O, HAVE YOU EVER SEEN A COPPER
WITH HIS POCKET BOOK AND PENCIL
A-LOOKIN AT A-BODY WITH ITS EYES
FUCKED UP??
HARRY CA NAB!
‘WELL, IT’S GOT A GOOD rhythm,’ said Delahaye, studying the graffiti on the Flyover wall. It was scribed in spray paint like so much of the surrounding cacography, but instead of the usual sprawling letters, these were neat and tidy, in capitals the size of tabloid headlines. ‘It’ll stick in your head all day if you sing it loud with a bit of percussion.’
‘Nice,’ said Lines without humour. ‘It’s familiar.’
‘It’s based on the “Dear Boss” letter Jack the Ripper allegedly sent to the police,’ Delahaye said. ‘I suppose it’s more original than “Shaz woz ere”.’
‘Jack’s Greatest Hits then,’ said Lines. ‘It’s a poke at you, Sarge.’
‘Yes. Thanks’
‘I’m hoping it’s kids,’ said Lines.
‘Well, if it’s the killer, it’s about time we had something,’ said Delahaye, though he didn’t think it was. He thought it was simply a little note to the police, telling them to get a shift on. It didn’t mention Mickey, but it was obviously about him.
‘Harry Ca Nab . . . ’ Delahaye said.
‘The mythical Devil’s huntsman who rides his horse with hounds over the local hills,’ said Lines. ‘But I doubt he’d be down here writing crap on the concrete!’
As they headed towards Suzi, young Police Constable Morgan loped over to them from a patrol car.
‘Sarge! A call’s come through to tell you that Mr Coleman is lucid and will be able to see you today at Joseph Sheldon Hospital.’
To find Banlock Farm’s owner, Delahaye had assigned the task to WDC Gibson. Meanwhile, Banlock Farm was processed for evidence, and they’d confirmed it as the location of Mickey Grant’s murder. There were no matches for the degraded fingerprints lifted from the crime scene, but the purple fibres from under Mickey’s nails matched those of the rug in the garage den. Professor Simmons believed the knife was the murder weapon that had delivered the final coup de grace.
The photographs of the farm possessed a Gothic beauty, Delahaye thought. There was no explanation for the hundreds of dead animals and the sinister outdoor ossuary of their remains. The Polaroid photographs, possibly taken by the missing camera, obtained in the garage were faded and probably taken sometime last summer: images of happy Mickey playing Solitaire in sunshine, snaps of the ruined house, and little else. But no pictures of the person who took the photographs – most likely just another kid.
WDC Gibson found the estate agency’s owners, the McIntyres. The farm hadn’t been occupied for ten years. It used to be a dog-breeding establishment, a small enterprise that produced bespoke police, military and guard dogs. The owner refused to sell the land even though the housing authorities had offered him thousands for it.
The owner was an elderly man with Alzheimer’s Syndrome, currently a resident of Joseph Sheldon Hospital: eighty-one-year-old Mr Neville Coleman. Previous attempts to interview him had been thwarted because Mr Coleman had major lapses when he didn’t know who – or where – he was, and was prone to violent outbursts. The hospital manager promised the police that as soon as Mr Coleman was having a ‘good day’ he would let them know.
Today was apparently a ‘good day’.
The detectives drove Suzi down the Bristol Road South, narrowly missing a British Telecom van exiting its headquarters without indicating. Delahaye pushed down on the horn and was rewarded with the driver’s hand-wave apology. Delahaye swore under his breath.
‘Somebody got out of the wrong side of somebody’s bed this morning,’ said Lines.
Delahaye scowled. ‘It was my bed.’
‘Exactly, Sarge. That’s your trouble. It’s always your bed. Have you ever tried someone else’s bed for a change? Like WDC Gibson’s, for example.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Olivia Gibson. She fancies you, Sarge.’ Lines grinned.
‘Really, we’re talking about this now?’
‘I bet she’d OK a drink if you asked her.’
