Slice (3 page)

With fists tightly clenched and head thrust forward belligerently, he headed for the gateway in a futile attempt to spot any likely offender lurking in the vicinity, but the street was empty and he was on the point of turning back to re-examine the damage, when for some reason his attention was drawn to a red MG sports car pulling out of a lay-by a couple of hundred yards to his right. The car, which had its hood down, slowed as it drew level with the driveway, suggesting it was about to stop, but when he stepped to the edge of the pavement, it suddenly revved up and accelerated away with squealing tyres. He glimpsed a thin-faced man in the driving seat and a blonde-haired woman sitting beside him, who waved extravagantly in his direction as they drove off, then the car was gone, careering round a bend in the road, its horn blasting as it went.

Realization dawned immediately and his face was grim as he jerked his police notebook from his pocket. ‘Janet,’ he grated, quickly jotting down the registration number of the car on the back cover. ‘Well, I’ll soon find you now, my lovely, you can bet on it!’

Then he slipped the notebook back into his pocket and telephoned for the emergency breakdown.

Janet Fulton was on a high as the red MG left the outskirts of the town behind and headed into the wooded countryside beyond. She had enjoyed slashing the tyres on her husband’s car almost as much as seeing the look on his face when he had lumbered out of the driveway. Maybe now Jack would give her the attention she deserved after years of having to play second fiddle to his wonderful job. She knew her affair wouldn’t last long; they rarely did. She also knew Jack would take her back afterwards; he was daft that way. But until it all came to an end, she was determined to make the most of her new-found freedom and the opportunity it gave her to remind
Mr Superintendent Fulton
on which side his bread was buttered.

She glanced slyly at the thin unshaven man beside her, appraising the dark curly hair and aesthetic features and inwardly congratulating herself on her catch.

She had first met Doyle at art school. He was half her age, good-looking, athletic and naked. Modelling for art classes, he explained later, was just a beer-money job; his main interest in life was contemporary writing. As far as she was aware, he was not actually published, but he was always talking about his ideas for a real blockbuster and his rented cottage was coming down with books on the craft of writing and piles of unfinished manuscripts. Deep down, she knew he was a fraud, with the modelling jobs just a means of supplementing his income from social security handouts and the money he managed to milk from frustrated middle-aged women like herself to keep his rented cottage going and his car on the road. But she didn’t care, for he was also suave, gentle and considerate – all the things Jack had never been – and he made her feel alive again. Even more important, he liked to have sex with older women and she had discovered that particular fact just two hours into their first clandestine date.

She had never had any illusions about herself. Forty plus, plump with thinning blonde hair and a nice long scar down her abdomen where they had wrenched her stillborn baby from her two years ago, she was hardly the most desirable conquest. Yet Doyle had treated her like some ravishing twenty-year-old and she was determined to keep that part of the fantasy going for as long as possible.

‘Satisfied now?’ he said, breaking in on her reverie.

She grinned. ‘Oh, very. I reckon I ought to have been a criminal myself, you know.’

He made a face. ‘You can say that again.’

‘Ringing him to make sure he was at home before we went over was a brilliant ploy.’

He frowned. ‘I just hope your hubby didn’t clock our number when you thumped the horn as we drove away. Stupid that was.’

She shrugged. ‘What if he did clock it? He can’t prove I was the one who slashed his tyres.’

‘No, but he could come looking for us and he’s a big guy.’

‘He’s also a senior policeman and he wouldn’t wreck his beloved career in that way.’ She stared at him keenly now, a flicker of disappointment in her blue eyes. ‘Not scared, are you?’

He ignored the question. ‘I just don’t know why you keep trying to antagonize him,’ he said. ‘You should be concentrating on us, not playing silly games with your ex.’

She lit a cigarette. ‘Oh I am, believe me, I am – and, on that subject, my stomach feels as though my throat’s been cut. We need to find somewhere to eat.’

He made a face. ‘Ah, yes. Well, the trouble is I’m – er – a bit short at the moment and—’

She produced a credit card from her handbag as he was speaking. ‘No problem, we’ll use my plastic.’

He brightened. ‘That’s very generous of you. There’s a nice pub half a mile from my cottage.’ He cast her a sidelong glance. ‘Look, I know you keep paying for things and I will make it up to you when I can, you know that, don’t you?’

