The Truth Will Out Page 7

  “With improvements in forensics over the years, those involved in gun crime have become shrewd,” Dean droned on. “Regular users tend to stick to ‘clean’ guns, meaning those not involved in an incident previously. After a shooting, they break them up and dispose of them, either bury them or chuck the pieces in a river or lake. But in the current climate, we have found that more and more are getting sold on. It is still far cheaper to buy a used gun than a clean one.”

  Helen stifled a yawn. “The shot of every gun is different,” Dean continued, “it leaves a unique mark on the cartridge shell. The organised gangs have picked up on this. In the recent shooting of Germaine Long in London we actually have CCTV footage showing two people with hoods pulled down over their faces, collecting the cartridge cases off the pavement before they flee the scene, no doubt in an effort to reduce the evidence available.”

  This last remark shook Helen’s senses. She recalled Pemberton’s comments at the crime scene, that they couldn’t find the shells. Could this be an organised, calculated killing?

  Dean switched off the machine and sat down.

  Jenkins took a deep breath and leant his elbows on the table, “So, what can you do to help us with our outstanding cases?”

  “The guns used in your shootings in Roxten were Baikal IZH-79s, right?” Dean said. He looked directly at Jenkins who nodded. “We have been working closely with colleagues in neighbouring forces on their outstanding gun crime and similar Baikals are cropping up. We want to locate the source of these weapons. We’ll base ourselves here for a couple of weeks as we continue our enquiries.”

  “How long before we see results?” Jenkins asked.

  “Hard to say. We’re hoping the pooling of intelligence may throw up some end users.”

  Helen thought back to the scene of the crime: the rabbit warren in Roxten. A prominent name popped into her mind. “What can you tell us about Chilli Franks?” she asked. Stephen Franks, nicknamed Chilli for his fiery personality, was proprietor of the Black Cats nightclub in Roxten, a suspected front for drugs trafficking and organised crime.

  Dean’s face turned blank at her interruption. He shook his head.

  “Oh, come on!” Helen hissed. “Nothing goes on in the rabbit warren or the whole of Roxten for that matter, without a nod from him. We know that Richard Elsdon, our main suspect in the Harvey case was linked to him. He used to work at Black Cats as a barman.”

  Dean sat back in his chair. “We’ve all heard the stories. It’s not a crime to keep criminal associations. But whatever Chilli was in his younger years, we’ve found nothing to suggest he is criminally active now, and no connection with either of the dead boys.”

  Helen could barely believe her ears. Formidable in his younger years, Chilli was the right hand of Jimmy Percival, regarded as Hampton’s very own gang leader during the 1980s.

  Chilli was Percival’s ‘fix it’ man in those days, suspected to be responsible for Hampton’s most violent crimes. It was alleged he’d chopped two fingers off an associate who’d skimmed off Jimmy, plunged a rival’s hand into boiling water for information on their gang and, his signature dish, slashed the faces of Jimmy’s adversaries with a Stanley knife. Numerous arrests failed to convert to convictions through lack of evidence, absence of witnesses, or traced witnesses withdrawing statements. With half of Hampton Town Hall on Jimmy’s payroll, Chilli appeared almost Teflon coated.

  Putting Chilli Franks behind bars placed a severe dent in Jimmy’s operations and was one of the biggest investigations of James Lavery’s career in Homicide and Organised Crime. Helen remembered the case well from her childhood - Chilli had blinded a man by throwing acid in his face. Her father worked around the clock in close conjunction with witness protection, to secure witnesses and gather enough evidence to make the case solid. He called Chilli Franks ‘rotten to the core’ and his elation was obvious when ‘the most dangerous man he had ever put away’ was sentenced to fifteen years imprisonment.

  By the time Chilli was released, almost ten years ago, Helen’s dad had passed away and she was a rookie herself. She remembered how beat constables were briefed to keep a close eye on his movements, particularly when Jimmy took Chilli back into his operation as a ‘driver’. But, although pulled back into the world he’d left, Chilli appeared a shadow of his former self, a calmer individual who kept a low profile. Months passed and police interest waned, intelligence taking them elsewhere.

