Cyril came across, popped on his glasses and looked at the images as Owen identified the key elements from the text and photographs. “You’ll be chasing that I take it?”

  “In hand… no pun intended.” He simply looked at Cyril.

  Chapter Five

  The breeze channelled through the gap between the buildings, the Venturi effect accelerating the travelling air which Cyril immediately sensed as he turned to head down the narrow passageway towards Robert Street. It brought with it a marked change in temperature. It never ceased to surprise Cyril and always led him to reminisce, taking him back to when he was learning to fly. He paused briefly. Those were fun days he had often thought, days when his head was more in the clouds than on his work. His shifts then always seemed so carefree, the weather warmer, people more friendly and crimes less sadistic and cruel. The policing did not seem as sophisticated either, it was more exciting and certainly less bureaucratic and there were more officers on the beat. He chuckled to himself thinking he sounded just like his father had done when he was young. Maybe the best days were behind him and that would never do. Probably the sense of freedom brought with learning to fly had offered him a halcyon view of the past. Alas, those days were long gone.

  The sun had seemed warm as he crossed The Stray but now, removing his head from the memory clouds, he shivered but not for long. On coming out on the other side of the passageway, a matter of fifteen strides, he felt again the warm caress of the sun strike the side of his face. He was immediately back in the present.

  Having just put the key in the door lock he heard his name called.

  “Mr Bennett.”

  The high-pitched, questioning, female voice rang out across the street and there was no denying its Germanic edge.

  “Mr Bennett?”

  Cyril turned, recognising the accent and the timbre. He felt a sigh rise in his throat. It was one of his neighbours. Mrs Pfeiffer had lived opposite since he had moved in. She knew everyone’s business, and although that was often a drawback when Julie came to the house guaranteeing the certainty of flickering net curtains, she was also the best security the street enjoyed.

  “Mr Bennett, I’m glad you’ve arrived home before I take Hercule for his walk.”

  As if on cue, the Dachshund began to bark and peer out from between her swollen ankles. Cyril looked at the brown-coated dog as he dutifully crossed the street before opening the gate. Hercule immediately bolted between Mrs Pfeiffer’s legs and greeted Cyril by rolling over before wriggling and slithering for maximum attention.

  “Now Badger Hound, I can’t see you tackling a big, bad brock, you old softy.” Cyril rubbed the dog’s belly as it wriggled furiously with excitement. A small whimper of pleasure matched the movements perfectly.

  “He’s always liked you, Mr Bennett. If only he were the same with the milkman and the postman. When your parcel was delivered he went like one of those missiles, you know the ones, to attack him and I’m not as fast as I used to be. One day he’ll catch the lad.”

  Cyril turned to look at her and he could see the frown on her face.

  “Ballistic?” Cyril proffered.

  “Yes, yes. Ballistic. You’d never guess that I’ve lived here longer than I lived in Stuttgart would you?”

  It was true. She still had a pronounced accent. On hearing the word ‘parcel’ Cyril’s stomach fluttered, an excitement borne on the anticipation of the contents.

  “You’ll have to get it if old softy there will let you stop. It’s rather heavy.” She paused hoping that Cyril would divulge what the contents might be but he resisted. If he had relented, he realised that everyone in the street would also know so he simply smiled.

  “A present,” he lied as he approached the door. The smell of cooking leaked through the opening. It was not an unpleasant smell and it made his stomach rumble.

  “It’s just by the settee.”

  ***

  Within fifteen minutes Cyril had opened the bulky parcel. It was more like stripping a Russian doll; after taking off one layer of packaging there was yet another beneath. Now, however, he sat and stared at the item he had removed from the wrapping. The bronze abstract figure stood on the table. Solitary Man by John Coen.

  Cyril had been checking the auction sites and had seen this lot for sale in Ireland with a realistic estimate. Before he knew it he had bid for it on the telephone and won. That was two weeks ago. Running his hand over the cold bronze he was delighted with his purchase. In a few months he would sell it on at a local auction, hopefully at a profit. He felt the excitement grow. He would like to make a killing. How he loved this game.

  Chapter Six

  The incident room looked a little bare. There was none of the magical interactive screens that could zoom from one part of the town to the other whilst tracking the suspect, or mysteriously interpreting the evidence as seen on many television dramas of such procedures. To the untrained eye the room would simply be classed as disappointing and a little underwhelming. On one wall was a collection of photographs of the deceased, above the notes that had been on Cyril’s easel the day before. There was also a large flat computer screen on the far wall, the blue and white glow from the North Yorkshire Police logo screensaver casting a cold sheen onto the white walls of the room. The day would see a greater concentrated build-up of evidence as more forensic results came in. Witness statements, although now handled and cross-referenced digitally, would still need analysing.

  DC Harry Nixon, DC Brian Smirthwaite, DC Shakti Misra and April Richmond, now a DS after successfully completing a fast-track promotional course aimed specifically to support female and ethnic minority officers within the ranks, chatted as Cyril entered.