She ran a hand down his thigh and grinned. ‘Oh you’ll make it up to me all right, Doyle,’ she promised, ‘you’ll make it up to me big time.’

‘YOU’RE LATE!’
Detective Chief Superintendent Stoller commented from behind his newspaper as Fulton was ushered into his office on the middle floor of police headquarters.

‘Tell me about it,’ the big man retorted, a sour expression on his face as he dropped into a chair in front of the worn oak desk without offering any explanation.

Stoller threw him a quick glance before returning to his newspaper. ‘I hope you washed your hands properly,’ he said.

Fulton’s mouth registered a faint smile. He and Stoller went back a long way. In fact, they had gone through initial recruit training together twenty-seven years before and the balding ex-Royal Navy intelligence officer had spent even longer on CID than Fulton himself. Promoted to chief super from the National Crime Squad, Stoller had a shrewd analytical brain and was rated highly by the top team, having already been earmarked for assistant chief constable rank when a suitable vacancy was advertised.

It was no secret that Fulton saw himself slipping into Stoller’s shoes the day his boss moved on, but jobs didn’t come with any guarantees in the police service and he knew there were those at chief officer level who would prefer to see him buried rather than promoted.

‘Not a very good photograph fortunately,’ Stoller said, folding the newspaper and tossing it across the desk. ‘But there’s as much info in the article as the detailed incident report your DI sent up here this morning.’

Fulton’s face darkened when he opened the newspaper at arm’s length. The headline screamed at him:
JUDGE’S LAST SITTING
. Below was a fuzzy photograph of Lyall’s naked corpse slumped forward over the rope that tied him to the swing. ‘How the hell…?’ he began, his voice trailing off as he read on.

‘Easy enough with a telephoto lens,’ Stoller replied, ‘but I have to say it’s a rather unsavoury pic, even though it’s too dark to actually identify our man.’

Fulton stopped reading for a second to throw him a baleful glance. ‘And what about this bloody headline?’ he blazed, stabbing the newspaper with a large finger. ‘It’s diabolical.’

Stoller nodded. ‘Way out of line in my opinion, especially as there hasn’t yet been any formal identification or opening inquest by the coroner. As for the piece itself, while it doesn’t actually come up with a name, it doesn’t leave much to the imagination. Clear breach of the rules, I’d say. The chief constable is not at all amused and the force press officer is on her way to see the editor even as we speak.’

‘But how did they manage to get to the scene so soon after Lyall was found? Body went to the morgue just before I left and there was no sign of any press while I was there.’

Stoller shrugged. ‘Probably a stringer living nearby – maybe did the job before you even arrived.’

‘Or one of our own after a quick buck.’

Stoller winced. ‘That’s a bit harsh, even for you, Jack.’

Fulton didn’t acknowledge the criticism, but finished speed-reading the article before tossing the newspaper back across the desk in disgust. ‘The whole lot’s in there,’ he said. ‘Every bloody detail.’ He made an angry gesture with one hand. ‘Now we’ve got sod all to keep back for interview if and when we pull anyone in. We’re totally stuffed.’

‘Maybe the post-mortem will turn up something?’

‘Yeah, maybe, but I wouldn’t want to hold my breath on that.’

‘When is it scheduled for?’

‘Probably tomorrow, once we’ve sorted out formal ID.’

‘And you’ll be there, I presume?’

Fulton threw him an old-fashioned look. ‘No, I’ll be playing golf, what do
you
think?’

Stoller gave a faint smile. He was well used to his old friend’s sarcasm and his almost legendary irreverence towards rank. ‘So what about the inquiry itself? Anything you need?’

Fulton shook his head, still preoccupied with his thoughts. ‘Incident room should be up and running by the time I get back and arrangements have already been made for uniform to carry out a fingertip search of the rec and start local house-to-house enquiries this morning. As for publicity, it seems we’ve already got that in abundance.’

‘And the opening inquest?’

‘Coroner’s officer already has that in hand. Few days yet, I gather.’

‘And what about a press conference?’

‘You ask a lot of bloody questions.’

Another smile. ‘Just trying to be helpful, Jack. HQ press office can field things for a while, but the media will be on your back with a vengeance from now on.’

Fulton grimaced. ‘Don’t I know it! I’ll get the press office to put out a prepared statement. That will have to hold them until we’ve got something relevant to say.’

