Читать книгу: «No Place to Hide»

For Christine, who shone a light through the darkest times.

CHAPTER ONE

‘Damn it.’

Jerry’s knife hit the floor with a thump. He reached for it, tempted to ignore the knock on his front door that had caused him to drop it. Who the hell was going to be calling at this time of the evening, anyway? He certainly wasn’t expecting anyone.

Probably Jehovah’s Witnesses or something, he thought, checking the knife and the carpet where it had fallen.

The knock came again, louder, more insistent. They must have seen the light from inside. He sighed and got up, putting his dinner to one side.

In the hallway, he could see the silhouette of a man through the glass front door. He checked the chain and opened it a crack. A young man stood there. Clean cut, with neat dark hair, dressed in chinos and a jacket against the chill of the November evening.

‘Mr Tyler?’

‘Yes.’

‘Perfect.’ He took a step back and Jerry frowned, confused. From nowhere, something slammed into the door. The chain gave way and the door hit Jerry in the face. He staggered. The young guy leapt in, shoving him back so that he stumbled and fell onto the stairs, the treads digging painfully into his back. Another figure crowded in behind, carrying what looked like a heavy metal pipe with handles along two sides and a black sports bag with a dark gold logo. The first one was leering over him now, his face inches away. ‘Now, Jerry. You’re going to show us your computer.’

‘My computer?’ Jerry frowned. ‘Why? What are you . . .?’

‘We know what you are. I’ve seen your record.’

‘That’s—’

The guy’s hand clamped across Jerry’s throat, cutting off his words. ‘It wasn’t a request,’ he said. ‘Where is it? Or do we have to search the place?’

Jerry stared into the young man’s eyes and saw no give at all. No compassion. If anything, a cold enjoyment of what he was doing. Who was he? How had he seen closed records?

‘You want it the hard way? Fine.’ Something hard pressed into Jerry’s solar plexus and agony spasmed through his torso. He gasped. Had he been stabbed? He couldn’t look down for the hand at his throat. ‘Josh, get his trousers.’

The other, larger guy crowded forward. Jerry felt hands at his belt. ‘No, please,’ he gasped. ‘I’ll tell you.’

A smile lit up the face above him. ‘I know.’ The head tilted. The agonising pressure lifted from his torso. ‘So . . . ?’

‘Front bedroom. It’s my office.’

‘Password?’

‘Axminster.’

‘Ironic, in the circumstances. Josh?’

Panic flashed in Jerry’s mind. ‘No. I told you . . .’ He cried out as agony flared in his stomach and chest again, so fierce and intense that he barely felt the fingers unfastening his trousers. His shoes were slipped from his feet and his trousers tugged from the bottoms, down and off in one quick motion, change and keys spilling across the wood floor. Jerry was paralysed by the pain in his torso as he felt his underwear tugged down. Tears were running freely from his eyes as he stared up at the young man holding him. ‘Please, don’t. Don’t do this.’

He felt rubber-clad fingers place something around the base of his genitals. It felt like wire. He gasped, his eyes widened in horror. ‘No. Fuck!’ Panic surged through him, almost overwhelming the pain in his chest and stomach.

The guy shook his head. ‘No, no, Jerry. Not wise. What you can feel is cheese wire. One tug from Josh, and bye-bye bits. Do you understand?’

Jerry nodded, unable to speak.

‘Good.’ The guy’s voice was almost friendly now. He pushed himself up. The pain went from Jerry’s torso, but he was horrifically aware of the tension around his groin. ‘Up you get. But no sudden moves, eh? We wouldn’t want any accidents. Awfully messy on this nice, beige carpet.’

Jerry felt horribly exposed and vulnerable. He sat up carefully and got to his feet.

‘Up you go,’ the first one said. ‘I’ll be right behind you.’ He took the wooden handle on the end of the wire from the bigger guy in the blue surgical gloves and stepped in close, grabbing a handful of Jerry’s shirt with his free hand.