  A couple of years later, Jimmy died of a heart attack and bequeathed Black Cats to Chilli. Again, Chilli was under the eye of the police, scrutinising his every move. But he took the reins quietly, went out of his way to ward off police attention. She recalled the first time they’d crossed paths. As soon as he heard her surname his eyes darkened, a muscle flexed in his cheek. He said nothing, but he didn’t need to, his face spoke a thousand words.

  As she rose through the ranks, Helen had watched him expand his operations to include a couple of nail bars and a hairdressing salon. Occasionally he attracted police attention, moments when Black Cats was linked to drugs supply, selling alcohol to minors, prostitution. Each time they were unable to build a case against him. But he always gave her the same wolf-like stare as though something was bubbling beneath the surface.

  Helen wasn’t fooled. Chilli’s record may have been clear since his prison stretch, but that was only because he employed the best lawyers in the business. You needed a gold plated warrant to get near Black Cats these days.

  “Look,” Dean continued, “it may suit him for people to suspect his involvement in order to gain respect in his line of business. But there’s no intelligence to suggest his personal involvement.”

  “Presumably you’ll share your intelligence?” Helen asked. She’d worked with specialist units in the past and they were notoriously cagey with their information. Everyone had their own agenda - they wanted the source, those that smuggled the weapons in. She was more interested in locating the killers of the two boys.

  “As much as we can.”

  “I thought we were working together on this?” She shot a glance at Jenkins who pressed his lips together and frowned. How was she supposed to come up with answers if she wasn’t given all the necessary information?

  “Helen,” Jenkins interjected.

  Dean lifted his hand to Jenkins in a conciliatory manner, and nodded. “The spread of too much information at the moment may jeopardise the operation of my guys working in the field and put them in danger.”

  “Only if it is leaked.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Are you suggesting that somebody in here would do that?”

  “I’m not suggesting anything. Just that, at the moment, the decision has been made at the highest level to keep the information close, until we have completed our mission. It won’t be for too much longer.”

  “In the meantime, how are we supposed to progress these two murder enquiries?” she asked.

  “I hear you had another shooting last night?” Dean said, changing the subject.

  “Yes, a twenty-four-year-old local woman named Naomi Spence,” Jenkins said. “Perhaps Helen could enlighten us?”

  Helen suppressed an angry sigh and gave a laconic update on Operation Aspen. As she finished she asked whether Dean’s team were familiar with Jules Paton.

  “We do know of him,” Dean said. “Jules Paton is a middle class lad who dropped out of university eight years ago. He’s originally from Worthington, although I believe his parents don’t have much to do with him these days. He started a business, sourcing and supplying specialist cars. Recently, I believe he’s moved into the vintage market.”

  “You seem to know a lot about him. Why the MOCT interest?” Helen asked.

  “I believe his name has come up a few times… ”

  “In relation to what?” Helen interrupted.

  “Drugs mainly.” Dean shook his head dismissively. “He’s a party lad, a suspected cocaine user. We think he might be involved in the supply chain in some
way, but we’re not really interested in him, more so in those above him.”

  Helen considered this a moment. If they were investigating organised crime, guns and drugs usually went hand in hand. She narrowed her eyes. “What can you tell us about him?”

  “Not much at the moment.”

  His curt tone vexed her. “If you have any information on his whereabouts you need to share them.” Her voice bristled. “We need to speak to him urgently.”

  “We have no idea where he is,” Dean said. “I can assure you that if we get intelligence that is likely to assist with any of your investigations, we’ll feed it back. We are here to help.”

  “What about family, friends, connections? Somebody must know something?”

  “I’m not sure we have much there.” Dean shrugged a single shoulder. “He doesn’t have much to do with his family. His ex-wife lives in Roxten. I could have someone dig her address out for you.”

