Chapter Twenty-Two

At his desk, Dearlove bit into his sandwich, sending a small squirt of salad cream into his lap. It was a home-made sandwich, an economy measure he now regretted, since his mouth was bored with it almost instantly. With his free hand he clicked his mouse until the Bristol Herald website appeared. ‘Shit, it’s true,’ he informed the CID room in general.

‘Whatever it is, I doubt it,’ Austin said to the kettle as he waited for it to boil.

‘No, it’s here in black and white: they had a fire at the Bristol Herald. Early hours of the morning. In the newsroom. Says here the fire service thinks it could be arson. No paper edition for a few days; damn, I was waiting for the next instalment of the mystery photo competition.’

‘Haven’t you got any work to do?’ Austin asked as he carried his mug of tea past him.

‘This is lunch.’ Dearlove lifted his tattered sandwich as evidence for the defence.

At his own desk, Austin clicked the print button and sat back while the large printer across the room started churning out preliminary reports by scene of crime and forensics. His phone rang. It was social services returning his call.

‘Wonders never cease.’

‘Pardon?’ said the female voice at the other end.

‘Sorry, talking to a colleague there. Did you get a result?’

‘I don’t know what you call a result. I am now in a position to confirm that Mr Justin Hedges has had dealings with all three of the names you enquired about. I must stress that I think very highly of Mr Hedges and his work. That three of his clients have met with a violent death just shows that we are dealing with very vulnerable people.’

‘I’m sure you’re right; we simply have to follow every lead. I must stress again, though, that this enquiry has to remain confidential while our investigation is in progress.’

Austin hung up and, carrying his mug of tea, went to see McLusky.

McLusky’s tiny office was still in chaos. The other day, he had managed to lose his telephone in the mess; today it was the wireless computer mouse that was missing. He remembered the way the office had looked when he first set eyes on it: small but bright and functional. Now it looked like a skip and smelled like an ashtray. How had that happened? ‘Sit down, tell me something cheerful,’ he told Austin while he rummaged through the drawers of his desk.

‘Social services called back: Hedges dealt with all three of our unburied victims. Ugh.’ Austin shot up again off the chair and picked up the computer mouse he had sat on. ‘Not looking for this, by any chance?’

‘Genius. Give it here.’

‘Are we bringing him in?’

‘No, I want him relaxed. I’m meeting him at Darren Rutts’s flat. He’s been there recently, so no chance of contamination; his DNA will be all over the place anyway and SOCO are done.’

‘Then you don’t really think he’s involved?’

‘Who knows? He doesn’t have a van registered to him, I know that much, but then that doesn’t mean a thing. He isn’t known to us and none of the three had any drug involvement, yet they were killed by the same bastards who killed the two in Leigh Woods. And both of those are connected to heroin. There’s only one explanation. They were in the way somehow. They were witnesses. They knew something. They saw something they shouldn’t have. They heard something, they read something. And from what we know so far, Fairfield’s body fits in perfectly. Let me rephrase that: even without an autopsy, I’m sure the amateur dealer she found was killed by the same bunch.’

‘And five minutes later, she and Sorbie stumble straight into the BMW driver’s house.’

‘They did what?’

‘You haven’t heard? Didn’t Kat tell you?’

As far as McLusky was concerned, Fairfield seemed to have turned invisible. ‘I’ve not seen her. Tell me what?’

‘They got roped into a burglary-in-progress in Montrose Avenue. Caught two junkies doing the place over. One threatened them with a Beretta he’d found on the premises. The place was rented by our late BMW driver. The junkies didn’t just find the gun, though; they also found a wad of notes and an armful of heroin wraps all ready to go.’

‘They must have thought they’d gone to heaven. Fairfield and Sorbie tackled them despite the gun? Good on them. Shots fired?’

‘Nearly. Kid didn’t know his way round the Beretta, though, and they took it off him. And neither were wearing their vests.’

‘Bravery award in the post, surely. Well I’m glad somebody got a result.’

‘I can’t believe you didn’t hear it earlier.’

The phone started ringing while McLusky was still wrestling with a tottering pile of files on the floor. ‘I’ve been buried in here. Get the phone and tell them I left without a forwarding address. I’m due to meet Hedges in a few minutes.’

‘DI McLusky’s office,’ the DS said as he picked up. ‘No, it’s Austin. No, he’s just left. Yes, I’ll tell him. No, I won’t.’ He hung up.

‘No you won’t what?’

‘Forget to tell you Denkhaus wants to see you for a progress repor

‘Marvellous. Leave me a note, then, since I’m out,’ McLusky said. ‘I’m off to see a man about some murders.’