Jerry turned, feeling the wire across the top of his thigh as he took a tentative step up. He led the way cautiously up the stairs and along to the front bedroom, which he had converted into an office.

Keep them calm, do what they want, he thought. It was the only way he could see of getting out of this intact. Any wrong move and that little wooden handle would be snatched back and . . . He didn’t even want to think that far, but an image came unbidden into his mind – blood spurting, a lump of flesh lying at his feet as he collapsed, ruined forever. He would bleed out, here, on the floor.

‘Right. Stand aside, Jerry. Let the dog see the rabbit.’

The big one – Josh – stepped past them and took the seat in front of the computer. He powered it up as if he owned it and a flash of annoyance pierced Jerry’s fear. A hand clamped heavily on his shoulder, almost as if the guy standing beside him knew what he was thinking. Jerry felt suddenly crowded, claustrophobic in his own private space.

The computer screen lit up with a pleasant coastal scene, dotted with icons. Josh clicked on the Documents icon and searched until he found what he was looking for. Jerry felt himself go pale.

‘Oh, Jesus,’ he murmured.

‘He won’t help you now, Jerry,’ the other one said from his side. ‘Or where you’re going, if the preachers are right. Up you get, Josh.’

‘What? What are you going to do?’ Fear formed a lump in his throat that was the only thing stopping him from retching. His legs didn’t work properly as he was pushed forward and into the seat. He sat down hard, the wire digging into the sensitive skin at the top of his thighs. ‘Please. Don’t hurt me. I’m not that guy any more. I don’t use that stuff. I’d forgotten it was even on there.’ Jerry felt the guy’s free hand grab his collar and tug it down, then a sharp prick in the muscle between his neck and shoulder. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Just something to help you relax, Jerry.’ He patted him on the shoulder, where the injection had been.

A weird feeling swooped through Jerry’s body. He tried to shift his feet under the chair, but couldn’t. They wouldn’t respond. My God, what was this stuff they’d given him? Jesus! He could clearly hear the TV from downstairs. He recognised the voice of the BBC News anchor. Fiona. Not his favourite. He liked Julie. What the hell was he thinking?

He stared at the screen in front of him. Went to lift his hand to the mouse, to close the image, but his arm wouldn’t work either. ‘What . . . ?’ His voice was slurred and he couldn’t turn his head to face the men behind him. What was happening? Had they overdosed him? God! He’d never done drugs before, not of any kind – he didn’t even smoke – and he never would again. This lack of control was frightening. ‘Wha—?’

He felt the guy’s presence, close beside him. Felt his breath in his ear when he spoke.

‘Of course, in the dose we’ve given you, it goes a bit further than that. Becomes a paralytic. Stops your muscles from working. You can see, hear, smell, feel, but you can’t move. And soon, you won’t be able to breathe.’ He stood back. ‘Best get on, before we lose him. Wouldn’t want him to miss the fun, eh?’ He laughed and the other one joined in.

Panic filled Jerry’s mind as he felt his hand being placed around the wooden handle of the cheese wire. They were killing him. Slowly, so that he would feel every terrifying, agonising moment of it.

The bigger one placed a couple of big, fat candles on the ends of the wall-to-wall desk and lit them.

‘There,’ the one in charge said. ‘A bit of romance. Appropriate, or what?’

A lighter sounded. The candles were lit. Then a third one.

‘Josh, check the sitting room, would you? And turn the TV off while you’re there. You know what we need.’

Josh left the room.

Jerry tried to look away from the image on the screen in front of him, but even his eye muscles no longer worked. He heard a creak on the landing. ‘Ah, perfect.’

Josh came back into the room and dumped a pile of newspapers and magazines on the back of the desk, under the curtain. The top quarter or so of the stack was slid across a few inches and the third candle placed under it.

Jerry gasped. They were going to burn him alive! ‘Pwu . . . Nu . . . Hu . . .’

A hand clapped him hard on the back. He coughed, tried to get his breath and found it difficult. ‘We’ll be off, then, Jerry. Don’t worry. You probably won’t feel the flames. I dare say the Sux will have stopped your breathing by then.’