  “What about Chilli Franks? Any association there?”

  Dean sighed and shook his head. “Nothing.”

  Helen cursed loudly.

  “Helen, there’s no room for grudges here,” Jenkins said. “We need to focus on the operation.”

  Helen snorted but they seemed impervious to her anger. Instead Dean focused his attention on Jenkins. “I suggest, for the purposes of the press at least, we treat this current case as an argument between lovers, the chief suspect being a drug addict. We don’t want any suggestion that there is a serial gun killer on the loose.”

  Helen glanced at Jenkins, whose face lit up at these final remarks. Didn’t take much to please the super.

  ***

  “Hello, my dear.”

  Eva stood and darted back. “Oh, it’s you.” Relief squashed the air out of her lungs. “You startled me.”

  “Were you expecting someone else?”

  Eva stared at Annie Buchanan’s fresh face and wavy auburn hair, parted at the side and cut into a short bob. She had worn her hair that way for as long as Eva could remember and she couldn’t help thinking how it widened her face, making it look as dumpy as her frame. “I wasn’t expecting anyone. I mean… ”

  “Neither was I.” She cast a protective glance back at the property. “Your mother didn’t mention you were coming otherwise I’d have freshened up the place, got you some essentials in.”

  Living a quarter of a mile down the road, Annie was their closest neighbour. When they first purchased the property, her persistent visits and interest had eventually led to Eva’s mother jokingly calling her the ‘eyes and ears’ of the village. She couldn’t have realised how right she would be. As soon as a retired Annie became aware that Lochside was to be used as holiday accommodation, she offered her services as a cleaner come housekeeper during their absence. She had to find some way to supplement her pension.

  “It was a last minute decision,” Eva said and nodded, as if trying to convince herself.

  Annie eyed her suspiciously.

  Eva was grateful that her parents were only a week into their three week holiday. By the time Annie reached them, Eva would be back in Hampton.

  “Well, can I get you anything? Bread, milk, eggs?”

  “No, thank you. I stopped in Aberfoyle on the way.”

  Annie continued to stare for a while, then glanced across at the Loch. “Well, you’ve picked a good week. Hasn’t been so warm in March these past ten years.” She turned her attention back to Eva. “How long are you staying?”

  Eva pushed her mouth into what she hoped was a convincing smile. “A few days. Holiday at work I needed to use. How is your granddaughter?” she asked, keen to change the subject.

  “Shona? Same as usual. On the computer. She tells me she’s working, but I’m sure she’s just chatting to her mates. I don’t know what it is with young people these days. All this beautiful countryside and all she wants to do is tap away at those keys.”

  Shona’s parents had died in a car crash when she was barely out of nappies and Annie raised her single-handedly, bringing her out to Kinlochard when she was only eight-years-old. Eva allowed herself a wry smile. Kinlochard must feel like the loneliest place on Earth to a teenager.

  “Well, I’ll be going then,” Annie said. “Let your mother know you are low on oil. Probably want to get a delivery in case we have a cold snap.”

  Eva nodded. With no gas supply to the village, they relied on kerosene to fire their central heating. “Will do.”

  She watched Annie walk out of the side gate and sunk deeper into the chair. It seemed you couldn’t disappear, no matter how hard you tried…

  Chapter Nine

  A frustrated Helen made her way back to the office after the press conference that afternoon. The morning felt like a complete waste of time, the meeting with MOCT revealed nothing in terms of new information on the boys’ killings and her current investigation was played down during the press conference, limited to her appealing for witnesses to the location and movements of Jules Paton who now, according to Jenkins (even though they had no solid evidence to support this), was their number one suspect.

  The event was dominated by Jenkins and Fitzpatrick declaring their alliance in the fight against Hamptonshire gun crime. A public relations exercise designed to show that Hampton force had employed additional resources to investigate the fatal shootings, to reassure the public that no stone would be left unturned until they were solved. Even the Assistant Chief Constable was present, there to earn his own political capital in the media cabaret.

