The Burning Man Page 4

Lynch wondered how long they had been there.

  Seeing that Lynch had clocked them, they climbed out of their hiding place and came over.

  In an excited voice, the taller of the two, a redheaded lad, said, ‘What’s going on, mister?’

  ‘Nothing, son. Just making sure the phone works,’ said Lynch, hoping the answer would satisfy the pair, and they’d leave.

  He was wrong. ‘British Telecom doesn’t put blue and white tape around like that to fix their phones, do they, mister?’ He said indignantly, while wiping his nose on the sleeve of his school blazer.

  ‘And they don’t wear white boiler suits like those men,’ said his curly-headed mate. ‘You’re the Old Bill? Ain’t ‘cha? I’ve seen them on the telly. They're looking for clues, ain’t they? Was someone murdered in there, mister?’ His eyes were wide with excitement.

  ‘No, son, there wasn’t. So now, I think it's best if you just run off home.’

  Lynch took out his warrant card and held it out for them to see. ‘I’m a detective. Now off you go and take your mate with you before I start asking questions, like why you aren’t you two in school?’

  ‘Wow,’ said the boy, looking up at Lynch in admiration. ‘A real detective.’

  ‘My dad doesn’t like the police; he reckons they’re not to be trusted,’ said the curly-headed boy.

  ‘Maybe he has a good reason not to.’ replied Lynch.

  The two decided not to push their luck any further and, taking the hint about the school, they turned and walked away. ‘See, I told you. Old Bill. I bet you any money you like, Tommy,’ he said to his mate, as they walked back across the road, ‘that someone was killed in there, and they're trying to keep it quiet.’

  Lynch called over to them. ‘And make sure you keep out of dumpsters.’

  Tim Bryant put away his mobile phone and walked over to where Lynch stood. He pulled back the hood of his protective suit then, using his fingers as a comb, smoothed down his thinning hair. He bent down to check his reflection in the car window, then straightened up.

  He watched as Lynch opened up the plastic container of pre-packed sandwiches that he’d picked up from the canteen on his way out. He took one out and offered the remaining one to Bryant. He shook his head. ‘No, thanks. I have a nice juicy steak waiting for me when I knock off later. Don’t want to spoil my appetite.’ He inclined his head toward the phone box. ‘There’s plenty of prints on the receiver, but they’re just too badly smudged to use. Same with the door. There’s nothing we can use. We did, however, find a few cigarette butts in there.’

  A few drops of rain started to fall on the roof of the car. Both men turned their attention skyward and looked up at the darkening heavens.

  ‘Looks like we’ve got about ten minutes before that lot hits us?’ said Bryant as he watched the black clouds rolling in from the distant hills. ‘Thank god for quick setting plaster,’ he said, as he looked back over his shoulder to where one of his technicians was crouching down by the side of the phone box.

  ‘I’ve just got off the phone to your boss. I’ll tell you what I told him. We followed those bike tracks that were found at the farm. They led us up to the tree line. It was quite evident, by all the amount of trampled vegetation, that someone had been standing up there for some time. While he waited, he smoked a cigarette. It was ground into the dirt. We will be able to get a DNA sample from it! We found a whiskey bottle not far from where he was standing. If it is his, there might be prints and DNA.’

  Lynch took a mouthful of sandwich. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

  Bryant looked towards the heavens. ‘We do know definitely that your man was here because the phone call was made from here. We have imprints from the tread of the tire we found outside the wall at the farm. We made a casting of it. We’ve also got a small amount of oil from where the bike was parked up against the wall. That same bike stood over there by the phone box, where young Stanley is lifting out a casting made by the same tire. We walked the path all the way up through the woods to the other side and out onto the road. When we get all this back to the lab, we’ll be able to get the make of the tire and maybe, just maybe, with a little of luck, find out what make of bike they came from.’ He paused as if trying to remember something. ‘One other thing. It may have no connection to our biker, but we found a used syringe lying near the box in the grass. Could just have been some junkie shooting up there.’

  ‘Okay,’ Lynch said, pushing his hands deep into the pockets of his trouser and leaning back against the car.