Frozen in place, Jerry stared at the stack of papers and magazines as his attackers walked calmly along the landing and down the stairs. The bottom one of the overhanging magazines and papers was already beginning to brown. Desperately, he tried to shift his body in the chair, but nothing happened. He drew a breath to try to shout, but his chest felt tight and restricted. ‘Hel—’ he croaked, then struggled to breathe in again. ‘He—’

CHAPTER TWO

‘Concealing evidence is a serious offence, Sergeant.’

DCI Adam Silverstone’s slim hands were flat on his desk as he stared at the man standing stiffly before him.

‘I haven’t concealed anything . . . sir. Tommy’s connection to Rosie Whitlock wasn’t relevant to the case. How could it have been? He’s been missing for six months, he hadn’t exchanged any messages with her since April and he’s thirteen years old. He wouldn’t have been driving the van. So I made a judgment call. As you know, every minute counts in cases like that. It was a question of either/or. Either I followed protocol or I gave Rosie Whitlock every chance of being recovered alive and well. I chose the latter. Was I wrong, sir?’ With difficulty, Detective Sergeant Pete Gayle kept his eyes on the wall above the station chief’s head.

‘Don’t push me, Sergeant. You’re on thin ice already. In fact, you’re a very small step away from being back on the beat. You’ve deliberately and blatantly flouted the most basic of rules. You cannot work a case involving a direct member of your family. But, knowing that, you hid your son’s connection to the victim and carried on regardless. Did you imagine there’d be no consequences to that?’

‘No, sir. I imagined there would be fatal consequences if I didn’t – for a thirteen-year-old girl whose case was all over the press at the time. And the girl’s own testimony suggests I was correct.’

‘It doesn’t matter whether he was a victim or a suspect, Sergeant. The fact that he was involved at all, and you knew it, is enough that you should have handed the case over instead of carrying on regardless. You are not the only competent officer in this nick.’

‘No, sir. But all the others were fully occupied on other cases and there wasn’t time for one of them to start again from scratch.’

‘That was not your call to make, Sergeant. It was mine or DI Underhill’s. And I distinctly remember telling you at the outset to keep DS Phillips up to speed so that he could take over if necessary.’

‘My understanding at the time was that he’d got to a critical stage in one of his own cases, sir. With all due respect to Simon, he couldn’t deal with that and take on Rosie Whitlock’s case at the same time, as urgent as it was. And any delay in our investigation would have meant the suspect getting away. To attack another victim. He’s already killed at least twice, sir.’

‘Which he blames on your son, Sergeant. With, at least in one case, the support of the pathologist’s report. And where’s he now, eh?’

‘I think that’s a question you should ask Simon Phillips, sir. He’s been trying to answer it for six months now.’

‘Enough!’ Silverstone’s hands slapped his desk as he came up out of his chair, face reddening. His dark eyes locked on Pete’s, jaw clenched as he pulled a deep breath in through his nose. He held it a beat, then slowly let it out. ‘I have been reminded by HR at Middlemoor that, before going back on active duty, you should have had a psych eval. Circumstances prevented it at the time, obviously, but that is no longer the case.’

‘Sir, I don’t . . .’

‘Do not presume on my patience, Peter,’ Silverstone snapped, overriding him. ‘You’ll find it severely lacking. This is not my decision and certainly not yours. You will attend Middlemoor HQ and report to the police psychologist at 0900 hours on Wednesday.’ He slapped a piece of paper down on his desk in front of Pete. ‘There are your orders. See that they’re obeyed.’

*

Silence descended as Pete walked back into the squad room. He ignored it, marching back to his desk, jaw clamped tight with the anger still seething inside him.

Bloody jumped-up clueless twat. How the hell did the brass ever imagine he was going to be any use to the force? Talk about piss-ups and breweries, as a manager he was as much use a chocolate teapot and there was no way he’d ever survive in a political environment. They’d wipe the floor with the arrogant, preening dick.

