“Can’t we hear something else, guv?”
Whitley’s ears were bleeding. He had a headache and really wasn’t in the mood for any more 999.
Slade didn’t need to drive the Bentley. The squad had plenty of designated drivers for that. But he loved it. He loved throwing the vehicle around street corners at 60 miles per, throwing Whitley against the passenger door in the process. It made him feel well-Sweeney.
“Fuck’s wrong with you? Great stuff this is…”
The track was “Homicide”—Whitley knew that from repeated playings, and always when they were summoned to a SOC. Appropriate if nothing else. And while it was punchy and catchy enough, (even if it was played at Fuck You decibels) Whitley couldn’t help feel this kind of shit only added to Slade’s reputation as a loose cannon back at the department.
“Don’t you think he looks a bit like me?” Slade took another corner at double the mandatory speed limit. Then they were leaving Cardiff City centre and heading up Bute Street, one of the rougher areas of the Welsh city.
“What? Who?”
“Nick Cash. There he is on the cover of that CD.” He gestured to a CD case stacked on top of a disorderly pile that was threatening to topple from the open glove compartment. Whitley pulled it free and examined the cover cursorily.
“Which one? You don’t look like any of ’em to be fair.”
“The fucker in the trench coat, dickhead.”
“The one with the receding hairline?”
Slade flew through a red light. The Bentley hummed as it bullied its way towards the docks where the BBC studios were located.
“Is he the singer?” Whitley sniffed and chucked the CD case back in the glove box. “Doesn’t look much like a singer.”
“Don’t you think he looks like me?”
Whitley shook his head at his superior’s childishness. “A bit. But you’re fatter. Older. Nastier. Apart from that, spot on.”
“Fuck you.”
“But to be honest guv, I think you’re a bit too old to be listening to this shit.”
“Cheeky cunt. What do you think I should be listening to then, Taylor Swift? Fuckin’ Snow Patrol?” He snorted in disgust as he threw the Bentley into top gear as they reached the Opera House and floated through another red.
“Well yeah. Or James Blunt.”
The Bentley screamed to a halt, narrowly missing a fat woman with a pram trying to use the zebra crossing.
Slade turned to his DS. “Any more of that shit and you can get out and walk. Now where the fuck is this studio?”
Whitley peered through the windscreen at the signs ahead of them. He ignored the woman who was passing them, muttering obscenities. She raised a middle finger and Slade cheered loudly.
“Follow this road round the Opera House, then straight on,” Whitley announced after a moment’s deliberation. The Bentley kicked forward again, tossing Whitley back against his seat.
“Did you watch that video?” Slade asked as they cruised around the large elaborately designed Opera House.
“Don’t Go in the Woods? Yeah. Bit of a tough job. Thanks for that.”
“Well?”
“Pretty much as DC Nandu described it, guv. There was a bear trap used as a murder weapon, and a spear wrapped in animal skins. The perp’s MO copied the killer in the film.”
“Exactly?”
“Pretty much. But there were a lot of murders in the movie. Our perp just picked the choicest. The most dramatic. Oh and he combined two methods, the spear and the bear trap which were used on different victims in the video.”
“What do you conclude from that?”
“Apart from the fact our killer’s a sick fuck?” Whitley shook his head. “Bad movie buff? Flair for the melodramatic, twisted sense of humour? Who knows…?”
The Bentley cruised past the docks, the water choppy in the breeze that had picked up. The studio was to their right. They pulled up directly outside the main door, behind two patrol cars and an ambulance. Slade nodded at a uniformed constable guarding the door.
“Anything new to tell me?” he asked the younger officer.
The PC wet his lips. “Nobody’s been allowed in or out since the incident was discovered, sir.”
“Carry on,” Slade entered the reception, flashed his badge at the pale security man behind the desk. There was a row of monitors above his head, all showing different parts of the studio complex.
“What did these capture?” He spoke to the security officer, indicating the monitors.
The man looked even more uncomfortable. “Absolutely nothing. The CCTV in the studio where…where it happened…isn’t working.”
“Why is that? Malfunction? Or did someone tamper with it?” Slade squinted at him suspiciously. “Were you on duty at the time of the incident?”
“Y-yes, sir.”
“And you didn’t leave for any reason? Quick piss, a dump?”
“No. I have relief cover for that.” He indicated a thin black man sitting just inside the security staff quarters to the right of the main desk. “I was here all the time. But if someone knew what they were doing they could knock out the CCTV in there. I…” he paused nervously, “…I only found out it wasn’t working after the incident.”
Slade raised an eyebrow. “Do you have a signing-in book?”
“Yes sir,” the security man was on firmer ground now. He handed over a thick journal open to today’s page. Slade scanned the entries briefly, then passed it to Whitley. “Okay. Anybody enter that wasn’t marked down?”
