No Place to Hide

Much as he knew that the police shrink at Middlemoor was going to try to find one, he was aware there was no easy answer.

He shook his head.

Two cars up, on the far side, its nose pointing downhill, he could see Jane’s little green Vauxhall. Pete climbed out of his car and pressed the remote as he crossed the road towards Jane’s Corsa. The remote locking system clunked behind him.

Dave had called him at home last night, interrupting a discussion of exactly how they could let Tommy know that it was safe for him to come home, to say that he’d found out where Petrosyan was currently living.

The address he’d got was a few doors along from the next junction up the hill.

Jane’s window buzzed down as Pete approached. ‘Morning, boss.’

‘Any sign of Dave?’

Further down the hill, a car turned a corner towards them, headlights bright and dazzling in the crisp, frosty morning.

‘Not yet. Maybe this is him.’

Pete went around the little car and climbed into the passenger seat. Jane left the window down as the other car approached slowly up the hill, eventually resolving into a silver Ford Mondeo just like the one Pete was driving. As it drew level with them, its window slid down and it stopped.

‘Morning all,’ Dave said brightly from the passenger seat, beyond Dick Feeney. ‘What’s the plan then? No dark alleys round here, are there?’

‘If there are, they’re all yours,’ Pete told him. ‘Meantime, you two take the next street across. Park where you can, facing downhill like Jane has. I’ll go up onto his street and keep an eye on his doorway. When he comes out, I’ll let you know, then we’ll leapfrog him with the three cars so that one of us has got him in sight all the time. If he’s as paranoid as they reckon, that should save him spotting us until he gets where he’s going and we can take him there.’

‘Sounds like a plan.’

‘Right, let’s get into position.’

Pete climbed out of Jane’s car and crossed back to his own while Dick drove on up the street, turning right at the junction. As they went from sight, he started his engine and followed them up the hill. Their target lived three doors along to the right. Pete turned left, found a space a few cars along and backed into it, lining his side-mirror up along the pavement. Then he switched off the engine and settled in to wait.

With two of the car’s side-windows wound slightly down to avoid misting up, it did not take long for the inside of the car to get as bitterly cold as the outside. Pete was glad of the heavy police-issue coat he was wearing. His hands were clad in thick gloves, but still the cold seeped into him as he sat there, waiting for Petrosyan to emerge, not even certain that he would.

He remembered Annie, the previous morning, running from the car to meet her friends, bundled up in a thick coat, black gloves and a black wool hat with a pale, furry bobble on top, winter tights under a skirt that, even at ten years old, she was starting to wear too damn short for his liking. But at least she was warm.

He grunted. At this moment, she’d still be tucked up in bed, fast asleep.

What about her brother?

Where was he, and what was he doing? What was he wearing on this icy morning? Was he indoors somewhere? God, I hope so, Pete thought. The idea of him hunched, shivering, in some freezing corner of the city, probably with no winter coat, never mind a hat or gloves or enough to eat, no shelter except perhaps from the rain – And thank God it’s not doing that – made his stomach twist and his teeth clamp together in anguish.

Wherever the boy was, Pete hoped he was at least warm enough. Cold like this could kill a person, especially if they were undernourished and vulnerable. He sucked air in through a throat clogged by emotion.

He shook his head, refusing to allow the thought to go any further. Come on, Pete. Focus. But there was still no activity to be seen in his side-mirror. The street was quiet and still.

He caught a flicker of movement, but it was just a dark cat jumping up onto the wall of the house beyond where the Armenian – if he even was one – was living. As he watched, it jumped down onto the footpath and disappeared under a car. Pete was briefly tempted to switch his gaze to the other mirror, to see it emerge on the road, but resisted. He had to stay alert. This whole operation depended on his spotting Petrosyan as soon as he came out.

He waited a while longer, then checked his watch again. Almost seven. He shivered. Maybe he should start the car and close the windows, just for five minutes, warm himself up a bit . . .

It was incredibly tempting. But, if Petrosyan came out, heard the engine running and saw no one . . . People around here wouldn’t leave a car running unattended to defrost the windscreen. It was dodgy enough where Pete lived but here, on the rougher side of the river . . . No way.

He rubbed his gloved hands together briskly and wriggled his shoulders inside his coat.

Movement.

He stared at the side-mirror. A door swung open. A man stepped out, breath pluming, closed the door behind him and headed for the pavement. Stocky and bald, his head gleaming under the street lights. His distinctive, thick leather jacket matched the description Dave had provided to a T.

Petrosyan.

He lifted his radio. ‘Heads up, people. Engines off. Our man’s on the move.’