He sat down heavily, yanked open the bottom drawer of his desk and took out the file that he kept there. He slapped it open and stared at the page without focusing.

‘You all right, boss?’ DC Jane Bennett asked from the desk opposite.

Pete looked up and sighed. ‘I’m still here. For now.’

DC Dave Miles straightened up in his chair, next to Jane’s. ‘Even he’s not stupid enough to sack you while the press is still singing your praises.’

‘No, but you know what the press is like, Dave. News is only news for a day or three. Then they get bored and move on.’

‘Be back for the trial, though, and that won’t be for a few months at least. Bit of luck, FTP’ll have been promoted out of here by then.’

One of these days, Silverstone was going to catch somebody calling him that, Pete thought. It was just a question of whether he would realise it was him they were talking about. Which would probably depend on whether they used the initials, as Dave had, or the full version, Fast-track Phil. If the latter, what he’d just endured would be nothing in comparison . . .

He shook his head. ‘If we get a conviction then he might get his promotion. Not until then.’

‘What do you mean, if?’

‘Nothing’s certain in this life, Dave. Anyway, now’s not the time to be taking the piss out of the chief.’

‘Feeling sensitive, is he?’ Dick Feeney, the oldest member of the team, asked with a grin.

‘Distinctly tetchy would be closer to the mark. So, what have you lot been up to while I was getting my balls chewed off?’

Pete had explained the situation to his crew before he’d reported the email and text links between his still-missing son, Tommy, and Rosie Whitlock, the victim of the abduction they had been investigating. The team had understood and supported him but they’d all known that DCI Silverstone would not.

It was now just over a week since the girl was rescued and Dave arrested the suspect after a brief car chase through the streets of Exeter. When the tech team at Headquarters had found the link between Rosie and Tommy on her computer, Pete had kept it to himself. He knew it was against the rules, but, as he’d said to the DCI, it was a judgment call. There was no way that Tommy could have snatched her and there wasn’t time to waste on following protocol when the girl’s life was at stake. Or, at least, that was what he’d told himself.

Thinking it through afterwards, he’d accepted that DI Colin Underhill could have taken over. He was a bloody good copper – had taught Pete everything he knew – but, having only just stepped back into the fold after five months’ compassionate leave following Tommy’s disappearance, the last thing Pete had wanted was to be pushed straight back out to the sidelines.

And, in the end, he’d been right. They’d nailed the guy. He’d been arrested before he could harm anyone else, including Rosie.

‘You know how it is, boss.’ Dave leaned back in his chair, fingers linking behind his head. ‘While the cat’s away . . .’

‘Well, I’m back now, so let’s get to it, eh? We need every i dotted and every t crossed on this one. No chance of him wriggling out of it for any reason at all.’

Including some smart-arse DS hiding the fact that his son was connected to the victim.

Pete pushed the thought aside as soon as it popped into his mind. As lead investigator, it was up to him what was relevant and therefore what would go to the CPS lawyers. As long as the defence team didn’t get hold of it and, more importantly, of the fact that Pete knew of it . . .

‘There’s no way he’s wriggling out of this, boss,’ Dave said, sitting forward again and tugging his black waistcoat back into place. ‘His van. His barn. The stuff at his house. The girl’s testimony. We’re safe as houses.’

‘Even so. Every i and every t.’ Pete wasn’t going to allow Malcolm Burton to get away with anything, if he could possibly help it – especially laying the blame off on Tommy, as he’d been trying to do since he was arrested. The boy had had his problems. Pete had been aware of some of them, of course, but had found out a lot more since he disappeared, back in May – and more especially since he’d come back to work the week before last. He couldn’t accept that he was a rapist and a killer as Burton and his solicitor were trying to suggest, though. He was only thirteen years old, for God’s sake.

Pete’s phone rang. He blinked, returning to the here and now, and picked it up. ‘DS Gayle.’

‘Peter. It’s Tony Chambers. I’ve got something here that I think you ought to see.’

