In their stroppy mood they had failed to see that if the sniper was a policeman targeting specific victims he had to know the beat rosters at three different stations over a period of twelve weeks.
Just about impossible.
So there was still a chance that the “You’re next” note was a joke, as Halliwell had first suggested, unrelated to Harry Tasker’s shooting and not connected to the crime. If so, then Gull, blast him, could be right in his assumption that the choice of victims was random.
I’m losing my authority here, he thought, and my case isn’t watertight. I’ve failed to convince my team. Usually I have a sense of what is solid evidence, but have I been too hasty here?
He had a nagging suspicion that he was motivated by the rivalry with Jack Gull. Had he let the man get under his skin to that degree?
Uncharacteristically, he backed down.
‘I’m not going to make an insubordination issue out of this,’ he told them, making it sound as much like a smooth transition as he could. ‘We’ve been together too long to allow a difference of opinion to stop us from functioning. I don’t mind admitting that what I suggested takes some swallowing. I’ve had longer than you to think it over. Keith …’
Halliwell did a fair impersonation of a rabbit in headlights. ‘Guv?’
‘You can disregard that order I just gave you. I’ll re-examine everything I just said. In return I’m asking you — all of you — to reflect further. If you have any better ideas, then for God’s sake make them known to me.’
This, from their shit-or-bust leader, created as big a sensation as the issue itself.
In the Wife of Bath (a Pierrepont Street restaurant renowned for its generous portions) that evening with Paloma Kean, his friend and occasional partner, the shit-or-bust leader confessed to bust. ‘I boxed myself in. Messed up totally. I could feel the ground crumbling under me and there was nothing I could do. Even as I was speaking I knew if I were one of them I’d feel just as angry.’
‘But if you believe a policeman is involved in the crimes, it has to be faced,’ she said.
‘Only if it’s true. The question is whether the evidence stacks up, and it does — but not enough.’
‘Go on.’
‘I can’t work out how he knew so much about the day-to-day running of three different police stations.’
‘Was he transferred? That happens, doesn’t it?’
‘Not twice in three months.’
‘Are the beat duties notified to your headquarters?’
‘Good thinking, but no. It’s decided at the local level. There’s enough form-filling without that.’
‘I’ve run out of ideas, then.’
‘Me, too, more’s the pity.’
‘There’s another thing I can’t understand,’ Paloma said. ‘Why would the sniper send a note like that? What’s the point?’
His eyes widened. This was a different angle. ‘Bragging, I suppose.’
‘It conflicts with everything else he does. He’s secretive, stealthy, keeps his distance. Why risk sending a note and potentially revealing information about himself?’
He started thinking aloud. ‘Maybe all the secrecy doesn’t satisfy him. He wanted Harry Tasker to know he was next for execution.’ He leaned back in his chair and rested the knife and fork on the plate. ‘You’re onto something here. The note doesn’t have much point unless there’s some history behind it. I wonder if Harry himself knew why the others had been murdered. There could have been bad blood that involved all three — and the killer. Then the note makes sense. It was sent out of malice. Harry received it and knew his turn had come. For the sniper, that brought satisfaction.’
‘Sadistic.’
‘That’s my reading, anyway.’
‘If I received a note like that and knew what it meant, I wouldn’t agree to walk the beat at night,’ Paloma said. ‘I’d find any excuse to save my skin.’
‘Fair point, but where would you be safe? This is a clinical killer. You’d have to resign your job and never leave your home. And would you feel any safer in there? I doubt it.’
‘So you’re saying each of the victims knew who their killer was?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘Couldn’t they have informed on him?’
‘If they all got death notes, you mean? It depends what motivated the murders. I’m speculating now, but it could have been some bad business they didn’t want made public at any cost.’
‘Bad business?’
‘Some kind of scam.’
‘But they were police officers.’
‘We’re not all angels, as I had to remind the team. Corruption gets exposed once in a while, and some goes undetected.’
‘I thought you said the three victims never served together.’
‘Yes, but the sniper could have served with all three at different times. That’s why I’m so committed to getting staff lists and going through the names.’
‘You’re sticking with that?’
‘Definitely, but as a solo effort. My team is dead against it.’
‘They’ll find out,’ she told him.
He nodded. ‘They know me, anyway. Obstinate old bugger.’
‘I’ll second that. You should have gone for that X-ray.’
‘I went. Just didn’t stay.’
‘Is it still painful? You seemed to be limping on the way here.’
‘Trying for sympathy. I can’t get enough.’
‘Well, you look tired.’
‘Lady, that’s not sympathy. That’s a taunt. You don’t tell your date he looks tired.’
She smiled. ‘I wasn’t thinking of this as a date. If it’s sympathy you want, I’ll offer some, but forget the date bit. Men feeling sorry for themselves aren’t much of a turn-on.’
All in all, this hadn’t been his day. He regrouped rapidly. ‘Okay, here’s the deal. Leave out the sympathy, come home with me and we’ll crack open another bottle of wine. Does that sound more like a turn-on?’
Paloma laughed. ‘Kind of.’
14
Yes, it’s another blog from me. The call from Anita couldn’t have come at a worse time. Monday morning and I was driving to the undertaker’s to deliver a vanload of floral tributes for the funeral of an ex-mayor of the city, sprays, wreaths, basket arrangements, the works, including his name spelt out in two-foot high letters in white carnations. The name was Bartholomew, so you’ll understand the struggle I had getting a thing that size into my dinky little van. I was driving with the B resting on my shoulder, the flowers tickling my ear. Anita’s hushed, excited voice on the mobile was like, ‘Babe, it’s me. He’s just walked in, city break man. Can you get here really fast, like in the next five minutes?’
‘Sorry, sweetie,’ I told her. ‘I’m on a job the other side of town.’
‘Ten minutes, then?’
‘No chance. I’m making a delivery.’
‘A delivery? Oh my God! Tell me it’s only flowers.’
What did she think — that I did midwifery as a sideline?
‘You haven’t seen how many. This will take forty minutes, easily, and I have to be respectful. I can’t just dump them and run.’
So the chance went begging.
Later, when all was explained and forgiven, Anita was like, ‘I would have kept him talking if I could. The