The target started towards him along the narrow pavement.

‘Coming this way,’ Pete said quietly into the radio. ‘Jane, be alert. Dave, come on round. Gently does it. No rush.’ He paused, waiting. Watching from low in the seat, hidden by the headrest.

Petrosyan turned at the junction.

‘Jane, target approaching you.’

‘Got him, boss.’

‘Dave, you’re up.’

‘Roger that.’

The man in the leather jacket had now gone from Pete’s view. He knew that Jane would have eyes on him until he turned another corner or, if not, for a good two hundred yards, so there was no rush for Dave to take up the pursuit.

Behind him, headlights showed, coming up around the junction beyond the target house as Dick Feeney drove slowly up into view.

‘Steady, Dick. Jane’s got him for a minute or two unless she says different.’

‘He’s in sight,’ she confirmed. Then, ‘Hang on. He’s gone behind a van.’ A pause. ‘There. He’s crossing over. Continuing down the street.’

They waited.

Then the radio hissed again. ‘He’s turned. Right, right, right. Gone from view.’

‘OK, Dick. Drive straight down the hill. Try and spot him on the way past the road he’s turned into, but don’t slow down. I’ll go down the next one along and come in from the far end so he can’t suspect anything.’

‘Affirmative.’

Pete saw the headlights of Feeney’s car moving towards him in his mirror as he switched on the ignition. ‘Which cross-street, Jane?’

‘Third one down from here. That’s the third one.’

‘Roger that.’ He pulled out as Dick turned down towards Jane’s position, heading further along the road to take the next left. He was approaching the second cross-street down the hill when the radio crackled again.

‘Target sighted,’ said Dave. ‘Right side of the street, still walking.’

Pete relaxed slightly. As he’d suspected, the Armenian was heading for the small group of shops along there. A newsagent’s cum post office, a fish and chip shop and a small independent pet shop were set back slightly from the 1950s houses to either side so that three or four cars could park in front of them.

‘OK, Dick,’ he said into the radio. ‘Turn around where you can. He’ll be going to the newsagent’s. Jane, you can come on down, too.’

He made the turn and spotted Petrosyan walking towards him, about a hundred and fifty yards away. Like the other streets around here, the houses had no drives or garages. It was parallel parking on the street, wherever you could find a space. Pete spotted one and stopped to reverse into it. Ahead of him, Petrosyan turned into the newsagent’s, as expected. Pete keyed the radio mike again. ‘Heads up. He’s in the shop. Move in, move in.’

He finished parking and switched off the engine as two cars turned into the junction ahead of him, one from the left, one from the right. Taking the radio with him, he stepped out of the car.

‘Jane, leave your car back a bit. Dick, come in and stop outside the shops,’ he ordered, then tucked the radio into his pocket as he headed in on foot. He was just turning into the narrow forecourt of the shops when the door of the newsagent’s opened, bell tinkling, and the Armenian stepped out, a newspaper folded under his arm, hands deep in the pockets of his leather jacket.

‘Morning,’ Pete said with a nod.

Petrosyan glanced at him. His small eyes narrowed.

A car pulled up to Pete’s right. ‘Good thing I bumped into you, Gagik,’ he said. ‘I need a word.’

Petrosyan’s frown turned instantly to a snarl. ‘You’re a cop.’

Pete held his calm expression. ‘I am, but you’re not under arrest.’ He heard the door of the car to his right open and close. Jane’s footsteps were echoing along the pavement behind Petrosyan. ‘Somebody in Exeter is going around killing people. His latest victim, he used what I’m told is very likely your product in the process, so you might be able to help me identify him.’

‘Why should I help you?’

‘I’ve got two officers to your right and another one behind you.’

Despite himself, Petrosyan glanced over his shoulder.

‘If we wanted you in custody, you would be by now,’ Pete went on. ‘We just need to talk. The guy we’re after is busy reducing your alleged customer base as we speak, so it would be good for business for you to help us.’

‘What business?’

‘We know exactly what business you’re in, Gagik. But, like I said, we don’t care. Not this morning. All we need is to find out who’s been buying suxamethonium recently.’

Petrosyan stepped in close to Pete. Although he was a good five inches shorter, his bulk and his attitude were enough to intimidate most people and he relied on them now as he tried to stare Pete out. ‘Why would I tell you, even if I knew? What would it do to my reputation if I did that?’

‘Depends if anyone knew about it, doesn’t it?’ Pete said, unfazed. ‘The way I see it, we’ve got two choices here. You talk to me or I put out an appeal to the public for information on whoever might have supplied our man with the sux he used on his latest victim. What do you think he’s going to do then, eh? If I were him, I’d be coming after the supplier straight away. One, to shut him up and, two, because he fits the profile of the victims we’re looking at. So, two for the price of one.’

