No Way Home

‘True. We’re not picking on you girls because of what you do for a living. We’re looking for witnesses, that’s all.’

‘What, so, if I was a waitress in that hotel over there, you wouldn’t be asking me all these questions?’

‘Yes, we would. In fact, we already have.’

‘And had any of them seen anything?’

Pete smiled. ‘The more witnesses we can gather, the clearer the picture we can build up and the more likely we are to get a killer off these streets you’re walking.’

‘Yeah, well – if they’re killing taxi drivers, I’m safe anyway, aren’t I? I don’t even drive, never mind taxis.’

‘So, you don’t give a shit.’

She shrugged. ‘Like I said, I didn’t know the bloke.’

Pete sighed. ‘All right. On you go.’

His last hour and a half had been spent in similar conversations with mostly similar girls. A few had been older, a few significantly younger, but all had about the same attitude. It wasn’t their problem and they didn’t want to get involved in it.

Yet, if something happened to one of them, they’d be up in arms, wanting protection and all sorts. There was no winning with some people. He lifted his radio and keyed the mike. ‘If we’re all done, let’s call it a night. We can scratch one possible pickup location off the list, at least.’

‘OK with me, boss,’ Dave replied from the far side of the hotel the hooker had mentioned.

‘I can’t see anyone I haven’t already spoken to,’ said Jane.

‘Nor me,’ Dick added.

‘Right. Nightcap’s on me.’

*

Forty-three minutes later, Pete turned into his drive for the second time that evening and stopped the car.

‘What the f…?’ He sat stock-still, staring at his white up-and-over garage door. Nearly three feet high, right in the middle of it, caught squarely in the beam of his headlights, was a drawing – a cartoon, really – in pink spray paint that, in places, had trickled into runs. A pig’s face stared out at him, underneath it the words ‘More bacon, Guv’nor?’

‘Who the bloody hell…?’

He switched off the headlights and the engine, got out of the car and went up to the garage door. He could still see the image clearly in the light of the streetlamp across the road. He reached out a finger, although, even before he touched it, he could smell that the paint was still wet. Sure enough, his fingertip came away smeared with colour.

‘Bastards,’ he muttered and marched towards the front door. Letting himself in, he dropped his briefcase in the hall and stepped into the sitting room where Louise was curled up on the sofa, watching TV.

An image flashed into his mind from a few short months ago, when all she seemed to want to do was just that. She’d barely been able to acknowledge either him or Annie. But now she looked up, a smile forming on her lips. ‘Hiya. Have you…?’ She stopped mid-sentence when she saw his expression. ‘What is it?’

He held up his finger. ‘Spray paint. All over the bloody garage. Someone’s figured out what I do for a living and decided to make an issue of it.’

Louise slumped. ‘Oh, God. Will it come off?’

‘I’ve got a can of brush cleaner in there. I’ll see if I can shift it before it dries. Little sods ought to be made to come back here and bloody lick it clean.’

Louise couldn’t help a grunt of laughter. ‘I don’t think that idea would go down too well with the bleeding heart brigade.’

‘Then maybe we ought to go and spray-paint their garage doors and see how they like it.’

‘You’re a grumpy bugger tonight. Didn’t anybody want to play with you or something?’

Pete shook his head. ‘I just don’t understand people’s attitudes sometimes. You’d think they’d want to help get a murderer off the streets. They’d feel safer for it.’

‘Yeah, but everybody’s too busy these days. Who’s got time to sit in a draughty corridor outside a courtroom for a couple of days or more, to help put someone away for not nearly long enough, who’s probably never going to be a risk to them anyway, eh? I mean, you can understand it really.’

‘You sound exactly like a lot of those girls I’ve been talking to tonight.’

She shrugged. ‘I’m just saying, there’s two sides to every argument.’

‘Yeah. Like there’s two sides to that garage door and a can of brush cleaner on one that needs to be on t’other. I’d best go and deal with it, I suppose.’

‘You want a hand?’ She nodded towards the TV. ‘This is rubbish anyway.’

Pete’s eyes widened as he recalled again the time when she’d sit there for hours, staring blankly at the TV, regardless of what was on it.

‘Or maybe it’s me,’ she continued, ignoring his expression. ‘I can’t concentrate on anything, knowing Tommy’s just a few hundred yards away now, and I can’t go to him.’

