A Shot In The Night (John Harper Series Book 2) (16 page)

I
was still going over the case files with Spencer when my phone rang.  The
number was yet another that I didn’t recognise and as much as I dislike talking
on the phone to strangers I thought it best to answer, “Hello?”

“Is
that Detective Harper?”

“Yeah
and who is this?”

“It’s
Matthew Thompson from the community centre, you said to give you a call if I
found out anything.”

His
words made me sit up, “So what have you got?”

“I
think you should get down here.”

There
was an urgency in his voice that compelled me to believe him, “On my way,” I
stood up and put on my jacket, “Spencer, this isn’t the favour you owe me. That
is a big chit to hold on you, but I need a lift.”

“Why?
You have your own car.”

“Because,
Detective Inspector, I want to have a drink later and I really can’t be arsed
driving.  If you ferry me there you might find something useful in your
investigation.”

Spencer
glared at me and then shrugged his resignation, “Fine, let’s go.”

I
smiled in victory, drained the rest of my tea and splashed some after
aftershave on my face and followed him out the door.  The drive to the
community centre was excruciating in its silence since I didn’t have anything
to really add to the case and Spencer really is a dull human being.  When we
arrived I was glad to get out of the car and positively skipped through the
door and away from my chauffeur.

Matthew
Thompson looked nearly as tired as Spencer when he beckoned me over as a group
of youths played table tennis and another set moved portable cots to a storage
space.  The man, wearing the same clothes as the day before, quickly ushered
Spencer and myself into a side room which appeared to be his office and used to
be the vestry.

It
was a small room off the hall with walls lined with posters and dry wipeboards
that had rotas and timetables scrawled on them.  The furniture was minimal
other than a battered filing cabinet with two drawers open and two grey plastic
chairs with black metal legs facing a large old wooden desk that didn’t fit
with the decrepit surroundings.  The writing desk must have been part of
furniture from the original building as I saw no way it would get out of the
doorway now.  Part of me, the more cynical side, recognised it as an excellent
barricade against any youth who tried to get through the door, the more
appreciative side saw it as a piece of beautiful craftsmanship that would be
underappreciated in such a place.

I
introduced the other detective as Thompson went around the desk and sat at the
other chair, a more comfortable looking piece with actual padding.  I took it
as a sign to start the conversation, “So what have you got for us?”

Thompson
bit his lip for a moment and then ducked behind the desk, his body disappearing
from view as he went into one of the drawers, “We run a safe drop here for guns
in case someone wants to give up their weapons anonymously.  It’s an old heavy
duty safe set into the stone structure originally used for donations.  The
staff check it every hour or so and if there is anything in there we inform the
authorities and it’s removed.  Well, that’s what we used to do till the kids
thought it funny to put dog crap in there.”

“I
take it the police didn’t want to keep coming out for that.”

“No
they didn’t,” he said reappearing with a plastic bag, “which is why I thought
it best to give this to you.”

Thompson
opened the bag and out rolled a revolver on to the desk with a heavy clunk. 
Spencer and I both leaned forward for a better look and instinctively we went
for gloves inside our jacket pockets, “When did it arrive?” I asked
breathlessly.

“I
don’t know.  I’ve been working all night with the homeless.  My shift ended
hours ago but it’s usually hectic trying to sort out all of the cots and the
rest.  When I saw the gun I put it in here, locked it away and then I heard
about that couple being shot and that’s when I thought it best to speak to
you.”

I
was quicker than Spencer with a set of latex gloves and lifted the weapon up by
the small lanyard ring, which was particularly difficult due to the weight. 
Spencer leaned close to me and I could smell the coffee on his breath as he
spoke, “You know what type of gun this is?”

“Yeah
it’s the Webley Mark IV in .38 calibre,” I replied looking at the gun as closely
as possible, noticing dried blood around the muzzle.

“That’s
the same calibre as was used last night.”

Lifting
the weapon closer I sniffed it and smelt the faint odours of gunpowder and
cordite, “And it was fired recently.”

Delicately
I passed it to Spencer who opened the weapon to reveal six cartridge shells,
all spent, nestling in the recesses of the cylinder.  He then placed it back in
the plastic bag and asked, “Do you know who put it in the safe drop?”