Petrosyan’s thick lip curled. ‘You think I’m scared of some college punk? I could have him for dinner and spit out the bones.’

‘Oh, I doubt you’re scared much of anybody, Gagik. But, looking at his previous victims, I think maybe you should be. He’s clever as well as vicious. The last one, he burned alive. That’s what the sux was for. To keep him conscious while he burned.’

The sneer had died on Petrosyan’s face. Now it twitched in what could have been disgust. ‘I don’t know who this guy is that you’re talking about.’

‘But you know he’s a college punk.’

‘Aren’t they all?’

Pete shook his head slowly. ‘Not serial killers like this one.’

Petrosyan grunted.

‘So, what do you know, if not his name?’

‘What, you think I’m some sort of street dealer? I don’t know him. I never seen him.’

‘But you know who does know him, who has seen him.’

‘You want me to give you a dealer?’

‘We both know they’re ten a penny. You’d just replace him with another. Allegedly.’

‘I am not the man you think I am,’ Petrosyan said stubbornly.

‘OK. I’ll just go back to the station and get onto that press release then. Let our killer help us clean up the streets a bit more before we take him off them. Have a good day, Mr Petrosyan.’ He saw the doubt flash in the Armenian’s eyes as he nodded to the others to back off, let him go. But Petrosyan had face to save. Scowling, he walked doggedly away.

Pete and his crew came together on the narrow forecourt behind the retreating figure.

‘He knows,’ Dave said.

‘Of course he does,’ Pete agreed. ‘But he can’t be seen to back down to us, can he? His reputation could get ruined. And then his hold on his organisation would be gone.’

‘You reckon we’ll hear from him, though?’ asked Jane.

‘One way or another. Might be worth getting a tap on his phone, though.’

‘With the protection he’s got?’ Dave snorted. ‘Fat chance.’

‘So, we’re just going to leave him out here as bait?’ asked Dick.

‘Why? You feeling sorry for him?’ Dave countered.

‘No, but it does seem a bit . . .’

The low sun flashed on Jane’s ginger hair as she swept it back with one hand. ‘Harsh? Unethical? What do you think about what he does for a living, then? Pushing poison to our kids.’

‘I know, but . . . They have a choice, whether to get into it or not.’

‘So did he. And he had a choice of whether to talk to us or not,’ Pete said firmly.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Pete waited until they were all back in their cars, then took out his mobile and dialled.

‘Jane. We might not be able to put a tap on his phone, but I want surveillance on that bloke, from now on. I want to know who visits him or where he goes if he leaves the house. Get hold of Jill and Sophie Clewes. I’ll clear it with the uniform squad. And don’t let either of them tell anyone what they’re up to.’

‘You seriously think he’s got a source on the force?’

‘He’s still walking the streets, isn’t he? I don’t know what he’s got, but I’m not prepared to risk losing him at this stage so, bearing in mind his paranoia, be careful setting this up, right?’

‘Right, boss.’

He ended the call and dialled the station. ‘Bill, who’s the duty sergeant today?’

‘Andy Fairweather.’

‘Patch me through to him, would you?’

‘OK.’ There was a click, a pause, then a dialling tone. A phone was picked up. ‘Sergeant Fairweather, Exeter Police.’

‘Andy. Pete Gayle. Sorry for the short notice, mate, but I need to borrow Constable Clewes again.’

‘How long for?’

‘Not sure yet. Probably just today. Assistance with a surveillance op.’

‘All right. I’ll adjust the rota and get hold of her. Where should I send her?’

‘That’s OK. My DC will give her a call.’

‘Fair enough.’ Fairweather didn’t sound too happy at being kept out of whatever was going on, but Pete couldn’t afford to be oversensitive now.

‘Thanks, Andy. I owe you one.’

‘Another one.’

Pete nodded. ‘Yeah, I know. I’ll return the favour one day, if only by sending Fast-track on his way to an early grave with stress.’

‘You won’t stress that bugger. Cast iron, he’s made of.’

‘Damn brittle, that stuff, though.’

Andy laughed. ‘Good luck then.’

‘See you.’

Pete started his car and headed back to the station.

He pulled into the car park just moments behind Dick Feeney and Dave Miles. They were heading for the back door as he stepped out of his car. ‘Oi,’ he called.

Both men turned and Pete beckoned them across with a tilt of his head. They gathered beside Pete’s car.