  “Morning,” Cyril said in his normal positive and upbeat fashion. He received a similar response that was totally in concert. “Just hanging on for Owen, he’ll only be a moment.”

  As if on cue Owen entered carrying a small file. He let it fall onto the table before removing his jacket and loosening his tie. He glanced at Cyril who nodded and looked at his watch.

  “Left my brew, sir.” Owen looked optimistically in the hope Cyril would suggest he go and retrieve it but he was disappointed. He took a moment to organise himself and as he looked up, those chatting stopped.

  “Kevin James Carruthers, twenty-nine years old. Lived in Leyburn and had done for the past three years. His address and details are here.” Owen dealt out the sheets of paper as if passing out playing cards. He gave them a moment to peruse them. “As far as we know he wasn’t in a relationship and lived in a one bedroomed flat, new one too. Previous to that he had lived in rented accommodation.”

  “We have those details?”

  “Checking.”

  “Relatives and family?” April asked.

  “Checking. We do know he was a funeral director from a conversation I had with the owner of The Grey House and that’s been confirmed. Name and address there too.” Owen looked up waiting to take any questions.

  “Why stay over for the event, what is it… an hour’s drive between Leyburn and Harrogate?” Cyril asked, aware that the deceased had checked in to the bed and breakfast accommodation for the extended period of the event.

  “It might not seem far but the man didn’t have a driver’s licence and I think, more specifically, a lot of what goes on at these conventions takes place in the evening,” Owen explained.

  “An undertaker not being able to drive?”

  “He might be the one that walks at the front wearing the top hat,” Harry Nixon suggested not meaning to be funny but it made Owen giggle.

  April immediately looked up and frowned bringing back the focus. “Evening games? Extracurricular games in the true sense or is there a suspicion of something else?”

  Cyril liked April, he had done since she had joined the team. He thought Liz Graydon would be a hard act to follow but she had been more than a match for the challenges they had faced. She was quick to ask and even quicker to act. She had a keen sense of humour but she was also a consummate professional and knew just what lines could not be crossed. And now he had a fear that with the new promotion she would not be with him long. There was talk of a swift rise to the rank of Inspector and if that were to happen he could see a degree of resentment festering within other officers who did not meet the new diversification criteria.

  “From what I can tell they play late into the night and well after the event closes. They meet either in hotels or pubs. Many of the larger hotels have lounges and they continue there, even when having a meal some of the gamers don’t stop.”

  April spoke again. “We have CCTV footage of Carruthers leaving the Convention Centre with a group of three others, two men and a woman at about 20.15. They were then seen again on CCTV heading up Parliament Street and also at the Cenotaph. We can find nothing else after that but we’re still trawling.”

  “What’s your guess?” Cyril asked as he inspected his e-cigarette before tucking it back into the breast pocket of his jacket.

  “One of the hotels along Prospect Place? There are three.” April named them.

  “You’re checking?”

  “As we speak. We also know from the display boards…” she directed her hand to point to the list of names Owen had underlined but did not take her eyes off the group. “…it’s been alleged but not yet confirmed that he was seen standing in or around St Luke’s apartments by the couple whose names are underlined and who were staying at The Grey House. From questioning some attendees we know that people living in or close to Harrogate still participate in these games so it’s worth remembering that one of those with Carruthers that night might have an apartment there or close by.” She looked up anticipating Cyril’s next question. “As we speak, sir. So, we need to know his whereabouts between 20.15 and the approximate time of his death around midnight.” Owen was making notes accompanied by doodles as she spoke.

  “20.35 was the last known confirmed sighting but the unofficial and unconfirmed sighting leaves us with a one hour window. As the church is within five minutes’ walk of his accommodation we’re looking at a missing fifty-five minutes. How did he get from the area around the Cenotaph to St Luke’s without being seen on CCTV? And if my map reading is as good as I think it is, being seen there, at St Luke’s, means he was meeting someone or he’d have returned to his digs using a shorter and more convenient route.”

  “Brian, what about that couple… Frost and Bishop who coincidentally were sleeping in the next room to Carruthers?” Cyril asked as he inadvertently mimicked April and pointed to the two names underlined on the board. “You interviewed them and according to Owen, they were also gamers.”

  “Yes, very co-operative they were too. They’d been playing in the bar area of the Crowne Plaza with another couple. They left at about 22.30. The couple with whom they were playing were staying there. They walked back to The Grey House and it was then they believe they saw Carruthers.”

  “What made them notice him? Surely it was dark and the grounds of the building are higher than the road if I recall correctly?” April asked as she leaned closer.

  “According to Bishop it was the laugh. One of the two suddenly burst out laughing and it startled them; it had been quiet walking up King’s Road apart from the occasional car and they weren’t expecting it. Both Frost and Bishop turned to look in the direction of the laughter. They believe it was Carruthers once they’d seen the photograph of the deceased. They realised they’d seen him before on the two previous days, at breakfast and once at the convention so they knew him by sight. I presumed it must have been dark. There are trees and there is some raised garden between the pavement and the building but they said not; the face of the one looking towards the road was clearly visible.”