Twenty minutes later, he buzzed Justin Hedges into the building from Darren Rutts’s flat. He watched him come up the stairs from the door. Hedges looked harassed, but when he spotted McLusky, he managed a serviceable smile. ‘I hope I’m not late, Inspector. I have a very full day. And a peripatetic one. I’m sometimes hard to get hold of, apparently, but I did get your message.’

‘Good of you to come.’

‘Terrible business, this. Vulnerable people. Brutal murders. The violence in this town is definitely getting worse.’

‘Violent crime is down. It doesn’t seem like it at the moment, I admit.’

‘So how can I be of help?’ Hedges said, looking at his mobile for a time-check.

‘Are you in a hurry?’

‘I have time for this.’

‘To start with, have a look around the flat. Tell me what’s amiss here.’

SOCO and forensics had added to the confusion in the place. Fingerprint powder was in evidence on the surfaces; many things had been moved, papers taken away for examination.

‘Well, it was so neat before, everything in its place. Darren was struggling to come to terms with his disability; he had a lot of anger in him, and quite a bit of self-pity, too. But he knew that with a wheelchair it was important to be organized. And he had started finding new interests rather than hanker after the ones he could no longer fulfil.’

‘New interests like …?’

‘Photography mainly. I got him interested in that to get him out of the house. He went for a course at the Hope Community Centre up the road.’

‘Photography.’ McLusky tapped his walking stick against the side of his shoe in a nervous gesture. Something was about to click, he could feel it. ‘At the centre that just had a fire?’

‘Yes, unfortunate, that. Just when the funding is getting cut to ribbons. That was arson, you know?’

‘It would be,’ McLusky said, thinking. ‘This is digital photography we’re talking about?’

‘Oh yes, it’s all digital now, isn’t it.’

‘That means you’d need a camera and a computer.’

‘Well, yes. But even if you didn’t have your own, they had a bank of computers you could use, all donated, at the centre. They were all destroyed in the fire, I hear.’

‘So no more photography course?’

‘Oh, that folded anyway. The tutor left to take a better-paid job and the funding cuts meant they couldn’t find anyone else to run it.’

‘Did Mike Oatley also attend this course?’

‘He did. He was very enthusiastic. He said it was the best thing he’d ever done.’

‘Did Deborah Glynn?’

Not a flicker of surprise. ‘You know, she might have done. I may have mentioned it to her. She’d just been rehoused after leaving a difficult relationship, if you know what I mean, and needed new friends in the area. Mr Morris could tell you. He runs the centre. But do you think there’s a connection?’

Mr Morris, when McLusky found him later at the Hope Centre, asked the same question.

‘It’s a possibility,’ McLusky said.

‘I was hoping you were here about the arson.’

‘That might be connected, too. Tell me about the photography course.’

They were sitting in the café area, which was furnished with an array of non-matching tables and chairs. Information posters and No Smoking signs adorned the walls. Even here, the smell of the recent fire was strong. Morris scratched his salt-and-pepper beard and pulled a face. ‘Not much to tell. It didn’t last long.’

‘How many people were on the course?’

‘Five or six. A few more signed up but didn’t turn up for it. Always happens. So I think Ellen just had a few regulars.’

McLusky had his notebook open, pen poised. ‘Ellen is the lady who ran it? What’s her surname?’

‘Carrs. Not sure if you’d call her a lady if you met her. She was twenty-two, wore Doc Martens and swore a lot.’

‘You have an address for her

‘I did have. All our records died in the fire. Everything was kept on computer.’

‘No backups?’

‘Melted.’

‘No problem, we’ll find her.’

‘I’m not sure she’s back yet. When she left here, she went on an assignment with some nature guy, to take pictures in the jungle. South America.’

‘Nice job if you can get it. So what kind of things did they get up to on the course? Was it just how to use a digital camera, how to—’

‘Oh, there was more to it than that. There was some theoretical stuff, but also what to do with the pictures once they’d taken them and so on. They had projects where they went out to take pictures of stuff. They’d go out in the van and—’

‘They used a van?’

‘Yes, our van. That got torched too, and the insurance are mucking us about; they think it was worthless junk. Same with all our computer equipment. Mind you, that really was worthless junk, that’s why we were given it.’

Back outside, McLusky stood on the pavement and looked up at the burnt-out first floor. Computers turned to junk every three years or so. If they crashed, they could take all their files with them. Or a fire might do the trick.

A Mini drew up beside him. Philippa Warren parped her horn and rolled down her window. ‘Are you here about the arson?’

McLusky started to walk away. ‘No comment.’

Warren kept pace with him in her car. ‘We had a very similar fire at the Herald. Quite a bit of damage in the newsroom.’

‘Go away.’

‘There’s something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about, something I want you to look at.’