Pete sighed, nodding. ‘I know. But tomorrow’s not far off. Then you can ring them and set up a visit.’

‘It’s just so hard. It’s almost worse, having him so close, than it was not knowing where he was. The need to see him, hold him, talk to him, be a mother to him is…’ She shook her head, unable to put her feelings into words.

Pete reached for her hand. ‘Come on,’ he said, trying to pull her away from the brink. ‘We’ll do what we can out there, then a drink and bed.’

She blinked. ‘Bed? I don’t know as I want to share a bed with you after you’ve spent the evening consorting with prostitutes.’

‘Huh. None of them even wanted to talk to me, never mind consort.’

She stood up and took a step towards him. ‘Ah. Baby losing his touch?’ One hand cupping his jaw, she placed a quick kiss on his lips then squealed as he grabbed her around the waist.

*

Tommy went from breakfast, which he ate alone, to the common room, where he grabbed a bunch of felt-tip pens – pencils weren’t permitted as they were considered sharp objects – and a pad of drawing paper.

He was trying to put an image of Rosie Whitlock onto the paper when his chair was jarred abruptly from behind and a pair of hands clamped down on his shoulders, pressing him down into the seat.

‘Watcha, Titch. What you in here for then, eh? That your girlfriend, is it? Ahh. Pretty, ain’t she? I’ll do her for you when I get out of here, you being too small and all.’

Tommy went completely still. He almost felt relaxed. ‘Which order do you want me to answer all those questions in? Forwards or backwards?’

‘Smart arse, are you?’ The hands left his shoulders and a slap rocked his head. ‘Think you’re clever, do you?’

Tommy heard several sniggers. There was a bunch of them. Without even thinking about it, he turned the felt-tipped pen in his hand, gripping it tightly. A shiver ran through him as fingers ran through the hair up the back of his head. Then they gripped painfully and began to lift. He rose with them, but his chair got in the way. He pushed it back with his knees, felt it snag on the carpet and begin to tip. Rising further, the chair reaching a steeper angle, he gently, carefully raised one foot off the floor, bringing his knee up until it touched the underside of the table in front of him.

Waited an instant longer…

Then slammed his foot up and back so that it hit the underside of the chair, driving it back into his tormentor’s stomach. The boy grunted. His fingers disappeared from Tommy’s hair. Tommy spun around fast. Several boys were surrounding him, all of them bigger than he was. Their leader was just beginning to recover and straighten up, his pockmarked face twisting into a snarl of rage.

Tommy didn’t hesitate. He used the chair again, this time as a step-up, launching himself off its upturned front edge, his other knee driving at the older boy’s chest. The impact sent him staggering backwards, the group splitting to let him through. Tommy’s free hand grabbed his hair and held on tight, his momentum carrying him over the bigger lad, who stumbled and fell back. Tommy landed on top of him, his knee driving once more into his chest before slipping sideways to leave Tommy straddling him, one hand gripping his hair while he leaned down over him, the other hand holding the felt-tip pen just a couple of millimetres from his left eyeball.

The bigger lad was wheezing beneath him, trying to get his breath.

‘Don’t blink. You’ll have a yellow eyelash,’ Tommy said. ‘I’m in here for rape and murder. The girl in the picture was one of my victims, but she’s going to help get me out of here shortly. It’s up to you whether you see that or not. These pens might be soft, but they’ll still burst your eyeball if they’re pressed hard enough.’

The other boy swallowed. Tommy saw his throat working as he struggled not to cough.

‘Now, I’m not interested in joining your gang or any other. I don’t need them. See, the difference between you and me is that you’re a bully. You want status, attention or whatever. I don’t care what anyone thinks of me, so I don’t care what I do to anyone. I don’t have any boundaries. I could happily blind you. I could rape you. I could bite your ugly nose off. Or I could kill you.’ He shrugged. ‘Wouldn’t make a blind bit of difference to me.’

He grinned suddenly. ‘Get it? Blind bit of difference?’ He chuckled. ‘I could do any of those things without even blinking. Without batting an eye.’ He laughed again. ‘I’ve got loads more where they came from. Good, eh?’

‘Yes,’ the other boy said hoarsely.

‘So, you stay out of my way and I won’t have to hurt you. Understand?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good.’ Tommy sprang up off him and spun around to look down at him, upside-down. ‘And don’t try sneaking up on me. I don’t give second chances.’

