A Need To Kill (DI Matt Barnes) (21 page)

Lucas had not been foolish enough to collect the cash himself.  The dipshit he had got to play the stooge was a user; his only aspiration, to get enough money for the next chemical-induced high, that would alleviate his craving for a short period.  Drugs were for no-brainers.  It started as a recreational habit, especially among the rich and show biz types who snort
ed coke and popped downers and uppers at parties.  Trouble was, the shit soon had you by the balls.  It became a dependency; a need that would not be ignored or easily relinquished.  He knew all about need, but his was not to stick a rolled bank note up his nostrils and do lines of mind-numbing nose candy.  His was a far more rewarding form of enslavement.  Not that he couldn’t stop. It was all a matter of choice.  He chose to follow his heart.  Why deny yourself?

He had gone into the museum wearing a false moustache, a loose, knitted cap and baggy clothing.  He had hunched his shoulders and affected a shorter-stepped walk, and kept his eyes down.  CCTV was like a virulent cancer ravaging society: Big Brother.  Orwell was farsighted and near to the mark with his visionary imagination.  He had been able to look at known values and recognise the path that paranoid governments would take.  They w
ould like every citizen to give a DNA sample, be fingerprinted, and carry ID, supposedly for the better protection of the many against the few.  The new age of terror had given them licence to erode civil rights and introduce what they labelled Emergency Laws, to circumnavigate democracy.  Britain was fast becoming like China or North Korea, insular and distrusting to the point of raging paranoia.

He watched Villiers, as the no-good politician nervously walked through the galleries looking at his wristwatch every twenty seconds.  It was good to see a member of parliament outside the venerated halls of
Westminster, in the real world and paying for being caught out.  There was no way he could use spin to save his worthless skin.

As Villiers made his way towards the toilets after twenty-eight minutes had passed, Lucas actually walked passed him and almost brushed shoulders.  He left the building and phoned McCall, who was in place, ready to push the backpack under the door of the stall next to his.

Thirty minutes later, Villiers hurried out of the building and walked briskly away. Lucas phoned McCall and said, “You got it?”

“
Yeah, man.  Now what?”

“
Leave the museum and walk to the South Kensington tube.  You want to be on the District line to Blackfriars.  Then go over the bridge and down onto the Riverside Walk. Head west towards Waterloo Bridge.  I’ll be watching you all the way, so don’t get cute. I’ll give you a bell and let you know where to dump the backpack.”

“
When do I get paid?”

“
You take a grand out of the bag when I tell you to.  Don’t even think of taking anymore.  If you do, I’ll kill you.  Understand?”

Lucas waited.  As McCall appeared at the door of the museum, three guys jumped him and pushed him to the ground.  One, of what he knew must be plainclothes cops, held a gun to McCall
’s temple as another cuffed him and the third went through his pockets.

He didn
’t hang around.  The eyes of the cop with the gun were everywhere.  He looked lean and mean, and capable of being as ruthless as the men he undoubtedly spent his days hunting.

Back at the car park, where he had left the van, Lucas sat behind the wheel with his eyes closed
, trying unsuccessfully to put the incident behind him.  It was not the failure to get his hands on the money that ate at him, but the fact that Villiers and the police had conspired to apprehend him.  That was unforgivable and could not go unpunished.  The cop with the gun had been in charge of the operation, of that he was certain. The plod was therefore responsible. But before he devised a plan to collect his money from the cop, he would see if McCall could convince them that he was not the killer they sought.  He had insisted that the junkie wear his ring, which was the only conceivable clue – by way of its impression – that he had left at the scenes.  Maybe McCall would be the perfect fall guy and end up doing life for crimes he had no knowledge of.  It would be a given that the pathetic dickhead would be unable to furnish alibis for specific dates.  He probably didn’t even know what year it was.  What could he tell them?  That a total stranger found him sleeping rough and asked him to wear the ring and go collect a sack full of money.  Yeah, and the Great Wall of China is made of Lego!

Lucas pulled off the
hat and the false moustache.  His top lip was itching from the spirit gum that had held it firmly in place.  He started the van and drove away.  It was knowing when to back off and when to press forward that decided most things in life.  Timing was the key to killing, as well as the delivery of a good joke.  Well, his jokes might not make the recipients of them laugh, but they amused him.  The art of well-being was to not let the bastards grind you down.  He would not let them ruffle his feathers.  Staying calm and collected and dealing with adversity was a challenge he was up to.  He made the rules, changed them at will, and was therefore always ahead of the game.  Life might be a game of chance, but he was the House, not the feckless punters that feverishly tried to break the bank, without acknowledging that the odds were stacked heavily against them.  Villiers, the money, and the cop were just so much spilt milk, which he would mop up in due course. This turn of events decided him to abduct another whore and install her in the loft.  Any killing would now be carried out with a totally different MO.  For the time being, redheaded prostitutes would not be on his menu.

That evening, with
phony plates on the van, he went across the river and headed for the East End.  If the opportunity presented itself, he would treat himself to an attractive young female, to take home and amuse himself with.

Matt and Pete kept the coffeemaker continuously employed in producing vast quantities of rich Colombian Java as they viewed the time/date-encoded video tapes from the museum’s CCTV system.

“
I think Marsha’s tapes were far more entertaining,” Pete said.

“
That’s because you’re a lecherous perv,” Matt said.

“
Nobody’s perfect, boss.  That’s why porn is so popular.  Most men get off by watching it.  And Marsha’s stuff was a lot better than
Debbie Does Dallas
.”

“
There!” Matt said, hitting the rewind button on the remote, then playing it again. “That guy fits McCall’s description.”

The grainy film showed a man in dark clothing, walking up to the main entrance doors.  He kept his face angled down, but the thick moustache and woolly hat individualised him.

