Jack in the box, p.23
Jack in the Box, page 23
50
That bloody song came on again when he started the car. This time, Slater hit the pause button a split second before Lomond did.
‘Not in the mood, Malcolm?’
Slater said nothing. They eased through the gloom and the low-lying mist. The blue lights going outside the flats lit up the fog like a distant thunderstorm. A hint of muffled panic.
‘Bloody circus, is it?’ Lomond said. It was as close to a snarl as he ever got. He was beyond nerves now. Everything taut. Jaws working. He paused as he unclipped the seatbelt. Take it down a notch. Deep breath. And down another notch . . .
He was shown to the front of the house, on the main road, and through to the communal entranceway. ‘I want the back,’ Lomond said to the PC, who smarted at the order.
‘It’s kind of closed off,’ he stammered.
‘Course it is,’ Lomond said. He took another one of those deep breaths and laid a hand on the lad’s shoulder – and he was a lad, no more than twenty-odd. ‘You’re doing fine, by the way. Good work keeping the ghouls away.’
Lomond saw a couple of people on the other side of the road. One of them had a handheld camera, filming the scene. The other was a woman Lomond was sure he recognised from press conferences, with delicate ankles underneath a padded coat that was much too big for her. Even through the mist, Lomond was sure he could make out her dark eyes. She was speaking into a tripod-mounted video camera. Lomond could tell by her eyebrows what tone of voice she was using, even if he couldn’t actually hear her. A man, standing apart from the other two, with a tie burst open at the throat, was scribbling intently in his notebook. Lomond patted his pockets to check for his own as he was shown into the back court.
It was fenced off, concreted over, shabby, with a row of filthy wheelie bins. Other buildings were visible over the top of the fence. Turning back, Lomond gazed up at the block of flats. Every light was ablaze in the windows.
April’s flat was second-top.
Smythe was there. She looked relieved to see him, which wasn’t like Smythe at all.
‘What’s that over the fence?’ Lomond asked, after a cursory greeting.
‘Chinese takeaway and bookies. Tanning salon. No CCTV anywhere, before you ask.’
‘Gate for the binmen?’
‘It’s open. Push the latch and you’re in. Been like that for a while. Complaints to the council, complaints to the landlords – bugger all done.’
‘Reminds me of my daughter’s flats,’ Lomond mused. He blinked rapidly. ‘Not as nice, though. This isn’t an Avalon King building, is it?.’
Smythe shook her head. ‘Different developer, slightly older build – maybe twenty-five to thirty years old.’
‘It’s got that look about it – wee bit past its best.’ He whispered this, on the off-chance one of the silhouettes framed in light above might have heard him say something disrespectful. He felt like a tenement kid, in fear of being checked by the lunging presence of an old dear at the windows.
‘Solid enough. Security door,’ Smythe said.
‘Don’t tell me – no one saw anything?’
‘You’ve got it, sir.’
‘How do you get onto the fire escape? Someone must have seen or heard someone going up it.’
‘No one. Nothing. It’s quite secluded. I’ve been up and down it. If you’re light on your feet . . . say, if you were wearing trainers . . . I’ll show you, sir.’
Lomond was reassured by Smythe’s presence. Something relaxed in his shoulders. Slater could be a tonic. Slater pushed him on. Slater went places Lomond wouldn’t go in the interview room, and Lomond fed from it. But sometimes it was better to have a calmer, more grounded presence. Lomond had a recurrence of an old, melancholy premonition: that Smythe would not be working with him for much longer.
The fire escape creaked underfoot, but then it always creaked in the wind, according to some of the neighbours. Not so you’d think there was something wrong. It zig-zagged up one side of the building, and Lomond knew that there was another fire escape on the other side. Running across the back of the rows of flats, separated by leaping distance, Lomond supposed, was a series of mostly well-kept balconies, some of which had tables and chairs, pot plants, clothes drying even at this time of year. One or two were an explosion, a vent of personality. One resident had covered the balcony railings and every other available space with butterflies: glass butterflies, brass butterflies, glowing butterflies, neon butterflies, and even paper butterflies, veterans of more than one season, ragged-edged and fluttering. One garden was a jungle: April’s balcony. Vivid green, even in the shade, at the far corner of the building next to the fire escape, and seeing that shade of green was when Lomond knew. He got it. Something clicked into place; some component that had been thrown out of sync was now back in its proper slot and functioning well. The cloud that had enveloped him for days was suddenly gone. In the mist, moving up the fire escape behind Smythe, taking care not to touch the iron railings, Lomond grinned.