The boy blinked and launched into a coughing fit. Tommy stared into the eyes of the lanky blond kid standing in front of him. The confident grin was gone from his lean face. He looked a lot less sure of the situation now. And, to be fair, it could go either of two ways from here, Tommy thought. He could be left alone, or the kid coughing his guts up on the floor could make a play to reassert his dominance. Which would no doubt bring trouble and pain to Tommy’s door, but he was used to both of them. They were almost old friends. ‘Out the way,’ he said. ‘Unless you want some of the same.’

*

Tommy looked up from the book he was reading as the door of his room was opened and one of the wardens leaned in and gave a jerk of his head. ‘You’ve got a visitor, Gayle. Come on.’

Tommy didn’t move. ‘Who is it?’

‘Your solicitor.’

Inwardly relaxing, Tommy closed his book and set it aside, swung his feet off the side of the bed and stood up.

He’d finished his drawing half an hour ago, but it hadn’t done Rosie justice, so he’d screwed it up in a tight ball and thrown it in the bin, stalking out of the common room and heading back here. Now he followed the warder, a large, heavily muscled coloured guy called Adam, back down the corridor, past the common room to one of the small rooms that were used for visiting.

He tried not to show his hesitation as Adam opened the door and stood aside. He hoped the warden had told him the truth about who it was. The last thing he wanted was some surprise, like his dad sitting there, waiting for him.

He stepped forward nonchalantly.

The chair on the far side of the central table was occupied by a man he’d never seen before. Somewhere between his dad and Uncle Colin in age, he was slim with greying dark hair and a three-piece suit.

‘Who are you?’ Tommy asked bluntly.

The man tilted his head. ‘I’m Clive Davis. I’m your solicitor.’

‘Why?’

Davis pursed his lips. ‘You’ve been charged with carrying an offensive weapon. A knife, I understand. We’re going to have to attend court. It’s a charge that can carry a term of confinement.’

‘Prison?’

Tommy heard the door close behind him.

Davis tilted his head again. ‘More like where we are here. You’re only – what – fourteen? You wouldn’t be sent to a conventional prison.’

I’ve lived worse, Tommy thought. This past winter. ‘How long for?’ he asked.

‘It depends on the circumstances. It can be up to four months. Or you could get an official caution or anything between the two.’

‘So, they might just tell me off and let me go?’

Davis pursed his lips. ‘That’s not the way to look at it, but in essence, from a practical point of view, yes. However, it goes on your record, so that if you’re charged again it’ll be taken into account and you will serve time.’

‘OK.’

‘So, tell me how you came to be here.’

Tommy shrugged, spreading his hands. ‘I was just minding my own business, doing my job, and all of a sudden, this guy’s coming after me, so I ran. They caught me and searched me and, next thing I know, they’re charging me for carrying a tool of the job.’

‘A flick-knife.’

‘Well, I’m not going to carry an open blade in my pocket, am I? And penknives can be dangerous. I saw a kid using one once and it folded up on him, got his finger between the blade and the handle. No, thanks. A flick-knife’s much safer.’

‘But illegal.’

‘As a weapon. Mine’s a tool. It’s essential for the job.’

Davis shook his head. ‘It makes no difference why you had it, Thomas. The simple fact is, you shouldn’t have.’

‘What am I supposed to do then? Bite stuff?’

Davis paused. ‘I’m not saying the law is perfect, Thomas, but it is the law and it’s there to be obeyed. Your father’s a police officer, isn’t he?’

‘So?’

Davis sighed. ‘So, a number of questions arise from that fact. We may discuss them at another time, but the point for now is that you ought to appreciate the necessity of rules.’

‘Yeah. They’re made for the rulers. To keep the little guys in line.’ He sat back, arms spread wide. ‘And what am I?’

Davis smiled. ‘A very clever and resourceful young man, evidently. But still one who needs to learn when to fight and when not to.’

Tommy’s lip curled into a sneer. ‘Try living my life. It’s one long fight. Always has been.’

CHAPTER SEVEN

Pete wound up the stop-and-check at just after nine.

‘We’ll take it up again at lunchtime,’ he told the assembled crew when they returned to the cars, parked on a side street just down from Argyll Road, on the opposite side of Pennsylvania. ‘That’ll catch any late-shift workers. Meantime, I’ll get onto communications at Middlemoor and get a couple of signs made up that can be put either side of the junction to pick up anyone we haven’t managed to interview.’