“What if McCall isn’t the airhead we take him for, boss?  He could have seen this guy in the museum and just thrown his description out to mislead us.”

“
I don’t buy that, Pete.  McCall doesn’t have the acumen to organise a piss-up in a brewery.  I think he’s the perfect patsy for our boy.  He can’t furnish us with any details of his whereabouts when the murders were committed, and the desk sergeant said that the ring was falling off his finger; maybe three sizes too big.  The killer isn’t stupid enough to walk up and collect the money himself.  We have his mobile, and can verify what calls were made since it was reported stolen.  Whoever McCall talked to was choreographing the action from nearby.  Trouble is, he will have dumped the phone
he
used.”

They had sightings of
‘Walrus’ taken from four different cameras.  Not once did he raise his head high enough to give them a clear look at his face.  He knew that the cameras were there.  The last footage of him, after he had actually walked past Villiers, was of him leaving the building and vanishing from sight.

“
There must be traffic cameras that will show if he got into a vehicle,” Matt said.  “Arrange for us to get them ASAP, Pete.  And let’s see if Kenny Ruskin can find something on these tapes that he can digitally enhance.”

“
You think that Villiers will be contacted again, or targeted for coming to us and helping set a trap?”

“
Who knows?  We’ll keep him under protection for a while, just in case.”

Tom opened the door and came in.  Headed straight for the coffee and
filled a mug before saying a word.

“
You got outsmarted,” he said to Matt.  “The guy somehow cottoned on to the fact that he was leaving his mark, so hired a nonentity to wear the ring and sent him to the front-line.  You were convinced you had your man, and moved.  We have nothing but a description of a guy who was no doubt heavily disguised.”

“
With hindsight, you make it sound like we blew it, Tom,” Matt said.  “We went with what we had at the time.  You okayed the operation.”

“
Yeah, I know, but Adams is calling us amateurs.”

Matt
grinned.  “So tell him to go to the Area Major Investigation Pool and hand over all the evidence.  I’m sure AMIP would get a kick out of seeing the videos of top cops’ hairy arses, and a lot more besides.”

“
You don’t want to give up this case, Matt, so don’t be flippant.”

“
I’m being pragmatic.  What Grizzly or Divisional commander Ransom think counts for less than what the tea lady might have to say on the matter.  They both have careers that could be pulled like a bath plug, if someone was to send some 8x10s to the newspapers.”

Tom sighed. 
“Point being, we need to find a new angle.  I want the description we have of the guy, and photos of the ring put out.  Somebody knows him, and now that we have the ring, anyone who knew he wore it is potentially at risk.  I’ll get Adams to jack up an airing on
Crimewatch
.  You can―”

“
Don’t even say it, Tom.  Do I look like a coconut in a fucking shy.  I’ve just been on two psychos’ ‘wish to kill’ list.  I might be the officer in charge of the case, but I draw the line at fronting a Q and A session on camera.  If you want to go on the box, be my guest. Or better still get Adams to do it.  I’ve decided to keep it impersonal and live a little longer.”

Julie Spencer felt fine until she lurched out through the door of the pub on Old Ford Road in Bethnal Green.  She had let some barfly, who thought he was Hugh Grant, ply her with too much gin and tonic.  When he started groping her, she had told him to piss off.  She was not into one night stands with strangers.  She had been there and got the T-shirt. There had been a time when she would get stoned out of her mind and drop her panties for any bloke who had nowhere to park his pecker.  Had even, on one occasion only, leaned over the pool table after hours, as drunk as a skunk, and let the entire home and away darts teams queue up and take her.  She had passed out, to come round with her face on the blue baize, and the landlord’s Great Dane, Barney, going hell for leather, pounding into her, panting and slobbering on her neck.  That had been a turning point in her life. She screwed her loaf and realised that you couldn’t get much lower than having a pub dog fuck you.  She had not been anywhere near the Coach and Horses since that night three years ago, but still got barked at if one of the louts who had been there that night recognised her.

Julie walked through Victoria Park along
Grove Road, which was well-lit.  It was a route she took home from the pub at least four evenings a week.  She stopped, lit a cigarette, and wished that her head would stop spinning.  She was pissed and knew it.  She staggered on with tears running down her cheeks.  At twenty-four she was alone, could not settle in a meaningful relationship, and was stuck in a job at a laundry that was killing her a little each and every day.  She sweated long hours for low pay in sauna-hot conditions.  If she’d been bright enough to stay on at school and get an education, then maybe...  Trouble was, she was no good at anything, except bonking.  And the men she met were all of her kind, going nowhere fast.  She wanted a future to look forward to, and daydreamed of a little house in the sticks, and having kids, and a husband who she could love and respect and want to spend her life with.

Once certain that the woman was alone, he followed in the van and did a drive
by to satisfy himself that she was suitable.  Yes.  She was in her twenties, shapely, and quite good-looking in a cheap and common way.  Her skirt was tight and rode her thighs.  Her hair was blonde, back combed in a sixties bouffant style that gave her the look of a young Dusty Springfield.

He moved quickly.  The road was clear of traffic, and he only needed a few seconds.

Julie kept walking as the van pulled to a stop alongside her.  If some kerb crawler thought she was at it, then he was wasting his time.  She might be a little promiscuous, but did not sell her favours.  She had nothing against working girls, but could not imagine letting some of the freaks who needed to pay for it near her.

The figure jumped out of the van and ran straight at her.

Even as Julie thought to scream or run away, she was too late.  He punched her once, hard in the stomach, and as she grunted and doubled up, he caught her around the waist and bundled her to the kerb, to smoothly open one of the van’s rear doors, throw her in, and climb in after her.  She was soon gagged and bound with tape, and covered by an old, damp, stained blanket.