‘Before we go inside,’ he said, ‘you realise that what we’ve done this morning could flush out Petrosyan’s contact here?’

‘Yeah,’ Dave said. ‘Or it could just make him run like a scared rabbit.’

‘Jane’s setting up covert observation on Petrosyan. Nobody outside of us and those directly involved is to know about it. I just told Andy Fairweather I needed someone for a surveillance op.’

‘OK.’ Dave nodded.

‘I don’t like this,’ said Dick. ‘Looking into our own oppos. It feels wrong.’

‘If you’re not comfortable with it, Dick . . .’

Feeney grimaced. ‘It just seems creepy, that’s all – that one of the guys is . . . well, bent.’

‘It is,’ Dave said. ‘But, there’s no point having a force that can’t be trusted. Unless you’re Robert Mugabe or Bashar al-Assad, I suppose.’

Dick grunted. ‘Which Fast-track isn’t, is he?’

Dave laughed. ‘I reckon he’d like to be though. Only way he’s going to get the respect he thinks he deserves.’

‘Also while we’re out here,’ Pete said, bringing the conversation back on track, ‘I want someone in the Blue Boar tonight, to see if Millic turns up there. If so, I want him followed. I want an address for him. But there’s a lot else to do before that. We’ve got a killer to catch.’

*

Pete draped his jacket over the back of his chair, sat down and switched on his computer. As he reached for the mouse, his phone beeped. He checked the screen. One missed call. Recognising the number, he called back.

‘Morning, Doc. You rang?’

‘I did. I have two exhumed bodies on the tables in the mortuary. And I think you ought to get here as soon as you can, Peter.’

Pete felt something swoop in his chest. ‘Any particular reason, Doc?’

‘Initial examinations suggest that our theory is probably correct.’

‘Ooh. OK, I’m on my way.’ He ended the call, switched off his computer and stood up again. ‘Going to the mortuary. The doc’s got something to show me.’

‘Careful, boss. Statements like that are what rumours get started on.’

‘Well, you concentrate on the other rumour we were talking about earlier and see if you can come up with something useful.’ He hooked his jacket off his chair and headed for the door.

*

Doc Chambers looked up from the steel cart he was working at, the overhead lights glittering on his short stubble of grey hair. He set down the large forceps he was using and stepped forward, stripping off his gloves to shake hands.

‘Peter. Good to see you.’

‘How’s it going?’

Two of the four steel autopsy tables were occupied. The bodies had been cleaned and laid out ready for examination. The pathologist had been in the process of laying out his tools to begin the first of them.

‘Interestingly,’ he said. ‘Basically, we were right. We have a serial killer in our midst, here in Exeter.’

Pete grimaced. ‘Show me.’

Chambers extended a hand to the body on his left. ‘First, we have the remains of one Donald Tennyson. He was found two months ago. Cause of death was recorded as acute cardiac failure – which, ultimately, is what kills us all, of course – with no clear cause. He had no record of cardiac issues, despite his obvious size, and shows no needle marks, unlike our previous victims. There are a couple of ways that can be achieved nefariously. One of them can still be tested for at this stage. The other can’t, I’m afraid, though it is recorded that he had a substantial amount of clear, colourless, non-alcoholic liquid in his digestive tract. He’d taken a large drink, possibly of water, though we’ll never know now. I’ll take samples in due course.

‘The other case . . .’ He nodded at the body on the second table. ‘A female, twenty-two to twenty-five years of age, identity unknown. Her body shows all the signs of addiction to Class A drugs and the kind of lifestyle often associated with that. In short, she was a prostitute. Tests showed that she was not high when she died. In fact, there were only traces remaining in her system. She was trying to kick the habit. Physical findings are intriguing though. Faint, generalised bruising was noted around her abdomen along with a red mark across her shoulders.’

He crossed towards the body, which was greyish and emaciated by the early signs of decomposition, took a pair of disposable gloves from a box on the side and pulled them on.

‘She was found just over a month ago, down on the Marsh Barton industrial estate. Cause of death was recorded as exposure. You can see the bruising around her stomach – probably more clearly than you would have when she was brought in. One of the advantages of a delayed examination.’

Pete looked down at her. No matter what condition a body was in, he always thought of it as a person, not a corpse. A person who was not conscious, but, nevertheless, a human being. A victim. Someone who had had a life, hopes, dreams and all the rest. Someone who needed him to speak for them, and whose friends and loved ones needed him to find justice for the wrong that had been done to them. And it seemed like this girl had suffered several wrongs in her short life, only the last of which had left her lying on this steel table today, her death unexplained, her killer still out there on the streets, walking free.

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