Читать книгу No One Is Sacrosanct - David Balaam - Страница 10

2010

The house at the end of the street. That’s what the locals call it. A small Dutch style house built in the 1930s with dark red roof tiles and pebbledash walls which once were painted bright white, but now resemble dirty grey. Dull cream curtains covered the windows. The only obvious recent change to the property was a new white security door with a frosted glass panel. Four empty milk bottles stood to the right of the entrance waiting to be replaced, much like the property itself. This side of Kenton, north of Newcastle, had seen better days. Most of the old Council terrace houses occupying the same side of the street as the Dutch house had been rebuilt as affordable housing, leaving the red roof eyesore alone and vulnerable. Its occupant, however, was not a recluse, or someone the local children ran away from whenever the curtains moved. Gary Wheeler was a local entertainer. He had had many jobs over the years but was at his best dressing up as a clown and making children laugh.

DCI Dallimore and his team, DS Flynn and DC Jarrett, were given the all-clear by forensics and entered the dimly lit premises. “Two downstairs front rooms, one either side of the hall, kitchen at the end of the hall running the width of the property. Backdoor to the garden and garage. One upstairs bedroom and bathroom, sir.” DS Flynn’s orientation of the property was useful. “Thanks, Mike. Where is the body?”

“In the bedroom, sir.” Dallimore and Flynn ascended the stairs, turning right into the bedroom. Usually, the first object to get their attention would be the body, but both men looked around the room in amazement. Dozens of clown costumes lined the picture rail, and bright lights shone from the artist’s make-up mirror on the dressing table. Wheeler’s body was lying face up, naked, on the candlewick eiderdown. The expression on his face was one of agony – fear maybe. His mouth open, as if he was about to say something, and his arms were spread out crucifixion style. This could have been a case of accidental overdose, heart-attack or suicide. All plausible, except for one glaring detail. He was missing his genitalia. “It can’t be.” DS Flynn’s voice was hardly audible. “Not after all these years. It's not possible.”

Dallimore stared in disbelief as well. He had read some of the old reports and seen crime scene photographs, but witnessing this scene had left him stunned. “Let's not jump to conclusions, Mike. I need to speak to the pathologist, and Mike, we keep a lid on this, a tight lid.”

By four in the afternoon, Dallimore was at the path-lab wanting answers. “I know what you have come for DCI Dallimore.”

“No pleasantries then, McCabe.” Dallimore had known Donald McCabe for only a short time since his transfer to Newcastle, and he liked the man; partly because he reminded him of his father, and he was good at his job, which meant he took twice as long over a post-mortem than any of his colleagues.

Martin Dallimore stood opposite McCabe at the examination table. “I know what you are thinking Martin, but the M.O. is all wrong. I examined three of Christine Ling’s victims, and there is only one similarity, the missing penis, or two if you include the Taser marks on his neck.”

“So, what have you got that’s new?” Dallimore asked, eager to find out how this man died.

McCabe peered over his glasses, hoping this was not the beginning of a new wave of terror. “He was not hung or strangled.” He said, pushing his glasses further up his nose.

Dallimore looked up from the corpse. “And . . . what was the cause of death then?”

“No idea.”

“Donald, stop playing games. You must have some idea.”

“No games, Martin.” He said soberly. “I don’t know the actual cause of death. It does look as if rigour was advanced before the penis was removed, so there was no loss of blood. Ring any bells?”

“I know what you are thinking Donald, but Hartmann is dead. No one knew his M.O., save for the investigating team. Can you estimate a timeline from the time of death to the time of the removal.”

“Yes. He died at approximately 2.30am yesterday and as I said rigour was advanced so the amputation was around thirty minutes later.”

“What! How is that possible without loss of blood? Some clotting agent perhaps?”

“I’m working on that and have sent samples to the lab. I will have more for you later, and,” McCabe said looking over the top of his glasses. “Looks like you have a new psycho on the block, young man.”

***

The briefing room was unusually quiet. Word had got out, but only between the team. Dallimore would not tolerate any leaks. As well as DS Flynn and DS Norris, his two DC’s were there; Jarrett and O’Leary, but more importantly, Chief Superintendent Piper was in on the meeting to make an important announcement.