‘And you’ll keep me informed of any developments?’

Fulton’s eyes narrowed. ‘As senior investigating officer,’ he said with emphasis, ‘I’ll tell you everything I think you need to know, OK?’

Stoller nodded again, digesting the rebuke. ‘SIO or not, Jack, you’ve got a scorpion by the tail on this one,’ he said. ‘Lyall was very well connected. Personal friend of the Lord Lieutenant and the Lord Chief Justice. The inquiry will require sensitive handling.’

‘So?’

Stoller hesitated, then fixed him with a hard stare. ‘In the strictest confidence, Jack, I have to tell you that our assistant chief constable operations has questioned whether you’re the right man for the job. He feels you lack the necessary tact and diplomacy.’

‘Bollocks!’

‘Which is exactly the sort of response he’s talking about.’

‘And what do
you
think?’

‘Depends on whether you’ve kicked the booze and can keep a lid on your domestic problems – which, to be brutal, is unlikely now that Janet seems to have done a bunk.’

‘My private life is
my
business.’

There was a flicker of anger in Stoller’s grey eyes now.

‘Not when it interferes with your job performance it isn’t.’

Fulton leaned forward in his chair, his expression a mixture of hurt and anger. ‘My performance, as you put it, has never been in doubt and my detection record is the best in the force, even though I do say so myself.’

Stoller sat back in his chair. ‘You wouldn’t have survived if it weren’t,’ he said bluntly. ‘But it isn’t just about detections any more, Jack. Things have moved on and you’ve got to learn to move with them. Bulldozing your way through the rules and kicking arse to get a result is no longer acceptable.’

‘So who has ACC operations “I have a degree” Skellet got in mind as my replacement?’

‘No one is going to replace you, Jack. He’s just expressed the view that maybe this type of inquiry should be handled by someone a little less – er – direct.’

Fulton wasn’t about to give up. ‘Like who, for instance?’

Stoller fidgeted uncomfortably and fiddled with a paper-clip tray on his desk. ‘Phil Gilham’s name has been mentioned—’

Fulton virtually erupted from his chair. ‘Phil Gilham!’

‘Well, he
is
a superintendent in waiting.’

‘Replaced by my own DCI?’ Fulton blazed, his hands clenching and unclenching in indignant fury. ‘Why doesn’t Skellet just chop
my
balls off and stick me on a swing like Lyall? At least then everyone gets a laugh at my expense!’

‘I’ve just told you, no one is going to replace you. I’m simply giving you a bit of friendly advice, that’s all. Don’t make any unnecessary waves, OK?’

On his way to the door, Fulton half-turned. ‘And watch my back, eh?’

Another fleeting smile from Stoller. ‘That goes with the territory, doesn’t it, Jack?’

‘Well, has he gone?’ Assistant Chief Constable Norman Skellet closed Stoller’s door behind him and stood there for a moment, the sharp penetrating eyes giving an unexpected vitality to the pale cadaverous features as they fastened on Stoller like those of a cobra.

Stoller nodded and Skellet crossed to the window to settle his virtually non-existent rump on the edge of the windowsill. ‘Did you tell him of my misgivings?’

‘I did.’

‘How did he take it?’

‘Predictably.’

‘Aha.’ Skellet opened a tin of throat lozenges and slipped one into his mouth. ‘And you still think he’s the man for the job?’

‘He’s the only one we have at present. All our other area detective superintendents are either on leave or tied up on existing enquiries.’

‘Hobson’s choice then?’

Stoller winced. ‘I didn’t mean it like that – Look, sir, I know he doesn’t come across as such, but he’s one of the most experienced detective superintendents in the force, with a first-class track record.’

‘Just an image problem then, is it?’

Stoller shook his head. ‘I didn’t say that. At times he can be a bit of a bull in a china shop, but he has a very sharp mind and the sort of tenacity that this case requires.’

‘But minus any semblance of the tact and diplomacy that is so essential here?’

‘He
is
a John Blunt, I agree, but solving Lyall’s murder is a tad more important than having the right social skills.’

‘Even if our sharp tenacious SIO looks like a slob, drinks too much and knocks his wife about?’