“Never. Not on my watch.”
“What about on his?” Slade jerked his head at the guard in the staff room.
The security officer didn’t reply.
“We’ll speak to him later. And my DS will check all these names. You sure nobody left just after the incident, which was approximately…” he looked enquiringly at Whitley.
“1:30, guv.”
The security man shook his head. “Nobody that I saw.”
Slade looked at the monitors again. He could see himself and Whitley standing in the lobby. “What about the cameras out here? I’ll need all the tapes from the whole day, and any from the rest of the complex that actually work.” The guard winced at the implied criticism and nodded.
Slade left the security desk and stepped through the automatic doors into the refectory. More police officers were interrogating witnesses and copying down statements. Slade spotted several celebs among them, including the grey-haired actor who played Professor What, now looking decidedly sorry for himself. Slade would look forward to putting the pressure on him later. Might even get an autograph out of the bastard, he thought. Though what the fuck he could do with that was beyond him. Sell it on eBay? As they stood looking around, a plain clothes officer with a balding head and a salt and pepper moustache moved over to greet them.
“DI Hughes. Don’t mean to be rude exactly, but I don’t see what this case has to do with Avon and Somerset.” His Welsh accent was soft and lilting—from the Valleys, Slade guessed. He nodded curtly. “DI Slade, DS Whitley. And yeah, we know we’re out of our jurisdiction strictly speaking, but we’re assuming this incident is linked to a similar one we’re already assigned to.”
“The Forest Ffawr murder? That should have been one of ours too. You already assuming the two incidents are linked?”
“We were called in to help, if that itches your balls, take it up with the Super.” Slade’s courtesy had stretched way past its usual limits. He was never one for territorial politics at the best of times. “I’d rather be drinking coffee and farting happily back at my cosy department in Bristol, rather than fucking around out here in the valleys chasing sheep, believe me. But unfortunately I’ve got previous in these sort of cases, and maybe a little more seniority, so we’re both stuck with it. You can help me, and get one of your boyos to fetch me a coffee or you can pull your moustache and lose more hair. Either way, this is my baby. We cool?”
Whitley looked at his feet. The Welsh DI shook his head in disbelief. “Fuck me, they were right about you. Knock yourself out, sunshine. Just don’t step on my toes or I’ll fuckin’ stamp on yours.” His valleys accent deepened noticeably as his dander got up.
Slade grinned wolfishly. “Excellent. I think we’re gonna get on like a sheep and a horny Welshman!” Hughes’s heavy features darkened. Whitley cut in quickly: “So where’s the SOC?”
Hughes took them through the electronic door to the corridor. Slade noticed one of the uniforms activated it with a pass key, as he did to gain access to the Professor What studio. He took the pass off the PC and examined it as they followed Hughes up the corridor to the main set. “Does everyone in the building have one of these?”
“I already asked the head of security here,” Hughes answered gruffly. “All full time staff, regular crew and actors are issued with them.”
Slade glanced at the framed stills on the walls curiously. “What about the extras?”
“Eh?”
“The extras, DI Hughes… Supporting Artists, bit players, whatever they fucking call themselves these days. Do they have passes too?”
They were entering the set now and Scenes of Crime Officers were all over it, not looking out of place at all in their white hermetically sealed gear amongst all the futuristic props and scenery. A couple more uniforms were watching the forensic work carefully, one of them, a plump sergeant, nodded at Hughes and glared a little balefully at Slade and Whitley. Slade ignored him. He left Hughes to chat to his officer and headed for Jim Tavell, the chief SOCO.
Jim left his detailed examination of the scene to greet him. He peeled off the polystyrene mask and smiled grimly.
Slade peered past him at the blood spattered Kalek. The victim’s foot was still protruding from the top.
“We waited for you, Detective Inspector,” Tavell said curtly. “Body’s where we found it.”
“Where who found it exactly?” Slade approached the dustbin-shaped prop and the corpse tipped upside down inside it.
Hughes answered for him as he sauntered over, not wanting to miss out. “A supporting artist called Tommy Wallace. He was returning from lunch and—”
“Tommy Wallace?” Slade whirled on him. “Open and shut fucking case then, I would say. That’s the same bastard who was first on the scene at the Forest Ffawr incident too.”
“Maybe, but he’s got a good alibi. He was in the refectory at the time of the murder.” Hughes looked happy to contradict his rival detective from across the River Severn.
“Any witnesses to that?”
Hughes looked a little less happy. “Nobody definite. He ate alone.”
Slade grunted. “Did he have a pass key?”
