Killing Time, page 4
Another couple are sitting close together, and are laughing and joking. Carefree. They’re each wearing a wedding ring but I’m not sure they’re married to each other. Maybe I’m wrong on that. Who knows? They’ve looked at me a couple of times and at no stage will they have considered me as the perpetrator of the murder being detailed on the large muted TV screen on the wall behind them.
But they have smirked at the greasy looking dude sitting outside the main window smoking a cigarette. Perched on a small, slightly rusted chair with a matching table, minding his own business. Dirty looking, dishevelled, balding and wearing an unflattering grey mac. Classic nonce. Only he probably isn’t. He’s as likely to be a retired civil servant down on his luck as a corrupt seventies’ Scout leader who likes kids, but everybody thinks they know what a nonce looks like. Like they all look the same, wearing some kind of shiny badge. I’m not sure if murderers have a ‘look’ or carry themselves differently. Guess I’ll find out. But society doesn’t know what a paedophile looks like any more than a murderer or a terrorist.
So I’ll hide in plain sight while all this is going on, and continue to plunder.
Chapter 9
Notifying Alan Reynolds should have been an easy job. The next of kin. Standard procedure. Never nice but a crucial formality in the process.
The only child of William and Margaret Reynolds, forty nine years old and a lifelong bachelor, Alan Reynolds isn’t the average next of kin, if there is such a thing, and wouldn’t be the easiest person to break bad news to. Relatives are rarely predictable in these cases, and grief and reaction can manifest and expose itself in all forms. Outbursts. Emotion. Grief in its most raw and unfiltered state. Tears, usually; disbelief, confusion and denial all being the standard fare.
Occasional and immediate anger, violence and a desire for vengeance had all been seen and suffered by an experienced team who had all given their fair share of bad news in recent years. There were too many car accidents, drug overdoses and club deaths to keep count of, but the memory of each was etched permanently into their memory banks. The knock on the door of an unsuspecting parent, child or spouse, especially those in the middle of the night, coupled with “Can I come in, please?” and “Would you like to sit down?”, usually priming the bereaved relative of what was to come, as did the solemn and expressionless face.
It never gets easier.
A string of GBH & drug convictions for the deceased’s relative meant that DC Jennifer James and DC Jack Bowery had drawn the short straw for today’s task. Rob Rhone had the utmost respect for his two senior officers. He knew he had one of the best duo’s on the force, and was well aware of how capable they both are of looking after themselves, as well as each other.
He also knew that he wasn’t sending two unarmed female officers onto a shit-hole council estate to break bad news to a socially difficult and violent convict. Paradoxically in a modern and diverse world, and one of equality, that if Jack had his nose broken during an arrest, there would be a significant amount of paperwork for Rob to complete, which would detract heavily from his current workload. The level of piss-taking from the rest of the ranks would be equally sizable, with those lower down the pay scale never remotely sympathetic to a black eye or a kick in the balls to another officer, especially if it was caught on a body cam by one of the uniforms. First-hand evidence against the arrestee, and a great watch back in the station for everybody else.
The flip side to the gender balance only happens if the broken nose is found on the face of a female officer. Nobody laughs at that, and the shit-storm blows a whole lot stronger.
The second challenge to the morning mix was the address of the bereaved. Leicester’s St. Matthew’s estate sits on the outskirts of the inner city to the north east side, at the end of the busy Catherine Street. A grey council estate with classic 1970’s housing; pebbledash appearance and brutalist design, surrounded on one side by factories, industry and a variety of bustling shops. Fridges on the streets, fruit and veg sellers and European retailers mixed together in a cosmopolitan, if slightly downtrodden thoroughfare.
Drug dealers, street crime, muggings and violence are commonplace on these streets. Gangs roam, trading drugs, goods, revenge attacks and fear. Hard currency in this far from salubrious square mile.
The estate sits around a mile from the sleek glass wall that represents the retail hub of the city centre and the capitalist mecca of the Highcross. Just around the bend of the A594, where Burleys’ Flyover lifts you up and over, back towards the part of the city where the tourism board take their photographs. A world away from the life led by Alan Reynolds.
26 Taylor Road was set back from the main through road, just down from a woodyard, a scrapyard and an army recruitment barracks, and bang opposite the primary school. Rob had an issue living with the knowledge that people like Alan Reynolds lived near to schools. Petulant and unpredictable, violent and socially inept. As likely to kick off at nine in the morning as eleven at night, and equally likely to have had a drink at either end of the daily spectrum. Or worse. Something from one of the many teens peddling. Crack. Pills. Both.
Sarah’s Law was introduced following Sarah Payne’s senseless murder, and had helped a great deal of people, the police included. Society felt more comfortable knowing they could find out where the local paedophile lived, the local lynch mob especially, but for some reason living next door to someone with a conviction for glassing a fifty year-old woman just didn’t seem as important. Residents were seemingly less bothered about having a dangerous and violent neighbour, just as long as they’re considerate. As long as they keep the noise down.