  At that moment the heavens opened, and heavy rain started falling. Lynch yelled his thanks as Tim Bryant raced back to the shelter of his Transit van. Lynch opened the door of his car and quickly got in. He sat for a while, watching the rain run down the windscreen and munched on his cheese and pickle sandwich. When he’d finished, he tossed the empty packet over onto the back seat, started the engine and drove off. As he made his way through the wet afternoon traffic back to Kent Street, he tried to put things into perspective, but the more Lynch thought about it, the more confused he got. He kept asking himself — why go to all the trouble to set fire to the barn with the man inside it and then go and call the fire brigade? It made absolutely no sense; no sense whatsoever.

  ****

  Jill Richardson leaned closer to the monitor, trying to get a better view of the image on the screen. It was the third time she had played the CCTV footage from Singh’s shop in the space of ten minutes. The first and second time, Richardson had missed it. Both times she was concentrating on the face, not his hands. She paused the recording. It was the back of his left one that caught her attention. There was definitely something there, but she couldn’t quite work out what it was.

  ‘Take a look. I’m bloody sure it’s a tattoo. But what exactly it is, I’ve no idea. I can’t seem to make it out, Luke. What do you make of it?’ she said, pointing at the screen.

  He leaned in to get a better look. ‘I think that could be the letter M, I think, and that one there,’ he tapped the screen with the point of his pen, ‘is a letter A. Move it frame by frame. See if he moves his hand. We might get to see it from another angle.’

  ‘There are three more letters there,’ she said, ‘but I can’t quite make them out. They're just too small to see.’

  He looked at his watch. ‘Why don’t I run it over to the lab and see if they can enhance it?’

  ‘Yes. Okay. You do that. I’ll stay here and make a few calls. I’m going to phone around the party hire places.’

  ‘Oh. You’re going to a costume party, are you? What are you thinking of going as?’ Hollingsworth enquired.

  ‘I’m not going like anything.’

  ‘Ah, one of those types of parties, is it?’ he said, raising his eyebrows.

  ‘You know your trouble, Luke? You’ve got a one-track mind. No, it’s not a party. I’m wondering maybe if Superman is stupid enough to go out and hire himself a costume?’

  ‘Ah, yes, I see. Okay, well, how about meeting up in the Black Bear later for a drink?’ he said.

  ‘Sounds good. About five thirty?’

  Hollingsworth hit the stop button on the remote, removed the disc from the CD player, popped it back in its sleeve, went over to his desk, took out a half bar of chocolate from one of the drawers and headed down the stairs and out of the building.

  ****

  It was shortly after five when he walked in through the door of the Black Bear. He unbuttoned his raincoat, then stood for a few moments, loosening his tie and undoing his collar. He stared around the lounge bar, looking for Richardson. The place was noisy with conversations and raucous laughter. Most of the bar stools and tables were full.

  With its flames reflecting on the shiny surface of the hardwood floor, the old open fireplace, that occupied part of one wall, was burning brightly and pushing its warmth out into the room.

  Through a gap in the crowd, he spotted her sitting in the corner booth with Marcia Kirby. Seeing him, she raised her hand. He waved back
, then elbowed his way through a group of people and made his way over to the bar.

  George Sutton, the landlord, came up from the other end of the bar to serve him. Sutton, a retired police sergeant, was an excellent source of information and picked up many significant titbits. He always had his ear to the ground.

  The Black Bear was, for a long time, used by stagecoaches travelling between London, Dover, and Folkestone. Here, they would stop to change horses, and if need be, weary travellers were able to get food, drink, and a warm bed for the night. It would give passengers time to refresh and prepare themselves for the next stage of their journey.

  ‘What’ll it be, Luke — the usual?’ asked Sutton as he approached.

  ‘Please, George, and a packet of salt and vinegar crisps and whatever the other two are having.’ Hollingsworth laid a ten-pound note on the bar and looked around at the faces of the other drinkers. He weighed them up. Shop girls and office types.

  Two men he recognised. They were sitting at a table by the window. They were barristers, both from the same local law firm. He had come up against them both in court, one acting for the prosecution and the other, defence. Their names, for the moment, escaped him. He had his suspicions about their sexual tendencies the moment he met them. Looking at their general behaviour and the way they were looking at one another across the table, he knew he was right. He turned back to the bar.