“No,
that’s part of the system; it’s there to protect people’s identities.  I take
it you think that this was the weapon used last night,” Thompson said having
patiently watched the two of us paw at the revolver.  A thought crept into my
mind that in a different time he would have probably been behind a desk like
the one before him preaching as a reverend or a vicar, so much was he a carer
for the public, but now in an age where religion took a back seat he was just
another public sector worker.

Spencer
answered before I could, “I think there is a very good chance someone handed in
a weapon that has committed four murders that we know of.”

Thompson
let out a low whistle and then ran his hand through his hair, “Why would anyone
do such a thing?  Surely it can only help your investigation?”

I
looked at the weapon again before I spoke, “If the guy is as clever as I think
then I doubt it.  I’m getting the distinct feeling that whoever this shooter
is, they’ve just put two fingers up at the investigators.”

“What
do you mean?” Thompson questioned.

“Giving
us the gun is like saying we never would have gotten it in the first place if
the murderer hadn’t gift wrapped it for us in a plastic bag.”

Spencer
looked at me and shook his head, “I think you’re reading too much into this,
Harper.  Some kid could have found the gun and dropped it off or maybe the
gunman grew a conscience after shooting that couple,” he then turned to
Thompson, “he’s always looking into these things more than he has to.  Thinks
because he did a course in profiling he can read a killer just by the crime
scene and random facts.”

Thompson
smiled at that and I was compelled to defend myself, “Sometimes profiling can
help in complex cases because it narrows down the suspect pool.  In a case like
this it can be really helpful when the suspect pool is essentially half a
city.  Yes, that’s a slight exaggeration I know, but unless there are some
fibres or a fingerprint on that gun it doesn’t really help us.  Giving us the
gun is one thing but the actual weapon is a bigger indication to me about the shooter’s
disdain for the police.”

“You
can’t say things like that without telling the rest of the story, Detective,”
Thompson said, the grin still on his face.

“That
revolver has quite a long history.  That model was once the service weapon to
the armed forces and, for a time, the police.  In fact there are still a few
around the country in armouries so rumour has it.”

“So
that gun once upon a time upheld justice,” Thompson delivered with just the
hint of preaching and all I could do was nod my agreement.

Spencer
wasn’t happy with my inability to further his investigation.  I had not been
able to provide him with a clear suspect but the acquisition of what appeared
to be the murder weapon would be a major coup for the detective.  He was still
struggling to make an impression having moved from the suburbs to the city and
the difference in the severity of cases it entailed.  Finding Ambrose’s name
and now a deadly weapon would advance his cause on such a big case and the
better he did with my help meant he was more beholden to me.

Still,
Spencer was good enough to drop me off at the sports hall that was serving as
the location for the fighting event.  It was a large complex which was linked
to one of the universities but served a large area.  He still maintained the
stony silence that made each mile feel like ten.  The manners I’d been raised
to uphold still made me invite Spencer but luckily we both knew he needed to
get the Webley to the lab as fast as possible and he jumped at that excuse to
go.

Standing
outside, I realised quite quickly that I was overdressed for the occasion. 
Most of the crowd that were arriving wore t-shirts and jeans.  Some of the more
fashion conscious wore designer gear and the majority of the women present
dressed in revealing and tight fitting apparel.  It was an unusual mix of fight
enthusiasts and people just having a good time.  I was just happy to see people
paying for a fledgling sport.  More than one gang member I’d met over my career
had made a better life for themselves by learning a martial art.  Anything that
instils discipline and structure whilst providing a physical outlet has always
had my support and attention.

The
light was fading in the sky and when I went inside I was presented with the
dilemma of turning left and straight into the event or to the right and the
bar.  Smelling the faint aroma of pub food I decided on the latter.  Even
though the main title events were hours away the bar area was busy.  A couple
of fighters and trainers drank juice, distinguishable from the rest of the
crowd by their jackets which had no sleeves and were often trimmed with
silver.  The logos for ten different gyms that I could count mingled with no
animosity.  In a couple of hours they would be cheering on their fighters and
hoping their rival gyms took a beating.

Ordering
a pint of Guinness and a plate of chips with a cheeseburger, I stood to one
side and watched the football results scroll along the screen whilst waiting
for the afternoon kick off to start.  It was between two teams that were
already in the relegation zone and showed little to suggest that come May they
would secure safety.  I was relaxing for the first time that week when I felt a
hand on the crook of my elbow surprising me enough to nearly jerk and spill my
beverage.  I turned to see the Camille Jarvis standing before me wearing a grey
pant suit with a purple blouse beneath the jacket.