‘What’s that, Doc?’

‘Fatality in a house fire last night, out to the east of the city. Dental records have just confirmed the identity of the victim as the house owner, Jeremy Tyler, aged forty-two. It looked like an accident during an auto-erotic pursuit, but a couple of things don’t ring true.’

Pete pictured Chambers, small and lean in his green scrubs, his greying hair little more than stubble, sitting at his office desk, his free hand clicking through crime scene photos on his computer while he talked.

‘Such as?’

‘For one, there’s a needle mark in the right trapezoid – which is a strange place to find one – and the fire chaps tell me there was definitely no syringe at the scene. And for another, there was a half-finished plate of food on the side table in the lounge, as if he’d been eating his dinner and got interrupted. Yet, he was found upstairs, seated in front of his computer. I mean, even a sex maniac would finish his dinner first, surely?’

Pete blinked and sat forward in his chair. ‘Hang on. Jeremy Tyler, you said?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are we talking about the registered sex offender Jeremy Tyler?’

‘That’s right. Why?’

‘Name’s familiar, that’s all. Came up in the Rosie Whitlock case, but he had a solid alibi. And no syringe. We sure on that?’

‘That’s what the fire investigator tells me. And the needle would have survived, even if the syringe itself didn’t.’

‘Yeah, that’s right. OK, I’ll come over.’

‘Thanks, Peter.’

‘You got something, boss?’ Jane asked as he put the phone down.

‘Maybe. The doc reckons he might have a murder on his table. House fire, last night.’

‘Ooh.’ She grimaced.

Pete pushed his chair back. ‘I’m off to the mortuary, to have a look-see.’

She flicked her ginger hair back from her face. ‘Sooner you than me. I hate the smell of burners. Put me off barbecue for life.’

*

With no alternative, DI Underhill being in Bristol on a course for the week, Pete reluctantly knocked on DCI Silverstone’s door for the second time that day.

‘Come.’

Silverstone was seated at his desk, reading through a report. He looked up from it as his door opened. ‘Peter. What can I do for you?’

‘I got a call from the pathologist earlier. Been looking into what he said and it seems we may have a serial killer in the city, sir.’

‘In Exeter?’

Pete tilted his head. ‘Can happen anywhere, I suppose.’

Silverstone pursed his lips. ‘Hmm. What have you got?’

‘Registered sex offender Jeremy Tyler was killed in his home around seven-thirty last evening. A house fire was used to cover it up. Clever job, made to look like an accident, but it wasn’t.’

‘One suspicious death doesn’t make a serial killer.’

‘No, but the doc detected a pattern. He’s looking into it more deeply as we speak. I just heard back from him on another death, a few days ago. A bloke collapsed in the street. No obvious cause. Except, again, there was a needle mark found and no needle at the scene.’

Silverstone raised an eyebrow and sat back in his chair, fingers steepled in front of him.

‘The victim hadn’t worked in about fifteen years. So, we’ve got a dole scrounger and a sex offender. And, apparently, there’s been a string of others recently. A druggie, a drunk, a prostitute and so on.’

‘People like that die all the time.’

‘Exactly. Vulnerable. Isolated. Won’t be missed. Perfect targets. All died of plausible causes except the one that hasn’t been determined. Someone’s being very clever about it, but they’re out there – killing off the city’s undesirables. Doc Chambers is rechecking other cases to confirm. His idea, not mine.’

Silverstone stared at him flatly for a long moment, then sat forward. ‘All right. Work the Jeremy Tyler case for now. We’ll see about the serial killer angle if and when Doctor Chambers comes up with something concrete.’

What? Pete struggled to hold his tongue. Who the hell did this jumped-up Hendonite think he was? Pete had no idea whether he’d gone into the police training college at Hendon with the right degree or just the right connections, but the fact that he was on the fast track to the upper echelons didn’t make him an expert on anything, never mind pathology. Just because he’d been able to waltz in over the heads of far more suitable candidates to be in charge of this station for now, he clearly imagined he was qualified to spout forth on all sorts of subjects that he’d have been better keeping out of.