‘Warren, if you don’t go away, I’ll have you picked up for kerb-crawling.’ McLusky’s mobile chimed in his jacket pocket.

‘Suit yourself.’ She accelerated away. Of course at the Herald they backed up everything properly, and online. Every file, every archive, every photograph. Even bits of photographs.

McLusky watched the reporter drive off as he answered his phone. It was Austin. ‘They found Darren Rutts’s mobile.’

‘That’s something at least. Where did it turn up?’

‘In the melting snow under the flyover. It was pretty dead when they found it, but digital forensics got it going, and there’s stuff on it they think we might want to see.’

‘I’ll go there straight away.’

Digital forensics had passed the files contained on the phone to technical support, who were still working on them. McLusky drove to Trinity Road station.

The technician was perhaps twenty-five, with bleached hair and a silver ring through his eyebrow. ‘We stuck all the usual gubbins on disk for you, mainly pics and some dippy music,’ he said, ‘but one thing we’re still working on.’ He had offered McLusky a creaking office chair next to his in front of a computer. The long desk, which held several monitors, was cluttered with gadgets as well as papers, crisp packets and empty soft drinks bottles. The technician swept some of it aside, apologizing. McLusky recognized a kindred spirit. ‘Is his address book there?’

‘It is, but there’s only a few names in it.’

McLusky didn’t recognize any of Rutts’s contacts, apart from the Royal Infirmary. ‘He was starting a new life, I think.’

‘Judging by the amount of phone numbers, he hadn’t got very far.’

‘Can we look at the pictures next?’

‘If you insist.’

A few clicks of the mouse brought them up on the screen. ‘He was supposed to have been interested in photography; I’d expected more pictures.’

‘If you’re interested in photography, you won’t use a mobile to take pictures. The camera on his phone was crud.’

There were thirty pictures. The most recent one was of snow, taken from a window. Several others showed hospital staff, self-consciously posing; one showed Rutts himself, wearing inflatable water wings in a small hospital swimming pool, frowning up at the photographer. The ones that interested McLusky most came last. They were shots, some taken on the move and all from the low elevation of the wheelchair user, of people with cameras. He recognized Mike Oatley, looking seriously down at the screen at the back of his camera, and Deborah Glynn, smiling, pointing at something outside the frame. In several pictures a young woman with short dark hair made an appearance; she appeared to carry the camera with the longest lens, which probably meant he was looking at the tutor of the photography group. One picture, though extremely dark, showed the group against a background of trees. In one corner, the back of the Hope Community Centre van was just visible.

‘That’s all there is by way of pictures. There’s something potentially more interesting, though. A voice recording.’

‘His own voice?’

‘No. It’s quite murky and muffled, lots of background noise. Two voices. I’ll run it for you.’ The first sounds were of scratching and crunching close to the microphone, then a constant drone and rattle took their place. Human voices were just audible in the background. The counter in a corner of the screen ran on into its second minute. ‘That sounds like it’s in a van. You can hear the gear changes,’ the technician said. He watched the counter. ‘Coming up now …’

One voice came closer, and the words ‘with car behind’. The other voice, presumably turning towards the microphone of the mobile, became only just distinguishable for the end of a sentence: ‘out, then go find the bitch’. A loud noise obliterated everything and the quality of the droning changed.

‘That’s the van door opening,’ McLusky said. The sound continued for a few seconds, then the recording stopped. ‘Why has it stopped?’

The technician tapped at the screen. ‘Three minutes. Factory setting on the phone was for three minutes’ maximum recording.’

‘I think what we heard there were Darren Rutts’s last three minutes. He must have been alive to turn on the voice recorder.’

‘He may have been trying to call somebody, maybe dial 999, and ended up launching the voice recorder instead. It’s easily done on that model if you blindly tap the screen.’

‘Okay, play it again. The first speaker has a foreign accent.’

‘Eastern Mediterranean, we think, though not a strong one, and quite a fluent speaker of English.’

They listened to the entire sequence again. The last three minutes of Darren Rutts’s life. The voices of his killers. The rage that had been rising in McLusky for the last weeks hardened into a fist in his stomach. Bastards. ‘What about the other one?’

‘From the rhythms of his speech, the bit we can’t make out, the computer came up with nothing much, except it’s native English, southern counties, quite educated. Personally I think it sounds like London.’

‘Yes. That was my thought. It’s only six words, though.’ Out, then go find the bitch. A killer in a hurry.

McLusky himself hurried away from Trinity Road, talking incessantly on his mobile. Had they found an address for Ellen Carrs yet? And why bloody not? No, he was not coming into Albany Road now, he was too busy to talk to Denkhaus.

Because he thought he had recognized both voices.