and as such, he’d been vilified, beaten and brutalised by the other inmates. They were the animals, not him. Although he’d been freed at the appeal hearing, he was still guilty in the eyes of those he met. They sneered at his newly discovered alibi and cast aspersions at its validity. There were no bars on his windows but he was still a prisoner none the less.

He searched online for as much information as he could find. Constantly. He drank and he searched then he drank some more. Tracking them was relentless. There were hundreds of them out there, maybe thousands. He shadowed them incessantly, recording their actions and hunting for new ones to show themselves. They plagued him day and night but the police did nothing. So many of them stayed under the radar, at liberty, free to do as they pleased but he knew that they were there.  The whisky bottle was three quarters empty and his vision was blurry. He emptied his glass and refilled it, swallowing the burning liquid with a gulp. There were plenty of articles but there wasn’t much detail. Not that it mattered. They would come and when they did, he would plead his innocence and they would ignore him just like they had last time. They would look at him like he was dirt and lock him up again. He couldn’t go back to jail. ‘You’ll be back, paedo,’ one of his tormentors had hissed when he was leaving jail. ‘And when you do, we can have some more fun. Next time they lock you up it will be for good, scumbag.’ He heard the threats in his mind over and over. His sleep was haunted by the images of his stepfather beating him and his face would change and morph into those of the inmates. The stench of sweat and urine would overwhelm him and he would wake up in his own bed soaked to the skin in his own fluids. He couldn’t go back to jail. Not for a second. 

Peter closed the laptop and tossed it across the room. It clattered underneath his dining table, which had only one chair next to it. It had been nearly five years since he had shared a meal with another human being. Even the animals in jail refused to sit at the same table as him while they ate the slop that the prison kitchens called food. His mother and her sisters had shunned him. All of Simon’s relatives were convinced that he had abducted him, molested him and murdered him. As if he could do that to his beautiful nephew. They were the only family that he had and they despised him. Five years of persecution and loneliness had taken its toll and the blinding light of scrutiny was always upon him. It was a desolate existence at home but in prison, it was intolerable. He couldn’t go back. There was enough whisky to fill the tumbler once more. His hands were shaking as he tipped the contents into his glass. He dropped the empty bottle onto the carpet and took another long glug of the malt. It burned its way down into his stomach and he could feel the alcohol coursing through him, warming, soothing, numbing, wiping away the memories.

Peter put the glass on the arm of his chair and reached down for his Laurona. Although it was nearly a hundred years old and single barrel shotguns were seldom sought after, it would do the job. He stood up on shaky legs and broke the gun. It was loaded. He had checked it at least six times and had unloaded it and reloaded it each time. Evil had taunted him all his life. It had burrowed into his soul and spread through him like cancer. He had sought it out and fought with it and held it at bay for a while but it always returned, niggling at his brain, making him think things that he shouldn’t. He knew that evil was a universal entity, a force that moves between dimensions and now it had focused itself on him once more. The poor women who had helped him escape the hellhole of prison had met evil themselves face to face. Their murder would make the police reopen the files on Simon’s disappearance and if they did, they might find something to shatter his alibi and send him back to jail. Once, all he wanted was his freedom. He had begged a god that he didn’t believe in to help him escape the brutal beatings, the huge walls and the barbed wire. Now he had his freedom but it wasn’t what he had envisaged. He was still tortured, still bitterly unhappy and guilt racked his very core. His search never ended. Evil was the root cause of his pain. The evil inside him was powerful but it couldn’t survive in there when he had a 12-bore shotgun. He snapped the gun closed and walked out of the room.