‘So, what’s next other than that, boss?’ Ben asked.

‘We need to interview as many taxi drivers as possible, for one thing. Find out if there’ve been any threats, any attempted robberies or other attacks on them and get whatever details we can. I can’t imagine this came out of nowhere. There’s got to be a history there somewhere. Something significant’s behind it.’

‘Or it could be about the other way round,’ Jane said. ‘Taxi drivers attacking customers. Specifically, our victim and those cases we talked about before.’

He nodded. ‘That would go with the use of the pepper spray before the knife. Have you got any more on them?’

‘When? I haven’t had five seconds to spare yet.’

‘Right. That’s your first priority when we get back then. See what you can dig up. We also need to check the PND, the papers, the Internet. Any other sources anyone can think of. And we can’t do any of that from here, so let’s get going.’

‘Aye aye, Cap’n.’ Dave saluted smartly.

‘For that, you can go down to the Express and Echo and check their archives. Then do the same at the Daily News,’ Pete told him.

‘Oh, cheers.’

Pete gave him a grin. ‘It’s a tough job, but somebody’s got to do it.’

*

As the day drew to a close, Pete wasn’t grinning any more. After two days of hard work on the case, he and his team had got nowhere and frustration was setting in. He recognised it even as it took hold, pulling his mood down and breaking his concentration.

He finished his daily case notes and hit save. ‘Right, that’s it. Time to call it a night. We’ll pick it up fresh in the morning.’

‘Sounds like a plan,’ Dave agreed. ‘Trouble is, where do we go from here?’

‘Well, we’ve got all night to sleep on it. I’m not going to spoonfeed you now.’ And besides, I’m as bloody stumped as you are, he thought, but kept it to himself. Where were they going to go from here?

He’d been to the Devon and Cornwall Police Headquarters at Middlemoor to get a couple of road signs made up, asking for witnesses to come forward. DCI Silverstone was dealing with the press office, as usual. Three sessions of stopping traffic at peak times and questioning the drivers had come up empty, as had visits to the two most likely places for him to have picked up the suspect. Investigation of the victim’s past had drawn a blank apart from unsubstantiated rumours from some years ago that couldn’t be corroborated because the owners of the company he’d been working for at the time were currently out of the country and no official complaints had been made. Jane had come up empty on the other complaint. The complainant had moved and left no forwarding address, though census records had last put her in Bristol, and the alleged victim had been from somewhere in Lancashire, and there was no trace of her either. Singh’s family offered no likely suspects. He seemed, of late, to have a decent reputation. There were no signs of enmity with rivals or colleagues. And as for forensics – there were loads of prints on and in the taxi, but none were identifiable and the same applied to other trace evidence in the vehicle. If they got a suspect, then comparisons could be made, but until then, the lab was no use to them. And there had been nothing in the local papers or on the database that helped either.

It looked like the case was going to come down to possible motives.

It hadn’t been a robbery, unless something less obvious than money was the target. No mention had been made of drug traces being found in the car. He would check on that with forensics, but he could probably discount the idea. Was there anything else he might have been carrying in the car? He picked up the phone.

‘I thought you were packing it in?’ asked Jane.

He looked up and saw that she was standing behind her chair, shrugging into her jacket. He hadn’t even been aware of her getting up. ‘Just thought of something. A quick call and I’ll be on my way. You go on.’

‘OK. Night.’ She picked up her bag and headed for the door, followed by the others as Pete flipped through his notebook and dialled the number he’d noted down.

It was picked up on the second ring. ‘Hello?’

That wasn’t the voice he’d expected. ‘Naz? Is that you?’

‘Yes. Who…’

‘It’s Pete Gayle. Could you ask Mrs Singh a question for me?’

‘Yes, Sarge. What is it?’

‘I need to know if he was carrying anything in the taxi that might have given his killer a motive. Something worth stealing, apart from money.’

‘Hold on, I’ll ask.’

‘How’s she doing now?’

‘Still not very good. Very emotional.’

‘Well, it’s still fresh for her, isn’t it? She must have loved him a lot.’

‘Yeah. And yet, I assumed it had been an arranged marriage.’