  As she reached the canteen, her stomach kicked out reminding her she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. When the Local Authority built this modern out-of-town Police Headquarters, they promised a gymnasium with facilities including tennis courts, badminton, a football pitch - all welcome in view of the police’s new policy to test the fitness of existing officers at regular intervals throughout their career. They’d also promised a canteen serving hot and cold food to keep them healthy through the long, laborious hours the job demanded.

  As usual, ambition exceeded budget allocation, eventually leaving them with a gymnasium restricted to a room with two bikes and a selection of free weights on a stand flanked by two shower rooms; a canteen consisting of a small room of laminated tables and chairs alongside a drinks machine, another selling chocolate and confectionary, and one offering cold snacks.

  Helen grabbed a cheese and tomato sandwich out of the machine. It resembled rubber, like the toy food her boys played with when they were young. The frustrations of her morning ate away at her. Even though she’d taken the accelerated promotion scheme, racing through the ranks to make DCI in less than ten years, she wasn’t driven by the success and kudos the ranks offered.

  All she wanted, all she had ever wanted, was to be like her dad - to catch the really bad guys. She took a bite out of the sandwich. The dry bread clung to the roof of her mouth as she remembered fondly how many an evening he would come home with some tale about a chase, an exciting arrest. They all shared his elation at convictions, despair at unresolved cases. He couldn’t relay intimate details but he didn’t need to, they simply felt the investigations through his moods. His job was his life and it was infectious.

  After successfully leading her first homicide enquiry last November, Helen had felt that same elation all over again. Yet at times like this, when public relations threatened to take over and wear her down, she gripped the real reasons for her existence. Helen was well aware of the need for public reassurance. She couldn’t fail to be with Jenkins’ constant reminders. But with a dead girl and a killer on the loose, right at this moment that’s where her priorities lay. She finished half of the sandwich, binned the rest and made for the door.

  On the way back to the incident room, she caught up with DC Spencer on the stairs. “Hi Steve. How was the autopsy?”

  His dark, pointy features creased into a frown. “Damaging.”

  Helen was intrigued. Spencer had worked on the homicide team for the past six years, and before that had
been a detective on area. He would have attended endless autopsies during his career. “In what way? Was she raped?”

  “No,” he interrupted, shaking his head. “No sign of any sexual interference.”

  “Then what?”

  “Tortured,” he said quietly, shaking his head. He looked across at her.

  A short silence hung in the air. “What do you mean?”

  Spencer’s face was pallid. He looked visibly shaken. “Cigarette burns on the back of her neck.” He held up his fingers, as if he couldn’t believe what he was saying, “Four of them.” Helen started, but remained silent for him to continue. “Faint marks around her wrist too, suggesting her hands were tied at some stage. Gooding reckons it was probably rope, as there’s a burn mark where she fought to break free.”

  Helen couldn’t remember rope at the scene. Perhaps they’d taken it after they killed her.

  “There’s also a clump of hair missing from the left side of her head,” he continued. “Gooding thinks the killer grabbed it to keep her still while he burned her. One burn is smudged, jagged, as if she managed to get away.”

  Helen recalled Naomi’s contorted body. The striking red hair spread across her face. She had fallen on her left side, inadvertently hiding the bald patch on her head. They stood in stunned silence for a moment. “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “I will be. Could do with a fag though.”

  She nodded. “Anything else of any significance?”

  “Fibres on her tongue, suggesting she was gagged too.

  Helen felt goose bumps appear on her arms and was grateful she was wearing long sleeves.

  Spencer stared into space as he continued, “She’d eaten, looks like a meal of pasta, tuna and sweetcorn very soon, maybe even minutes before she died. It still sat in the stomach undigested. From the defensive bruises on her arms and the state of the lounge, Gooding is pretty sure she was caught by surprise. They burnt her a few times, presumably to see if she would tell them where to find whatever it was they looking for. Then a brief tussle followed before they shot her.”