Delahaye said nothing. He wasn’t happy talking about the personal during the professional, and he loathed talking about women to other men.
‘And it’s not like she’s ugly, Sarge,’ said Lines. ‘She’s a bit of a smasher, is Olivia.’
Delahaye shook his head as if he’d misheard.
‘Come on, Sarge! It’s her thirtieth birthday shebang at The Prince of Wales tonight. She’s hoping you’ll go, like, and wish her many happy returns.’
‘She told you this, did she, DC Cupid?’
‘In a manner of speaking, yes,’ said Lines. ‘Well, in the manner of: I overheard her chatting to some of the plonks – sorry, WPCs – in the canteen.’
Plonks. Delahaye had made a vow long ago not to date women in the Job. Previous experience proved that it just became a nightmare when it all went wrong. But Gibson was part of the team.
‘I’ll pop in and wish her a happy birthday,’ Delahaye said finally.
Friesian bullocks grazed in fields beside the school as they cruised towards the John Connolly Hospital and Joseph Sheldon Hospital. Hollymoor Hospital’s red water tower – what the local kids called the ‘Tower of a Thousand Maniacs’ – reached into the sky beyond it.
‘Why’re there so many loony bins around here?’ asked Lines as they parked.
‘These hospitals treat patients from across the country,’ said Delahaye. ‘During the wars they were military hospitals. This would have been a rural area back then. It was believed green space and fresh air healed damaged minds.’
* * *
In the hospital, Mrs Brown, the manager, supplied information with little prompting.
‘Mr Coleman came to us from another care home in Bromsgrove five years ago,’ Mrs Brown said. ‘He was diagnosed with dementia, and he’s been getting steadily worse. It’s a shame because when he’s lucid, you’d never know he has Alzheimer’s. He was a man of means, and he’s still not short of a penny, but there’s not much he can do with it where he is.’
‘Family?’ Delahaye looked through the man’s strangely sparse file. A few black-and-white photographs, a few documents, little else. As a young man, Coleman had been striking, with a glint in his eye that suggested either a good laugh or a good fight.
Delahaye spotted the Next Of Kin section on a document:
Wife – Deceased
Daughter – Deceased
‘His daughter died in an accident about thirteen years ago,’ the manager said unprompted. ‘He doesn’t get any visitors nowadays, but he’s made good friends here, when he’s able to recall he’s made them. They’re a good bunch – they make allowances.’ She paused. ‘He’s not in any trouble, is he?’
‘Not at all. We’re here to tell him Banlock Farm was the scene of a serious crime. We’d also like to ask him a few questions about the place. For extra colour, if you will.’
Mrs Brown smiled with relief. ‘He’s developed the habit of talking to himself late at night. Entire conversations with an invisible friend. Sometimes, in the early hours, we find him with his face pressed to the window, chatting away. It’s such a shame he’s been reduced to this state, it really is.’ She stood. ‘I’ll ask Maureen to attend your interview, as she always gets on the right side of him if he . . . has a moment. She’ll be your yellow canary today!’
The detectives followed her down the long corridor.
‘He sometimes wears sunglasses because his right eye is sensitive to light.’
Maureen was Mr Coleman’s keyworker, a thin woman, worn out but kind. She escorted them to Mr Coleman’s room.
‘He’s lovely really when he’s having a good day,’ Maureen whispered. The detectives nodded. ‘And please, Detectives, don’t mention Tess.’
‘Tess?’
‘His daughter.’
Sunlight streamed in bright stripes across the carpet. There was a sideboard with a small record player, a few framed photographs and an old black teddy bear slumped against them. One of the pictures was of a pretty girl with her arms wrapped around a magnificent German Shepherd. Another was of the dog on its own. An armchair faced the window.
‘Nev? You’ve got visitors!’ Maureen stood aside, and the armchair scraped back.
A man unfolded his long length from its corduroy embrace and stood. Delahaye had no doubts this was the man in the file pictures, despite the wrinkles and white hair. He was smartly dressed and wore sunglasses with very dark lenses perched high on the bridge of his nose. Old age had only made him a little stooped nothing more.