Jack and Jen arrived at the house early in the morning. A hostile grey sky reflected the surroundings, and Jack took a good look around as he climbed from the car. His gaze was met by several locals who had probably already clocked them as Old Bill. Jack tucked his hands into his smart blue mac and walked towards the house with Jen a step behind him, her hair tied back, her appearance smart.
They looked like police.
A rousing knock on the door failed to be met with a response. Neither did a second rap along with a shout through the obscure glass of an old blue door. Jen was arching to get a view through a side window, where an old curtain and a tobacco-stained net blocked any decent view. Instinct told them their man was not at home.
Jen had spoken with a local team in the area on their way over. Given the apparent absence of the next of kin and his nature towards authority, a unit had arrived to both support and canvas. Jack saw PC Emma Sharpe climb out of a marked Vauxhall Astra, along with another uniformed officer who he didn’t recognise. A second marked vehicle had also arrived in the street, and was being parked across the road from Jen’s car.
All four officers stepped out and walked towards the house. The curtain twitching of the locals intensified.
Jack knew both officers from the second car; PC’s Keith Wainwright and Bernie Copp. He’d met them both as part of his induction at the station, and as they were experienced PC’s he had spent some time with them, as the station culture was significantly different to that in the capital. Bernie had been on the force for years. ‘Coppy the Copper’ was a gruff and slightly grumpy character, but had been through the ups and downs of both the force and the county, from the miners’ riots in 1980’s Coalville to football hooligans marching from the train station to Filbert Street, and latterly the King Power Stadium, during the violence-strewn football era of the early nineties. An unflappable persona, a well-respected character and one to be on shift with. Witty and dry, he’d grown up in Battersea with his parents, and, despite the years since, had held on to a ‘Cockney geezer’ front, having grown up in a pub, before fleeting careers as an auctioneer and the manager of a London nightclub. Always had a story, and great value they were too.
“So has he done it and fucked off, gov?” came the abrupt but characteristic question from Coppy. The question had occurred to a few of those assembled already.
The wider door knocking was underway, as Jen wanted to get a feel for where Alan Reynolds had been for the past few days, or whether he’d been noticeable in his absence. The initial grunts from local residents weren’t exactly pouring glory on Reynolds, and they wouldn’t be queuing up for character witness roles, should that need arise.
‘Unemployed, loud and abusive when about, but not seen for a couple of days’ was the broad gist from those who did bother to answer the door. Not considerate in the slightest.
“Do you think he’s nervous and legged it, Jen?” came the question from Jack. Some of the officers had made their minds up; Alan Reynolds already knows about the death of his father, and this wasn’t a notifying mission.
The look on Jen’s face told the doubters that she disagreed strongly. She’d started to walk away from the main body of the estate into a quieter side road with garages. Observing subconsciously, and with transient noise coming from the school, she spoke her mind, arguing the toss with herself as she went.
“Why, though? Why kill your own father?”She stood with her hands in her pockets, rocking on her heels before continuing.“Spouses regularly kill one another, it’s as statistically likely as it gets. Any murder with a spouse involved generally involves ruling the surviving spouse out before widening the net. But a widowed pensioner isn’t your average murder victim. And offsprings are much less likely to commit murder. Parricide is still rare in comparison.”
Jack opened his mouth to say something but was cut off.
“Inheritance? But inherit what? And there was no absolute certainty that if William Reynolds was one of those miserly pensioners who had half a million squirrelled away that he’d be leaving it to an outlaw offspring. More likely to leave it to Cat’s Protection or some other charity that pulled at his heartstrings, or those that still worked. So if he did kill his dad, why did he do it? And if it was him, don’t you think we’d have found a bludgeoned body?”
“But we did, boss,” came the fair challenge back from Jack, his brow furrowed.
“Yeah, but picture a foul-tempered and angry fifty year old losing his shit during an argument. Maybe he’s smashed. Maybe he’s high. And he’s emotional. How does he kill?”
Jack pondered.
“Pick something up and batter him about the head? Or take a knife, although that would most likely be a frenzied knife attack.”
Jen’s point was dawning on Jack as he spoke.
“Agreed,” stated Jen. “So we had the outline of a frenzied attack, but violence aside, we also found a body that had been made to suffer, and even with the brutality, it was measured. Calculated. Pre-empted. Alan Reynolds isn’t a calculating mind, he’s a capricious and social liability who’d struggle to speak to you in a coherent way. I think William Reynolds was killed by somebody he knew, or probably somebody he’d crossed, but I don’t think that person was his son.”
“So what do we do now?”
Jen rounded the team up and dispatched the uniformed officers. Too much visibility can also be a bad thing in a community. This wasn’t Toxteth, the morning excitement was over, and this wasn’t a drugs bust. Not today.
“We find him, Jack. He’s either so wasted that he’s disappeared and slept rough, or he’s gone off grid for a few days, but as far as I’m concerned, we still need to tell him his dad’s dead.”
Chapter 10
Rob received a call from Becky Ryan, and shouted out of the open door to Nicky, telling her to finish her coffee. Nicky looked up to see that Rob had already grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair, which was now spinning on its wheels. He walked briskly out of his office and into the main office, where whiteboards and investigative material were being set up and early evidence was being displayed.