  Sutton pulled a pint of Stella, put it on the tray with the other two drinks and picked up the money. He returned and handed him the change.

  Hollingsworth took a sip from his glass. ‘Did you hear about the robbery on Cobblers Lane today, George?’

  ‘Yes. Overheard two of my customers talking about it in here at lunchtime. Anyone hurt?’ he enquired, mopping the bar top with a tea towel.

  He checked to see there were no drinkers close by, leaned closer and said quietly, ‘No. Just scared the shit out of the poor guy. Told him he had a shotgun in a bag and told him to hand over the money from the till.’

  ‘Bloody hell. A shotgun, you say. So, you got someone running around with a shooter. Not a good thing, Luke. I don’t know any local villains around here that would go armed. Could be outsiders. I did hear them say he was dressed as a clown.’

  He took another sip of beer before answering. ‘Superman actually, George. He was dressed up as Superman.’ Without elaborating on it, he said. ‘Anyway, turned out, in the end, it wasn’t a shooter after all.’

  ‘What did he get away with?’

  ‘About two hundred and fifty quid. The gun was just a bluff.’

  Sutton nodded, then said. ‘Oh well. If I hear of anything, Luke, I’ll let you know.’

  Hollingsworth picked up the tray. ‘Cheers, George.’ He turned and pushed his way through the throng of drinkers, over to the booth.

  Jill Richardson slid further along the padded bench seat, allowing him space to sit. He put down the tray.

  ‘Sarge, Jill.’ He sat down, picked up his beer and took a mouthful. From his inside pocket, he took out an envelope and slid it across to Jill Richardson.

  He swallowed another mouthful of beer. Then, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand said, ‘It’s Mavis. The tattoo on the back of his hand says, Mavis. They managed to enhance it. Took some doing, mind you, but they did it.’ He looked over to Kirby. ‘Our super bandit from this morning had a tattoo on the back of his hand. We couldn’t make out what it said, so we got the lab to take a look.’ He opened up the packet of crisps and offered them around. Kirby dipped her hand in and took out a few.

  Richardson opened the envelope and took out the photo. She examined it for a moment, then passed it over to Kirby.

  ‘So, is Mavis the name of Superman’s mum, wife or girlfriend?’ Kirby said.

  Hollingsworth smiled, popped some crisps in his mouth, and said. ‘Can’t be his girlfriend.’

  ‘And why’s that?’ she enquired.

  ‘It’s because Superman’s girlfriend is called Lois. Lois Lane, not Mavis.’

  ‘Well, that narrows the field down a bit,’ said Richardson, ignoring his quip. ‘So,’ she said, looking thoughtfully at him, ‘the first thing we do tomorrow is to put this through the system and see if any of our villains have this Mavis tattoo.’

  ‘I’ll check out those High Street surveillance cameras first thing in the morning as well. I might canvas a few pedestrians. I’ll do it about the same time the robbery took place. See if any of them regularly walk past the alley at the time. Maybe someone will remember the pink shoes.’

  ‘Tomorrow is another day, Luke, so for the present,’ said Kirby, ‘I think it’s only right and proper that you get us ladies some more drinks.’ She pushed the two empty glasses towards him. ‘Two more gin and tonics please, Luke.’

  Chapter 7

  Tuesday 8:30 a.m.

  Hollingsworth walked quickly across the rain-swept, car park to the side door. He held his security card up to the scanner. The door clicked open, allowing him entry into the “Custody Suite”. Tom Crane, the duty sergeant, called out to him from behind the glass security window as he walked past.

  ‘Luke, I’ve got some messages for you. Got a few calls about your caped crusader after it went out on last night’s six o’clock news.’ Crane came over to the window and slid the forms across the counter to him. ‘You look a bit wet, me old son,’ he said. ‘Is it raining?’

  ‘It’s Kingsport, sarge,’ he replied. ‘When does it ever not? I’ve just spent the last bloody hour trolling up and down the High Street in the pissing rain, stopping and asking people if they’ve seen Superman. Well, not actually using those words.’