Jim Tavell answered for the Welsh detective. “We found the pass key that was used in a bin in the refectory. Charlie Spavins, a Third AD on Professor What reported it missing. We’ve dusted it for prints. Only Charlie’s were found. We’ve also got this…” He gestured to a female SOCO who Slade could tell was pretty even with the mouth mask and tightly drawn hood pulled around her head. She handed Tavell an evidence bag with a particularly lurid item clearly visible inside.
Slade looked at it without touching the item and smiled grimly. The big VHS box sported the mother of all grisly covers: rivers of blood trickled down a close up of a man’s screaming face while a drill bored into his forehead. Slade read out the title and tagline: “Driller Killer. The Blood runs in rivers…and the drill keeps on tearing through flesh and bone…” He glanced up at Whitley and sniffed. “It’s the same sick fucker all right. Get it dusted, but I’m guessing you won’t find anything.”
Slade turned back to the Kalek that had housed Tommy Wallace earlier that day as he battled so happily with the soldiers. Some of the forensic guys were still snapping photographs. He walked round it, peering at the corpse stuffed unceremoniously inside. “Ready to get this sleeping beauty out of his pit?” Tavell nodded and signalled to his men. The corpse was pulled gingerly out of its fiberglass tomb and laid out on a stretcher.
“Same MO as Forest Ffawer. This bastard likes his video nasties a bit too much. Gore Film Copycat. That’s a new one on me.” He picked at his teeth to dislodge a bit of the bacon sarnie he’d wolfed down on the M4 from Bristol and addressed DI Hughes. “Both these incidents have been on Welsh turf. You got any nutters on your books who like horror films? Particularly of the nasty variety?”
“We can check. Can’t think of any off hand. But we do have a lot of nutters on the loose round these parts.”
“I don’t doubt that for a minute.” He squatted next to the corpse. The blood had congealed around the ghastly wound, and the drill bit stuck up from the forehead like a short metal arrow.
“So who was he?”
Hughes was obviously sulking a bit from the last remark as he took his time answering. “Graham Croft. BBC staffer. 56. Looks after the props and articulated monsters on Professor What and various other shows.”
“Any links to Andy Hill?”
Hughes looked confused for a minute. Whitley nudged his memory for him. “The Forest Ffawr victim.”
Hughes pulled a dumb face. Slade straightened and gave Whitley an arch look. “We’ll check it for you, Taff. No worries.” Hughes was about to object but Slade raised a hand for silence as he saw another SOCO examining the bloody soldier’s uniform slung over a plastic chair. He approached the SOCO, Jim Tavell following.
“Worn by the perp?” Slade asked, glancing at the gore crusting the black uniform.
“We think so,” Tavell answered. “We also think it was discarded by one of the extras when he went for lunch.”
“Find out who and grill him,” Slade said to Whitley. “Okay. I’m done here. Jim, bag that poor bastard and get me everything you can double quick. But I’m guessing it’s all gonna be as clean as the furs and the spear on the last job.”
Jim Tavell nodded and stepped away to speak to his crew.
Slade rounded on Hughes again. “Why was Croft alone in here, and why didn’t he go for lunch like everyone else? Did he recognise the perpetrator? And did the killer nick the AD’s pass key to get in or just make it look that way?”
“I don’t get you.”
“No. You probably don’t. Maybe the killer already had a pass key… Either way, it’s time we spoke to our little group of film stars in the canteen. Who knows, the killer might still be among them. What do you think, Taff?”
“I think if you call me Taff one more time I’m going to bend your nose for you, boyo…”
Slade laughed. “I like you, DI Hughes. You’re funny. Even if you don’t know what the fuck you’re doing. Which is why I’m taking over this case permanently.” Before the Welshman could argue, Slade clapped Whitley on the shoulder and headed for the door.
Hughes shouted after him, his face red and flushed. “I’ve heard all about you, Slade. You’re a fucking liability. Think you’re a maverick, don’t you? Think you’re all cool playing your kids’ music and shagging every whore you nick. There’s a word for coppers like you, Slade…but I’m aware this is a crime scene so I won’t embarrass everyone by using it.”
Slade waved back at him cheerily without turning.
“Don’t push him too far, guv,” Whitley warned as they followed the uniform with the pass key down the corridor. “This is his territory.”
“Yeah, and he doesn’t know which finger to use for scratching his own ass. I’ve been given seniority on this job and he’s doing his best to do absolutely fuck all to help.” He waited as the PC activated the door into the refectory. “So what are the chances of our perp still being here, Trev? And what a coincidence our friend Tommy Wallace is on the scene too. Let’s see what other surprises we have in store when we question them.”
The first surprise was finding they had not just one extra on hand at both crimes, but two. Slade spotted Mark Hamm sitting patiently at a table waiting his turn to be questioned, and wondered how he’d failed to see him earlier. But then he’d been too curious about the actor playing Professor What to look around at the extras properly. The same went for Tommy Wallace. Slade finally checked him out sitting on his own, head lowered, hiding behind a big red rucksack. Well, that wouldn’t do him much good.