‘Detective Constable Lines and Detective Sergeant Delahaye,’ said Delahaye, and both reached forth to shake Mr Coleman’s hand. When the right cuff of the old man’s shirt pulled up on his wrist, Delahaye noticed a white oval scar in the pale flesh.
‘I’m very pleased to meet you, gentlemen,’ said Neville Coleman in a gravelly drawl. ‘Detectives! Well! Hark at this!’ Maureen sat down when Coleman did; the detectives remained standing. ‘Excuse these,’ said Coleman, pointing at his sunglasses. ‘My right eye streams like piss.’
‘You’ve quite a collection of sunglasses now, ay?’ said Maureen. ‘It’s a pity about them favourite ones. They were proper vintage, them were.’
‘Some sod’s pinched them,’ explained Coleman. ‘Now, how can I help CID?’
‘Banlock Farm . . . ’ said Lines.
‘Yes.’ Coleman shrugged. ‘I suppose you had to go through the old McIntyres to find me.’
Delahaye nodded.
‘He used to breed Alsatians there back in the day,’ said Maureen, before turning to Mr Coleman. ‘Didn’t you, Nev?’
‘Not Alsatians, Maur! Shepherds!’ He pointed at the picture of the dog on the sideboard. ‘Banlocks, like Zasha there. Best dog I ever had, she was.’ He waved a dismissive hand. ‘Go on.’
‘A few weeks ago,’ Delahaye continued, ‘a serious crime was committed on your property and it was temporarily sealed by the police during the investigation. We tried to contact you sooner, Mr Coleman, but—’
‘When I have one of my turns, I’m no good for beast or man,’ said Coleman. ‘What kind of serious crime?’
‘Murder,’ said Delahaye. When Coleman leaned forward on his knees, Lines instinctively stepped back. Coleman remained silent, his face impassive. ‘You don’t seem surprised that a murder was committed at Banlock Farm, Mr Coleman.’
‘I’m not,’ said Mr Coleman. ‘Cruel shit happens everywhere. Who was murdered then?’
‘A local lad, a teenage boy,’ said Lines. ‘Fourteen-years-old.’
Coleman’s mouth tensed. ‘Oh no, not a babby.’ The old man was quiet for a moment then, with a snapping change, Coleman added, ‘Tell me: were the fields touched?’
‘No,’ said Delahaye. What did Coleman mean by touched? And why were the fields shown concern but the farm itself was not? Delahaye wrote it down in his notebook.
Coleman relaxed. ‘Have you caught the murderer?’
‘We’re still investigating,’ said Delahaye.
‘Bad luck, that place, eh?’ said Lines.
‘It used to be a happy place,’ said Coleman. ‘We were happy. Like paradise it was, just us . . . Sometimes I dream that he comes back.’
Lines glanced at Delahaye.
‘Who comes back, Mr Coleman?’ asked Lines.
Maureen caught Delahaye’s eye. Coleman turned his face to the window and removed his glasses. He fidgeted with them, his hands shaking, agitated and unlike the calm man he’d been when they’d first entered the room.
‘That night, the first time, black as pitch it was, but the moon was massive. He came here and I could tell he was hollow inside, with nothing left.’
The old man’s left hand rubbed the scar on his wrist and, in profile, Delahaye saw the lines etched deep into Coleman’s face.
‘Who comes here, Mr Coleman?’ Delahaye prompted.
Coleman turned his head slightly. The curve of the old man’s watery iris resembled the Earth as seen from space before he put the sunglasses on again. He was still anxious but he had collected himself, as if he’d suddenly remembered who he was talking to. His voice was almost a whisper. ‘Good pups become bad dogs if you’re cruel to them, Detective. I should know. Punish ’em too much, and they turn rogue, they do. Shame. He was a good ’un, once.’
‘Who was good once?’ asked Delahaye, but the old man wouldn’t answer.