“Sorry
I startled you, John.”

“I
was just shocked someone was more overdressed than myself,” I replied taking a
sip from my beer.

Camille
looked down at her outfit and then flashed me that heart stopping smile, “I’ve
come straight from an interview.  I’ve been trying to get in touch with you all
day.”

“Huh
hadn’t noticed,” I said dismissively and returned my gaze to the football,
suddenly finding it much more interesting.

Camille
was having none of my attempt to ignore her and moved to stand between me and
the television, the problem being she wasn’t tall enough to hinder all of my
view, “John, come on, you’ve got to see this from my point of view.  It was a
great story and I needed to be out in front of it.”

“Then
I’m sure you’re not worried at all about the deaths last night,” I leant in
close and whispered to her in a menacing tone, “I’m sure Big Saul is the
forgiving type.”

“You’re
not going to scare me away, John.  I’m sorry and I’ll do what I can to make it
up to you.”

I
looked down from the television to stare into her eyes.  Camille was difficult
to read and I got the feeling she really didn’t care as long as she could
advance her career.  She was right, though much like with Spencer the further
those people progressed up the ladder with my help the better for my fledgling
private investigation company, “Why are you here Camille?  It’s not like you to
apologise without being forced.”

“Because
I wanted to know if you knew anything more about what happened last night. 
Somehow you’ve managed to be one step ahead of the police investigation, you
were there when Ambrose died, I’d love to do an exclusive interview with you
and your partner into that.  There’s also the continued shootings…do you think
they are all linked?” Camille rattled off quickly.

Not
wanting to really be involved in a long conversation with the journalist whilst
I was supposed to be enjoying myself and about to meet a source I adopted her
fast talking style, “One short interview and you forget there was ever a second
person there.  I’m in no way ahead of the investigation I just followed my own
lead and found Ambrose but unfortunately you ruined that.  As for links, well I
wouldn’t suggest it was all one person but if you want a scoop then I need
assurances.”

“Such
as what?”

“You’ve
screwed me before, sweetheart, and not in a good way.  I want tighter control
on what you print.  If you start messing with me, I’ll drop your site and then
I’ll come after you,” My tone had turned from jovial to icy, “But I am willing
to work with you if you start and continue to give me information I need.  On
occasion I would also like you to run some stories for me.”

“So
you want a pet journalist in your pocket?” she asked crossing her arms, the
anger evident in her voice.

“More
like a symbiotic relationship.  I help puff up your pieces with my experience
and information you can’t get.  It would, however, work both ways.”

She
bit her lower lip and then sighed, “If you want a formal relationship, I’m all
for it.  So let’s get started, what do you have for me?”

I
was a little surprised at how quickly she had jumped at the opportunity and of
course I was going to put as much trust in her as a chocolate teapot but I
could understand why.  Much like Spencer proving his worth in a new department,
Camille needed to show that she wasn’t just a one trick pony to the expectant
media.  Most local reporters didn’t bother to do any sort of investigative
journalism, happy to report the most mundane of stories. I was lucky Camille
wasn’t one of them, “Buy me a drink to seal the deal.”

“Fine,”
she said in the frustrated way most people get after speaking to me for long
periods of time.

Chuckling
to myself, I stood there and drained the dregs of my pint.  It was another
small victory for me and although I still harboured anger towards Camille over
the Ambrose incident, the silver lining was that I had learnt a valuable lesson
in dealing with her.  She came back and handed me another plastic pint glass,
“Thanks.”

“Erm
John I’ve got to go,” Camille said as she glanced over her shoulder.

“I
thought you wanted to have a quick expose piece?”

“Maybe
tomorrow,” she said with an unusual tone in her voice that was vaguely like
fear.

“Right,
well don’t you want that juicy piece of information that no one else knows?  I
mean it’s pretty big stuff.”

Camille
turned around looking through the expanding crowd, “Can you just text it me? 
I’ve really got to go.”

“Sure,”
with that she kissed me gently on the cheek and basically ran out of the
building.  I thought it suspicious but chalked it up the unerring quality of
women to change their minds at the drop of a hat.