When Wallace saw him coming, he visibly paled. Guilty as fuck, thought Slade.
“We meet again, Mr. Wallace,” he said as he sat opposite the supporting artist at the refectory table. Whitley settled next to him. Wallace declined to answer, clutching his bag tightly. Then, as if realizing his body language was a give away, released it and sat back in his chair, affecting nonchalance.
“Two murders on two different TV sets. And I’m seeing the same face at both.” He leaned forward, screwing the extra with his eyes. “Your face.”
Wallace scratched his nose. “Two faces.”
“Say what?”
“I wasn’t the only one at Forest Ffawr who’s here today.”
“Oh, you mean your friend Mark Hamm?”
“He’s not my friend.”
“Fallen out, have you? What was that over?”
Wallace shifted, not liking Slade’s line of questioning. “We were never friends to start with. Look, what’s this got to do with anything?”
Slade changed tack. “Bit of a coincidence…you being on both sets and being first on the scene of crime. I don’t like coincidences. They give me indigestion. You ask DS Whitley.” He winked at the Detective Sergeant. Whitley remained impassive.
“I didn’t ask to be on both sets. My agency booked me. So yes, it is a coincidence.” He was clutching the straps of his rucksack again.
“Did you know Graham Croft well?”
“No. This was the first time I’d ever met him.”
“And how did you find him?”
Wallace cleared his throat, shrugged. “Bit grumpy. Harmless enough.”
“You knew Andy Hill, though, didn’t you? Was he a bit grumpy too?”
Wallace shook his head. “What are you accusing me of, Inspector?”
“Well, duh! This is a murder enquiry. Work it out.”
“Then it’s probably time I spoke to a solicitor.”
“All in good time, Tommy boy. Relax. We just need a statement first. Don’t rush the process.”
Wallace obviously picked up on Whitley’s strained look, as if it was the sergeant who suffered from indigestion, and not his superior. “Are you supposed to be treating me like a suspect? I’m getting the impression you make a habit of riding roughshod over correct police procedure.”
Whitley’s left eyebrow raised. Slade chuckled and leaned over the table to square Wallace with an unflinching gaze. His tone was low when he spoke. “Seems like you’ve grown an attitude since last we spoke, sonny. Copying your bessie mate Hamm, no doubt. I don’t much like you, Wallace. I can sense you’re a wrong ’un. There’s a smell about you.”
“Now you’re just getting personal.”
“Laugh it up. This ain’t a joke, son. Someone’s had their head used as a screw socket. And you look the likeliest candidate for the job.”
“Not so likely, seeing as I was having my lunch in here when the murder took place.”
Slade became aware of a figure standing just behind him and turned. DI Hughes was watching him carefully. Waiting for him to slip up, so he could ease back into the cockpit?
“The director on What wants to speak to you.” Hughes’s voice was hard and sulky. “Seems he needs to crack on, and wants permission.”
Slade stood up slowly, turning his back on Wallace. “Am I tripping?” He rubbed his eyes theatrically. “Has somebody slipped me some ’shrooms? Needs to crack on? What in the Holy Whore is wrong with these people? I’ll show the bastard how to crack on…” He turned to Whitley. “Is nobody taking this seriously?” Whitley shrugged on cue. Slade faced Hughes again, “Tell the bastard there will be no cracking on until this case is solved. He can post his shooting schedule up his turd alley for all I care.” Spittle pattered on the Welshman’s jacket collar as Slade raved, his face red as a Man United strip. “And Inspector Hughes… Don’t let anybody out of this room until every statement is extracted. That’ll be your job.” He sighed loudly. “Meanwhile I’m gonna speak to the star, see if he can shed any light on why a prop man gets a third eye on his show. Then, if I’m really bored for things to do, I might keep the director busy for a few more days playing paper aeroplanes with his statement and getting him to recite it in Latin until I’m really, truly satisfied he’s sorry for asking to crack the fuck on. Are we clear here, dear? Fuck!”
Hughes glanced at Whitley, then at Wallace who’d heard the rant in its entirety. “You’re an embarrassment, Slade. A disgrace. I’m gonna speak to the Super, get you removed from the case.”
Slade laughed, as if he’d just heard the mother of all punch lines. “Join the queue, Welshie. But I’m warning you, it tails round the block a few times. Fact is, they won’t take me off cos they know I always come through. Swallow that with some leeks, boyo.”
Slade leaned over the table for one last glare at Wallace. “And we ain’t done either, son. I think we’ll be talking again real soon.” He pushed away from the table, and accompanied by his best mate, wove through the packed refectory in search of Professor What.