  There was a pause as a number of the officers made jottings on the paper Owen had passed to them.

  “Let me try to understand this. So from wherever they went at the top of Parliament Street, Carruthers found his way to a rendezvous by the apartments either alone or with one of those seen or someone else?” Cyril asked.

  “That’s what it seems like so far. We need to know where he went after the sighting,” April responded with a degree of impatience in her tone.

  Sensing her irritation Owen quickly moved on. “I take it you’ve all read the pathology report. We’ve added a number of photographs to the boards. The weapon used looks like a piece of glass. I’m told that by cutting glass in a certain way you can achieve an angled and extremely sharp edge. However, it’s so fine that it’s inevitable it will leave some traces, minute, almost invisible slivers as it cuts, and in this case, those were found embedded along three of the cuts. Our killer must’ve known that they’d be there and also that they’d be found. According to the forensic results more than one piece of glass was used. The hand amputation they believe was done using some type of secateurs.”

  “Do we know the origin of the glass… colour, type or age?” Shakti asked, her pencil sitting on her lower lip, the tip quite heavily chewed.

  Owen turned to Cyril.

  “What I’ve been able to ascertain from the experts, but more work has to be done, is that the glass is probably old and coloured. According to them it’s red, possibly antique as there are traces of gold salts that are used in the process of colouring glass, especially cranberry coloured glass. Each sliver is also from the same sheet as they consistently show the same refractive index according to the GRIM.” He paused watching a few frowns appear. “It’s kind of appropriate, I do like that acronym. That, as you know, stands for the Glass Refracted Index Measurement. The glass was carried in some protective sheath probably leather, to protect the carrier. There were no traceable contaminants, apart from gun oil residue.”

  The word gun made a number of officers look directly at Cyril.

  “Don’t get excited. I’m informed the wheels used for glass cutting are lubricated with a fine oil and even though, as I said, the glass had been cleaned, there was still a trace.”

  “The pruning clippers, anything there?” Brian continued to doodle as he asked the question.

  “Forensics are looking at traces of metal left on the bone fragments and that should show something in time but I’m assured they were new. There was also a wooden splinter found under the thumb of his left hand. Forensics thought that this had occurred fairly recently and that proved to be the case, two or three days max. It was pine, unpainted but there was evidence of plaster of Paris within the sample.”

  “New apartment, rubbing down some of the woodwork to add a bit of colour? You know how clinical new builds can be,” Harry suggested.

  “That’s also to be investigated. It’s all about when he received the injury.”

  “So, as we sit here, we have people looking through the records of those attending the event. They’re checking Carruthers’s friends, relatives and work colleagues. We’re then going to try to piece together his whereabouts not only whilst in Harrogate, but in the days, weeks and if necessary, the months leading up to his death. Your job is to keep abreast of what’s coming in and put the pieces together… that is, if the computers don’t do that before you. Anything else before Owen dashes to see if his brew is still drinkable?”

  “Phone records are in and those numbers who called and were called are being checked. Should have a list in forty-eight hours,” Shakti stated as she shuffled the papers in front of her. “I’ll add them to the system and the boards when they come in.”

  Cyril nodded. “Banking details, money, anything unusual about his accounts? Let’s look. Anything else?”

  “One other thing.” It was Owen’s turn to stop everyone from moving. “Harry and Shakti have been looking into the types of games played at the convention, particularly those that were borrowed using a Game Passport. April, if you’d liaise with them and see if there’s anything relevant, threatening… anything that might be worth following up. Is the lost hand significant apart from the obvious? I don’t want someone to tell me he had a bad hand or that he chucked in his hand.” Owen did not give them time to react. “Referencing all the players who used the same games might open up a lead to be pursued. Right now, that’s a proverbial needle in a haystack. 8.20. There’s work to be done.”

  Chapter Seven

  8.40 in the morning and the thought of a drive to Leyburn filled Cyril with dread as he searched his desk drawers for the packet of travel sickness tablets he knew were there somewhere. Call yourself a bloody detective and you can’t even find… He stopped as his hand rested on the familiar pack of tablets and he suddenly felt relieved. Motion sickness in boats, buses and cars had always plagued him especially as a child. Surprisingly, he found he could stomach flying, probably because of the exhilaration. He was fine too when he drove but with Owen at the wheel it was always a lottery.

  It had to be said that the route took them through some stunning scenery and he could see why Yorkshire was referred to as God’s own country. Crossing the River Ure at Masham, Cyril glanced to his right catching a glimpse of the Black Sheep Brewery. He dropped the window a fraction in the hope of smelling the rich aroma that often lingered in the air. Beer making from the two breweries situated in the centre of the small town often filled the atmosphere with a rich pungency that some people loved and others hated. Alas, today it evaded him. His phone rang.

  “Bennett.” He listened keeping his eyes on the twisting road ahead.

  “No relatives living close. Older brother, Richard, lives in Hornby.” DC Stuart Park tried to tell him its location and should have known better. “I know where it is, yes. Occupation?” Cyril glanced at Owen. “A what? Thanks.”

 

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