But Pete was in more than enough trouble with the DCI as it was. He didn’t need any more. He drew a long breath. ‘Sir,’ he said and turned to leave.

Back at his desk, he sat down, shaking his head incredulously.

‘What’s up?’ asked Dave.

‘I can’t believe that bloke sometimes. The arrogance of the jumped-up, clueless tit. He’s calling the doc’s judgment into question, now.’

‘Why? What’s Doc Chambers saying?’

‘He’s got a suspicious death on the table. Which is now officially ours, by the way. He reckons it’s one of a series. Except Fast-track, in his infinite wisdom, has just decided that it’s not, until the doc can “come up with something concrete”, as he put it. What the bloody hell’s that about?’

‘Reputation?’ Dave suggested. ‘He wants to be moving onwards and upwards, ASAP. Doesn’t want a serial killer on his watch – unless, of course, we can catch him and he can take the credit.’

‘Whoah.’ Jane looked at him, green eyes wide. ‘I take it all back. You’re not just a pretty face, are you?’

Dave tugged at the collar of his open-necked shirt and straightened his waistcoat. ‘Well, it’s good of you to notice, at last. Women, eh?’ he said to Dick. ‘Nothing but hormones and make-up.’

‘Oi!’

‘Ow,’ he yelped as both Jane and Jill thumped him. ‘Physical violence, boss!’

‘Sexual discrimination,’ Jill shot back. ‘Misogynist pig.’

Dick was shaking his head. ‘And you go on at Ben for not learning.’

‘I learned one thing on the Internet last night,’ Ben said, nodding towards Dave. ‘He’s more Bryan Ferry than Elvis. Only without the looks.’

‘Cheeky sod.’

‘I’m surprised you’ve heard of either,’ Pete said.

‘He hadn’t till yesterday,’ Dick said. ‘Poor uneducated boy.’

‘And he’s got you and Dave to teach him? God help the lad.’ He shook his head. ‘Anyway, we need bodies out to Jerry Tyler’s place, to canvass the area and check on friends, family, colleagues – all the usual stuff. The fire guys have given us permission to go in, but we’ll need wellies, apparently. It’s structurally sound, but a major mess. Dave, I need you to check the records. See what we’ve got for known associates, family and so on. You find anything, let me know and then go and see what they have to say. Take Dick or Jill with you, as appropriate. Ben, you can come with us,’ he said to the spiky-haired young PC as he stood up and grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair.

*

‘So, Doc Chambers reckons some sort of drug overdose, then?’ Jane asked as they went briskly down the station stairs.

‘The lack of soot in the lungs and no abnormalities in the brain or heart told him something was up. The guy wasn’t bound, but something stopped him getting out of that chair. Then he found a needle mark in the shoulder, up here.’ Pete tapped the muscle between his neck and shoulder. ‘Unusual place to inject – yourself or someone else. And there were no other needle marks on the body. He’s asked for a rush-job on the analysis, but it’ll be later today, at least, before the results come back.’

They reached the bottom of the stairs and turned right, towards the back of the building.

‘And how does it get to be part of a series?’ she asked. ‘This is the first I’ve heard of it.’

‘First anyone has. It reminded the doc of several others recently. Different MOs, if any at all but, taken together, they add up to a spike in deaths of these types of victims over the past few months. He’s got another one in the mortuary at the moment, so he’s going back and rechecking, see if he can find anything.’

Pete reached the back door, hit the security lock button and pushed through.

‘So, for now, we’ve just got the one,’ Jane said as they crossed the car park behind the station.

‘That’s right. And, whatever we think of the victim, he’s still a victim.’

‘Don’t look at me, boss. I’m with you. We can’t leave a killer out there to do it again, no matter who he’s targeting.’

Pete pressed the remote and his car bleeped, indicators flashing as the locks clunked open. ‘I might have to quote you on that. There’s going to be some who need convincing. Including DCI Silverstone.’