‘Aye,’ he said.
‘Sorry, sir?’ Smythe glanced at him over her shoulder.
‘Sorry, fine. That’s good. You were saying?’
‘No one heard anything. Bottom line.’
‘How about the roof? Silly question?’
‘See for yourself.’ She pointed.
Lomond squinted at the black tiles. He could only imagine the moss. No obvious way into a loft area. ‘Spider-Man would have a job climbing down that. It’d certainly be one way to get yourself noticed.’
‘Looks like a non-starter. We’ll check it, though,’ Smythe said.
They stared at the green enclosure. About chest-height, with no obvious means of ingress other than the one that had clearly been used.
‘See how the green canopy has come away from the railing, sir?’
‘Aye. That’s it. He leaps across. Not much of a jump – make a mistake and he’s had it, mind you. Be a good way to round the case off. Find him twitching in the gutter. That’d be a good one. Then he just pushes his way over the fence, with the canvas above and in front of him, makes his way to the edge of the canopy, and forces his way through. Then he’s at the back door.’
‘Looks like it. Couple of problems, though.’
‘The back door’s locked, and there’s a security camera,’ Lomond said.
‘How did you know that?’ A slight frown on Smythe’s face. Lomond felt a shameful satisfaction at this. Smythe was good, one of the best, but she hadn’t quite put it together yet, and Lomond had. He knew it was only a matter of time now. Things were looking up. Sort of.
‘Educated guess. I’ll tell you on the way back. We need to get in and see her.’
Smythe’s face was grim. ‘Yes. It’s not good, I have to say. She’s in some mess.’
Maybe, thought Lomond, but I bet you anything I’ve seen worse. He did not say it, however. He fought that surging glee, the knowledge that very soon he would have this wrapped up.
‘Weird that she should close herself in like this,’ Smythe said. ‘Like a jungle, almost. Leaves, vines . . .’
‘I don’t blame her at all.’ He pointed over his shoulder. ‘Not much of a view, is it? Not much sunlight either, I bet. Imagine planning your new life in a flat with a balcony, and that’s what you’re looking at. Why not have your own jungle? Why not have outer space? Surface of Mars? Anything but a grotty alleyway and the arse end of a bookies.’
‘Not forgetting the takeaway. Cash only.’
‘Sometimes they’re the best.’ Lomond suppressed a smile – and a sudden rumble in his stomach.
*
The neighbour, Mrs Hanley, was a short, thick-set individual who seemed to be in perpetual motion as she looked from one face to the other.
‘April was always on the go – worked at the doctors’. Probably had a good phone voice. Not sure if I ever got her on the line, though. I thought she’d be good for getting you in for an appointment . . .’
Lomond nodded, taking notes out of politeness. ‘Did she have many visitors?’
‘Well, she had a man come over . . . sometimes stayed over, you know? Tall, good head of hair, totally grey. She split up with her husband. Nasty divorce, I think. Sometimes there was a daughter. Grown up.’
‘How long have you lived next to her?’
‘As long as she’s been here. Four years?’
‘What did you reckon to her garden?’
‘Garden?’ The woman spluttered. ‘I wouldn’t go that far. More like a tent, a windbreak on the beach. God knows what she was thinking with that. Absolute eyesore. Is this important?’
‘Absolutely. Did you ever see anyone hanging about the back court, or on the fire escape?’
‘Nah, never. I think some folk wanted it taken down, you know? It’s a bit old and rickety. But no one used it to break into the houses. You’d need to jump across, and even if you could, you’d need to get the gear down the back steps . . . it’s all locked up tight. Never had any problems like that, no prowlers or peeping toms, nothing . . .’ Then it occurred to her. ‘That how he got in? Through the fire escape? My God.’