“Sir, would you like to open . . .”

“No, Martin. Carry on.”

DCI Dallimore stood in front of the white crime scene board. Just one photo was currently pinned to it. A naked Gary Wheeler.

“At approximately 9.30am this morning the local station received a call from a council worker, Mr Nigel Bayne, to say he could not raise his friend Gary Wheeler. He was supposed to have met Wheeler the previous afternoon at a children's show in the leisure centre but Wheeler never turned up.”

Dallimore paused to ensure he had everyone's attention. “The station sent a local bobby round to check it out. The officer was persuaded to open the door by a now very distressed Nigel Bayne. Unfortunately, it was Bayne who discovered the body. He apparently left the house running, and we still don’t know where he is.” Dallimore wrote Nigel Bayne next to the photograph.

Dallimore nodded to DS Flynn, who stood up to address the meeting. “Wheeler has a file. He was questioned in 1996 and again in 2001 for suspected child molesting, but on each occasion, there was not enough evidence to take further action. In 2003 he was arrested on suspicion of having sex with a minor, but again the charges were dropped. It is also worth mentioning that he was a regular entertainer at the children's home, Church House, run by the church trust between 1985 and its closure in 1996.”

“Thanks, Mike.” Dallimore continued. “I don’t think that is a coincidence. Harry Wentworth, allegedly killed by Marcus Hartmann, and Peter Dunfold also had connections to the children's home.”

“Do you think it's worth visiting Dunfold in prison?” Chief Superintendent Piper suggested. “See if he is any more helpful after ten years in jail.”

“Yes, sir, it was something I was planning,” Dallimore said, irritated by the suggestion. “Before we start looking in the wrong direction, I want you all to familiarise yourself with the Marcus Harmann investigation in the 1990s, led by DCI Christine Ling. DS Flynn will help with any questions as he was her DS as well.” Mike Flynn nodded in agreement.

“Our priority now is to find Nigel Bayne. I want house-to-house in Beddington Gardens and the surrounding area, and a watch kept on Bayne’s house. I want to know why he has done a runner. OK, let's get on with it.”

“Before you all go I have an announcement, which DCI Dallimore seems to have forgotten,” Piper said, standing in front of the assembly. “We now have an opening for a DI, so, let's see the applications soon.” Dallimore shot a look at Flynn who was staring blankly at the ops board behind him. Dallimore could almost read his mind.

***

The Members Smoking Room at the House of Commons was quiet for early evening, just the way the two gentlemen sitting in one corner on button-backed Chesterfields liked it. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Cursley?” the elder, distinguished-looking man asked.

Jamie Cursley was nervous and kept looking around. “Relax for goodness sake,” the first man said with empathy. “Tell me what you came here for.”

Cursley relaxed just a little, but not much. “There has been a murder back home. Gary Wheeler. It seems he was killed in the same manner as Wentworth and the others all those years ago . . . you know, with missing parts.” He said nervously, looking around to see if they were still alone.

“But how can that be? I thought Hartstein was dead, or too old by now. I assume the book has not surfaced?”

“Is that all you can say? Did you hear what I said?”

The other man raised a hand, and his guest stopped mid-sentence.

“No, and I am sure no one knows where it is. Jarvis’s wife let our man search his home office but found nothing. If anyone deciphers any more of that book, I don’t have to tell you what the fall-out will be, M.P. or not.”

“I agree. It was fortunate Jarvis was aware of the problem before his untimely death. I miss him dearly. He had such a wonderful wine cellar.” He said, sipping a rare Armagnac. Then in a softer but deliberate tone continued. “I want the book destroyed when it is found. Dunfold was careless to write it in the first place . . . unless it was for insurance.”

“That doesn't make sense. He would have used it at his trial if that was the case. He didn’t say a word about The Network.”

“Nevertheless . . . Dunfold still has a memory, doesn't he?” The M.P. said, staring at his guest. “It would be most unfortunate if he had a sudden reoccurrence of Faith.”