The stereotypical boards were already adorned with scene photographs and a victim photograph as well as an image of Alan Reynolds, which had been pinned and taped close to his dad. Lines drawn with old marker pens showed early relationships and links, scrawled in red and blue. There was a double-ended arrow between the two staring images and a large question mark above Alan’s unflattering mug-shot.
“Where are you taking me, boss? Somewhere nice?”
“Yep, in one Nicky,” came the reply. “Somewhere cool, calm and quiet. You’ll love it!”
Nicky’s eyes rolled back in her head as the realisation landed.
“We’re going to the morgue, aren’t we, gaffer?”
“Two from two Nicky, means you win a prize…”
Rob was a man of routine, so Nicky now at least knew how the next few hours of the day would pan out.
The day was cold but dry. Crisp. That meant Nicky was in for a walk, and she was not a massive fan of walking. Strolling, fine; wandering on a weekend, even better. Her and her husband had become ‘parents’ to a couple of miniature dachshunds a year or so ago; Harry and Marv after the villains in Home Alone, so the office banter was that she loved a ‘short walk’, but a moderate walk was her comfort zone and she was her own pacemaker.
Rob, however, was more of a power walker, and would be the one setting the pace.
William Reynolds’ power-walking days were long gone. His current resting place was amongst the sterile surroundings of the hospital mortuary, within the bowels of the Leicester Royal Infirmary, just across town. It was close enough to the police station for most to consider walking it, before reaching for the car keys, but unfortunately for Nicky, Rob wasn’t ‘most’.
As a keen reader, she’d read Steve Jobs’ autobiography, and had learned that he spent as much time walking as he did in the office, and had appointed more people and made more business decisions whilst on the hoof than he had in the boardroom. The beauty of fresh air, the invigoration of the outside world; affording increased blood flow that the majority of the working population often forget, or just neglect to treat themselves to.
Conversations happen when you walk that might not happen in a car. This was simply too short a journey on four wheels for anything salient to happen, but the ability to toss ideas and thoughts between you as the world whistles past is healthy, if not always appreciated.
Nicky fully understood the theory and the notion, but by the time they’d crossed New Walk and headed down towards Mandela Park she was starting to overheat, her glasses were steaming up and she’d realised she had the wrong shoes on. All things that Rob gave absolutely no thought to, or had no empathy for.
“This is a revenge killing Nicky, it has to be. Cold-blooded revenge. This is thought out, premeditated. He wasn’t a random victim.”
Rob was stating rather than asking, always willing to test a theory to its limits, especially in Nicky’s valued and respected company. The aim being to try and break the theory in order to confirm or discredit the direction of the team. ‘Constant evolution’ was how he liked to coin it. The Japanese called it ‘kaizen’, or something like that. Rob was well into philosophy and theories, and loved to take new learning from anything and anywhere he could.
Nicky was less keen on philosophy. She just knew people were wankers and enjoyed catching criminals.
“It looks that way, just by the way in which he’d been treated,” offered Nicky. She continued. “He’s an old man with a quiet, withdrawn lifestyle, living in a boring retired street. There’s no obvious monetary gain and robbery was never truly on the table. In all reality this was an execution, but just one of macabre proportions. Almost King Henry VIII type level.”
Rob agreed. He had already started to look into execution as a modus operandi. Not a bullet to the head type execution, but an early delve into the city’s past had thrown up some interesting events.
He’d spent the morning reading up, digging for inspiration. He’d found the case of twenty-one year old James Cook, who had been tried, convicted and executed for murder in the city in 1832, before his body was tarred and transported to Saffron Lane, at the top end of Aylestone Road, where it was displayed in a gibbet for all to see for a number of days. Rotting away.
Rob had found a number of instances of corpses being displayed, and had also learned that there was to this day a gibbet post at Bilstone, a small village way out in the sticks. He quite fancied the idea of going to find it one weekend with a long walk either side of it and a pub lunch at the end.
Although nonjudicial, he felt there was a ritual element to William Reynold’s killing. The body had been left in a certain way in the chair, with the head slumped forward, restrained in death like an electric chair victim, the meaning lost, and something only privy to the killer. It was more ‘Guy Fawkes’ than ‘shot at dawn’, but the torture element was prominent, with the kill and subsequent death almost an anticlimax. A modern-day hung, drawn and quartered.
Rob had also looked fruitlessly at another link with the city. From the train station, the direct route to the city centre and the clock tower was along Gallowtree Gate, a name synonymous with execution, and public execution at that, and one he was surprised the council hadn’t changed. Surely the last thing a commuter wanted was to walk along Gallowtree Gate each morning. Rob was always miffed that it hadn’t been renamed something less provocative, and more – neutral. Progress Way had already been used, but something more modern would do. The spider’s web of roads to the city centre were all gates: Church Gate, Belgrave Gate, Gallowtree Gate.
William Reynolds’ corpse had been deliberately left; it had been presented to whoever found it, and presented to the police. Rob was not prepared to rule out an element that could link it to a judicial way of killing.
Chapter 11