  Crane pointed at the message forms. ‘Maybe they’ll help. They’ve been told you’d call them back. Some people noticed the pink sneakers he was wearing. Seems that’s all they did notice. As for the rest of his descriptions, they vary from him being tall, short and fat to skinny. One old lady reckons he got on the bus with her and was sitting next to her all the way to Gillingham. I think you can rule that one out. There ain’t no buses that go from here to Gillingham on Monday or, come to that, any other day of the bleeding week.’

  Hollingsworth leafed through the message forms, sorting out the apparent time wasters and crank calls. He put those on the bottom of the pile. In the end, he was left with only three actual sightings. All of them fitted. They all described a man wearing this same black plastic raincoat and wearing pink sneakers. Even the timings were right.

  ‘Great, thanks, sarge.’

  He walked over and, going through the second security door, entered the ground floor level that led to the cells. In the other direction were the interview suites, locker rooms, and canteen. He walked past the stairs that led up to the CID office and continued on along the corridor towards the cafeteria. He walked past the two interview rooms, then pushed through the door marked “Locker Room”.

  As he took off his wet topcoat and hung it up in his locker, his stomach protested, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since last night.

  The room was warm. The coat would soon dry. He sat down on the bench next to the showers and spent a few more minutes re-reading the sighting reports. Satisfied, he headed back out of the locker room. Outside, he hesitated for a brief moment, then strode off along the corridor towards the canteen. In that brief moment, and because he’d missed breakfast, he managed to convince himself that his early morning sojourn of the High Street, fruitless as it was, had well and truly earned his bacon butties.

  ****

  Twenty minutes later he was walking towards his desk. He looked across the room. It was unusually quiet. No phones ringing. He saw DCI Carter in his office, talking to Marcia Kirby. DI Ted Baxter’s office was empty. He sat down at his desk and munched away on his sandwich.

  Jill Richardson swivelled her chair to face him. She waited for him to finish his mouthful before saying, ‘How did you get on, Luke? Any luck on the streets?’

  He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his mouth. ‘Nothing,’
he said frustratingly. ‘Sod all on the street. The security cameras are stuffed. They’ve been out of action for the past week. I ask you. What is the use of having frigging security cameras if half the time they don’t always work?’ He looked at the message forms. ‘These look pretty promising though. Came through to Crime Stoppers last night.’ He passed them over to her. ‘I’ll give these a ring and see what they have to say; find out just where they saw him. What about you?’ he enquired. ‘The tattoo — find anything?’

  She pushed away a strand of loose hair that had fallen over her forehead, then, placing her hands in her lap, said, ‘We have three villains who have Mavis tattooed on them. Two of them have got it on their arms, and the other one on his dick. Dick man is serving time for drug offences in Exeter. He’ll be out next year. The other has lost his marbles and is in the private dementia ward in Sevenoaks. Been there for some time. And the other has his on his right arm, not the left hand.’ She raised both hands in the air. ‘So that’s it. Dead end. Only tattoos and distinguishing marks get recorded. He might not have a record. Oh, and by the way. I did check the costume hire places, and they say they haven’t hired out any Superman costumes.’

  He took back the reports. ‘Ok. I’ll get cracking on these.’

  ****

  ‘I’ve just had a call from DCI Carver over at Organised Crime,’ said Kirby, as she walked into Carter’s office. ‘He told me they have no knowledge of Eades. He’s unknown to them. Never come to their attention. He said he’d be taking a closer look at his operation.’

  ‘Strange. Maybe Eades just slipped under the radar? Time will tell. Okay, Marcia, thanks. Is there anything else?’

  ‘No, that’s all.’ She turned and headed to the open door.

  Over in the corner by the window, Dave Lynch put down the phone and called to her as she came out. She came over. ‘Sarge, I’ve been going through this list from Chalk Lane Manor Farm — their clients; the ones they supply timber to. Just got off the phone with the manager of Porter Kitchen Tops. The ones that advertise on the telly. Anyway, he puts me onto his driver. He’s the one that picks up their timber from the farm. Goes down every couple of months. Well, it turns out that Richard Eades had this feller by the name of… he paused, then picked up his notes… Ajmal Hakim. He was working for him part-time. According to this driver, he thought he was possibly Middle Eastern. He said that Ajmal worked there at least three days a week.’