‘There’s nothing for you to worry about, Mrs Hanley. I don’t think anyone will try to break in here again.’
‘Was it him? That’s what she said, you know. When she started screaming. That’s when I called the polis. I said, I don’t think she’s kidding on, but my Alan said it was probably a wind-up. He went through when she screamed again and battered her door.’
‘You’ve been a great help, Mrs Hanley. And please don’t worry,’ Lomond said, as Smythe caught his eye.
*
Now in white overalls, masked and using the stepping plates to avoid contamination, they went into the flat itself. Lomond scanned the kitchen: the table barely big enough for one, the mug and teaspoon in the drainer at the sink, and, beyond that, the jungle.
‘Security system is FiveBarGate,’ he said.
Smythe peered at the unit on the wall, the tiny screen still showing the balcony. ‘Looks like it. How did you know?’
‘Same as the other ones.’ Lomond narrowed his eyes, taking in the jungle outside. Like a windbreak at the beach, Mrs Hanley had said, and she was absolutely right. It looked daft, but totally understandable. Why have a blank wall when you could put a nice picture up? Why have a wall at all if you couldn’t decorate it? He felt a sadness for April Burgess’s life, her tiny flat, the twists and turns that might have led her here, to her seat down at the doctor’s surgery, fielding angry calls all day.
He swallowed it. ‘Where’s the box?’
‘Next door.’
It was placed on the dressing table. Cardboard box, no obvious markings. Unblemished and unbashed, a box that might have been mailed within another box. Well packaged, everything slotting together perfectly.
The box was flipped over. A red scarf trailed out of the lid, a tongue, from a mouth above which were two cartoon eyeballs drawn on by marker. Crazy pupils, pointing at weird angles. Lomond looked for some significance in the drawing, some angle. A clue from someone who maybe wanted to be caught. At their core, so many of them did, even the really bad ones. But this bore no coordinates, no cryptography.
‘Can’t see inside it yet,’ Lomond said – a remark, not a question. Smythe did not respond. ‘Let’s go and see her.’
*
The lights were too bright, but Lomond was not minded to extinguish them. The curtains were drawn. The room was warm, the heating put on especially. The bed had several layers of thin blankets, with fancy stitching round the sides. Very old bedding, perhaps second-hand, the sort an older lady might have. The kind of place they might be found dead one day, arms folded, posed as April Burgess was posed. Even down to the folded hands, lying on top of the bedclothes.
She was on her back, bloodshot eyes staring, face a mottled grey. Lomond nodded to the two uniformed officers, who left quietly.
He pulled out the padded seat from underneath the dressing table and sat down gently, giving Smythe loads of space. Smythe crouched down, and reached out for one of the hands. They’d be cold, Lomond knew. The heat and the blood rushing to where it needed to go. In extremity. In shock.
April’s eyes shifted left, taking in Smythe. Then they shifted right, and took in Lomond. He expected a scream.
‘It’s OK, April,’ Smythe said, leaning close. She put her other hand over April’s. They clutched her tight. ‘It’s absolutely fine. We’re here to help. Just take your time.’
But she emerged quickly, faster than Lomond had supposed. He knew to say nothing. He knew that just a man’s voice would be disastrous. But he had to hear what she said.
‘He said I was a warning,’ April told them, her voice gurgling on the end of each sentence. ‘He said I was to sit and wait. He put the box over my head. He said not to move or I’d be like the rest. I thought I was going to be like the rest. I’d locked the door. I had the camera on. He wasn’t on it. He’s invisible. He said I was to tell you. Warn you. Said I was to tell you he’s the devil and he’s going to keep going. He kept me alive. He kept me alive so people would know. So people would know he can get in and out anywhere. He said you had to know.’
51
‘Nice interview room this, by the way. I heard the two-way glass and stuff is a myth, though? Is it?’
Lomond placed his hands on the table top. ‘Benny, I’m trying to catch the guy who killed Kath Symes. Do you want to help me or not?’
Benny Kettles hadn’t lost any teeth or broken any bones, but it must have hurt to talk. Lomond shivered on his behalf every time that stitched mouth opened.