‘That’s a bit unkind, sir. I’ve known him for years and underneath that rough exterior he’s quite a sensitive, caring man. I certainly don’t see him as a wife beater and I know his other half has always been a bit of a problem. As for the drink’ – he shrugged – ‘he’s from an era when that was all part of the CID culture.’

‘Not any more, it isn’t.’

‘OK, so the world has moved on and he hasn’t, but that doesn’t mean he can’t do the job any more and he has a lot of street cred among his troops. They think the world of him. He may shout and swear at everyone in sight, but he’s fiercely protective of his own and he has stood up for members of his team on more than one occasion in the past.’

Skellet frowned. ‘I’ve never understood that stupid clan thing. The job comes first, not the individuals in it.’

Stoller sat back in his chair, twiddling a pen between his fingers. ‘Loyalty is important, sir,’ he murmured, ‘and it works both ways.’

Skellet’s eyes narrowed as the reproof slammed home, but he chose not to respond to it and instead snapped to his feet and turned towards the door. ‘On your head be it then, Andrew,’ he threw back. ‘But remember, this is a very sensitive case and the chief needs a result like yesterday. You’d better make sure your
star
superintendent delivers the goods!’

Fulton stopped by a burger bar to refuel on his way back to Saddler Street police station. The hollow pain in his stomach only subsided after he had demolished a double cheeseburger and chips.

He was both angry and upset by Andy Stoller’s pep talk and although he would not have admitted it to anyone else, he felt strangely vulnerable now that he knew the knives were out for him. He had never fitted in with the new modernizing regime: the legion of bright young things who were flooding into the police service from university with their liberalist theories and obsession with rehabilitation, so-called restorative justice and political correctness. Like Stoller, he was an old-school copper, brought up with the rough ‘nick your own granny’ hard-liners who had once formed the backbone of the police service but, unlike Stoller, he had been unable to adapt to the rapidly changing environment around him and that had immediately typecast him in the eyes of his peers as a dinosaur.

Maybe they were right too, he thought bitterly, feeding off his own sour mood and corrosive negativity, maybe he
was
a dinosaur – the sort of washed-up has-been who should have been got rid of years ago. Could be he was past his sell-by date in other aspects of his life too. That would explain why Janet had run out on him; no doubt seeing the man she had married as an overweight, sexually inept slob, joined at the hip to the job and the whisky bottle in equal measures and destined for the scrapheap. In fact, looking at his life, he didn’t seem to have made much of it overall, apart from putting villains behind bars.

He had certainly been a great disappointment to his late parents and his older brother, Charlie. After a strict Christian upbringing, demanding total commitment to the local church and membership of both the choir and what he had privately referred to as its ‘coven of bell-ringers’, it had naturally been assumed by his father – the rural dean – that he would one day enter the ministry too, just like his old man and good old Charlie. Instead, he had thrown in his lot with the police force and as a result, after a monumental row in the vicarage, had suffered the pain of being ‘excommunicated’ by the family and shunned by his friends.

He had tried desperately in those early years to come to terms with the hurt that had followed his rejection, but stubborn pride had prevented him from making the first moves to try to repair the damage and then, two years later, he was denied the opportunity when both his parents were killed in a boating accident while on holiday in Crete. As for Charlie, he graduated to archdeacon status and in the proper Christian tradition of forgiveness and reconciliation, wrote his errant brother off for good.

He had never forgiven himself for failing to make his peace with his mother and father while he had had the chance and in an attempt to bury his feelings of guilt, had thrown himself into his career completely, excluding everything else and working horrendous hours that, perhaps inevitably, had culminated in an internal haemorrhage. He had met Janet then – a staff nurse, working in the local hospital’s casualty unit – and embarked on a torrid love affair with her. But he sorely underestimated the pretty girl from Basingstoke, and when she said she was pregnant he believed her and did the so-called decent thing of his generation. By the time he found out that she had deceived him, it was too late to do anything, but the ironic thing was that when, just two years ago, she finally decided to give up her nursing career to start a family and
genuinely
became pregnant she lost the baby.

Ever since then his domestic life had become a living hell, with Janet blaming him and his preoccupation with his job for the tragedy, and turning to alcohol and other men for release. And now, despite all that he had on his plate, it looked like the very force he had sacrificed everything for was seeking to reward his dedication by plunging a knife in his back – with the one man he had always thought he could trust quietly taking on the role of Brutus. What a bloody awful mess!