Pete laughed. ‘They do sometimes succeed, you know.’

‘Yeah, but… I don’t know. I suppose I’m closer to the idea than you. It’s part of the culture, you know. I’ve had pressure in that direction myself. It’s scary.’

‘I bet it is.’

‘Anyway, I’ll go and ask her.’

Pete heard the clunk of the receiver going down. He waited. After several seconds, the phone was picked up again.

‘Sarge?’

‘Naz.’

‘She says no, there was nothing he’d have been carrying that was worth stealing.’

‘OK, thanks.’

He ended the call, one more possible motive eliminated. Something was nagging at the far corner of his consciousness, but he couldn’t bring it into focus. Long experience had taught him that, in that situation, it was better to give up for a while than try to force it, but frustration fought with reason, pushing him on. His lips pressed together as he fought to grab hold of the idea and pull it out of the fog, but it was no good – it just wouldn’t come.

His hands slapped down on his desk as he stood up. He could do no more of any use here for now. It was time to go home and spend some time with his wife and daughter.

*

Emma had been sitting patiently in the queue created by the roadworks on Pennsylvania Road for a little over ten minutes. Finally, the lights changed ahead of her and she let the handbrake off and moved forward with the traffic flow. The road was coned down to half-width for about a hundred metres, a long trench dug up the middle of the other carriageway, a roll of bright-yellow plastic pipe waiting on the verge to be laid the next day. Accelerating gently up the hill, she was about two thirds of the way through the narrow section when the Nissan’s engine note changed abruptly, faltering and slowing. She pressed her foot to the accelerator, but it made no difference.

‘Oh, for God’s sake, not now!’ She slammed her fists on the steering wheel, dropped the clutch and raced the engine, but still nothing. ‘Buggeration, you horrible, horrible bloody car.’

Letting the clutch re-engage, she sat there at the mercy of fate as the car coasted steadily to a halt. A horn sounded from behind her, then another. Another.

‘Shut up, you idiots,’ she muttered. ‘I’m not stopping from bloody choice, am I?’

The engine cut out completely, an awful silence replacing its comforting hum. She sighed, pulled up the handbrake and unclipped her seatbelt. More horns sounded as she stepped out, turned to face the offending drivers and raised her hands in a gesture that said ‘There’s nothing I can do’.

She heard a handbrake being applied and the door of the car behind hers opened. A man stepped out, tall and good-looking in a dark suit. ‘What’s the problem? Have you run out of petrol or something?’

Anger flared. ‘It’s over half-full, thank you. The engine just cut out.’

‘Well, try giving it some revs.’

He might be good-looking, but the guy was an arse, she decided. ‘I did. It didn’t help.’

He sighed pointedly, as if it had to be her fault rather than the car’s, then turned and beckoned to the other drivers behind him, motioning with his hands in a pushing action.

A few doors opened. People stepped out of their cars.

‘What’s the bloody problem?’

‘Engine’s cut out.’ The guy gave an open-handed shrug as Emma’s hands were planted firmly on her hips.

It wasn’t her bloody fault. Just because she was female…

Four other men joined the first one, heading up the hill towards her.

‘What’s the problem?’ one of them asked as they drew closer. He was wearing leathers. She’d seen him pull off his helmet and climb off a big, black motorbike, running a hand quickly through his short, dark hair.

She shook her head. ‘I don’t know. It just lost power and then cut out.’

He nodded. ‘Could be a number of things. Best just push it out of the way for now and call the AA or whatever. You got a membership?’

‘Yes.’

‘Hop in, then, and steer. It ain’t going up that kerb so we’ll have to push it up just past the lights and leave it over there, out the way.’

‘Are you sure? It seems a long way.’

He smiled. ‘Only a small car, though, isn’t it? We’ll manage.’ He glanced at the others. ‘Come on, guys.’

She climbed back into the car, looked in the door mirror.

The biker was on the corner of the little car, right behind her. ‘Everybody ready?’ he asked. ‘Right. Handbrake off, love.’

She complied.

The sounds of straining came from behind her. She thought for a moment that she was going to roll backwards, that they wouldn’t be able to hold it, never mind move it forward, but then the little car began to inch slowly, hesitantly, up the hill. It was a weird feeling, slowly gaining momentum, the only sounds those of the tyres and the men’s feet on the tarmac as she held the steering wheel steady.