‘Aye,’ Kettles said. ‘Stupid question, if I’m honest.’
‘Good. You can help us catch the guy who killed your pal. I know it wasn’t you. OK?’
Kettles began to twitch. Lomond was almost braced for him to leap forward onto his hands, legs flailing. But ‘OK’ was all he said, eyes filling up.
‘It’s clear to me that you were very close to Kath Symes and, my God, son, I’m sorry. Someone did an appalling thing. Absolutely terrible. Totally senseless. What you tell us could be very, very important. I want to know why you got in a scrap with Vincent Finch.’
‘It’s not vital to the investigation, but I’d like to know,’ Slater said.
‘Well.’ Kettles folded his arms and leaned back in the chair. Tears spilled from his eyes. He made no effort to wipe them away. ‘Thing is, Vincent Finch is a prick. And I can prove it.’
‘Tell me about it,’ Lomond said earnestly. ‘Everything.’
‘Well. I found out that Vincent Finch and his ex-wife, Mrs Gangstery-McGangster, whatever her name is, have been trying to mess me around.’
Lomond and Slater said nothing.
‘What I mean by that is, they’ve been dumping vermin at my sites.’
‘You mean your property? That side of your business?’
‘It’s only business,’ Kettles said, a little hurriedly.
‘How do you know this?’
‘Well. The first time I had a biblical plague of cockroaches, I thought, damn, that’s an inconvenience. Like dodgy plumbing. You accept it’s something that’ll happen. I paid a pest controller. He sorted it, but he told me a weird thing: there were no signs that cockroaches had ever been on the site. He said it looked like a load of them had been dumped. So I was suspicious when I bought another site out in Paisley, built a few flats and, all of a sudden, I had a rat problem.’
‘And what made you think Vincent Finch was behind it?’
‘I carried out enquiries. I made like a maverick policeman who plays chess and quotes philosophy, and I caught the bastard.’
‘That’s our job,’ Slater said.
‘Oh, right enough. Yeah, like that’ll work. I call up my local friendly police station and tell them my half-baked theories. Think they’ll be interested?’
‘What kind of enquiries did you carry out?’
‘Well, I put a wee bit of cheddar into a trap, sat back and waited. I had a new site, out near Temple in Anniesland, and I set up a camera system. Had a drone ready. Something set it off. You know what it was?’
‘A UFO?’ Slater offered.
‘Correct. Until I identified it as another drone. Someone was carrying out surveillance on my site. So I used my drone to spy on their drone. Got a model number too. There’s a register of them. And let’s just say I’ve got sources. I traced the drone to Vincent Finch. Sure enough, a week or two after this, a big load of rats got dumped at the same site in Temple. So you tell me – was I right or wrong?’
‘What was your next step?’ Lomond asked.
‘Well, first I knocked his stupid drone out the sky. Thought he might get the message. Then a load of cockroaches appeared at a cottage I was renovating. That’s when I went to speak to him.’
In a tone that would have turned a glass of milk, Slater said, ‘And having gone through all that, how do you feel about being beaten up by Vincent Finch?’
‘How do I feel? About this?’ Kettles pulled back his top lip, revealing the ugly line of tiny knots and threads. ‘I couldn’t care less. I got a reaction out of him. Flying drones, dumping pests on my projects – the guy’s a menace. A gangster. He didn’t marry Nicole Kingsley because he’s a soft touch; you need to be seriously out of your mind to be part of that family. I took him on.’
‘You’ve given us some very helpful information,’ Lomond said. ‘Do you have footage you can give us to back it up?’
‘Suppose so,’ Kettles mumbled.
‘Great. Please take care of yourself, Mr Kettles. The aftereffects of an assault can creep up on you.’
Slater said, ‘What is it that makes an anti-establishment comedy guy go into the property business? I mean, you’re a bit political, aren’t you? Police and government, authorities, you don’t like them. But developers and landlords, they’re all part of the system, and that means you. I don’t get it.’
Kettles spread his hands and exhaled. ‘It’s . . . a job. I don’t like it. Who does? Do you like your job, Inspector?’
