Cop to Corpse (44 page)

After a silence that threatened to go on too long, the curtains started to close around the coffin and the first chords of music filled the chapel.

But the tune didn’t sound right.

‘Lazy bones,’ came Satchmo’s voice.

They’d got the wrong track.

Heads turned. People shifted awkwardly in the pews. The music stopped and the curtains went into reverse.

Finally, ‘Gone Fishing’ took over.

Keeping watch on Emma’s house was more of a challenge than Keith Halliwell had anticipated. The small terrace stood at a right angle to the Upper Bristol Road and the only approach was a narrow passage along the front with a six-foot wall along the left side. Anyone standing there would be as obvious as a bull on a bowling green. The unmarked police car had slotted into a space across the road, but the view from there was side-on.

‘Better split up and keep radio contact,’ he told the other two. ‘I suggest you take the far end of the terrace, Inge. As for you, Paul, find a vantage point somewhere on the gasworks side, at the back.’

‘Do we have any idea who to expect?’ Paul Gilbert said.

Ingeborg rolled her eyes. ‘If you don’t, I do. Why do you think you and I were chosen for this?’

Paul stayed silent, not caring to reveal his ignorance.

‘Be ready for anyone,’ Halliwell said. ‘Soon as they show up and seem interested in the place, we radio each other.’

‘Do we let them break in?’

He nodded. ‘Grab them in the act.’

‘I thought the first duty of a police officer is to prevent crime taking place,’ Ingeborg said.

‘Not this time, kiddo.’

They split up.

Halliwell looked at his watch. Down at Haycombe, the funeral would be under way. He preferred doing this.

A blur of heavy vehicles moved past the window, some of them
rocking the car. As one of the main arteries into Bath, this was not the ideal residential area. There was an army recruitment place and a fitness centre, the Hop Pole pub and an Argos with its own car park. Further along on the north side was Victoria Park, with its play area, but a line of tall conifers behind wire fencing blocked out the light where the car was parked.

Halliwell guessed anyone planning a break-in was likely to approach the terrace from the south, using Midland Road. He made sure his radio was switched on. He’d give the others a few more minutes to take up positions before getting in contact.

Two joggers approached from the Bath direction and passed the terrace without a sideways glance.

Halliwell spoke into the phone. ‘All set?’

‘I’m in place,’ Ingeborg answered.

‘Me, too,’ Paul said.

‘Anyone suspicious, sing out.’

The radio went quiet again. More HGVs thundered past. Halliwell wished he could have had a pound for each minute he’d spent on police duty waiting for something to happen. He’d buy an Aston Martin on the proceeds.

His phone beeped.

‘Yes?’

‘How’s it going?’ Diamond, straight to it, as always.

‘Nothing happened yet, guv. How’s it with you?’

‘Funeral’s over. We’re outside looking at the flowers right now. Then we move off to the Hop Pole.’

‘Lucky you.’

‘It’s tough at the top. Stay sharp and be gentle.’

Confused by the last remark, Halliwell pocketed the phone and heard what he took to be another lorry coming close, but it wasn’t. This was a motorcycle, a powerful machine, coming to a stop in a space a couple of parked cars away. The rider, in black leathers and dark helmet, lowered the kickstand, swung his leg over and pulled up the visor to check the road. Then he crossed, heading straight for Onega Terrace.

‘Stand by,’ Halliwell said into his radio. ‘Guy on a motorbike just arrived. Heading your way on foot.’

In all that gear, the figure could have been anyone of average height and build. Definitely male, Halliwell decided. He watched the approach to the access path, saw the motorcyclist stop in front of
Emma’s house. The gardens were so short that there was not much chance of privacy for the residents. It was easy to see the interiors through the bay windows unless there were blinds or curtains in place. Equally, anyone inside would notice a visitor approaching.

Sometimes you get a feeling whether a house is inhabited or not. It’s an instinct cultivated by door-to-door salesmen and burglars. The motorcyclist, whatever his purpose, seemed to have made up his mind. He didn’t break in. He didn’t need to. He lifted the doormat, looked underneath and picked something up.

‘Give me strength, you couldn’t make it up,’ Halliwell said to himself as the visitor put the key in the door and gained entry. ‘Why are people so bloody obvious? A police family, too.’

The others had to be informed, and fast. He said into the radio, ‘She keeps a spare key under the mat. He’s found it and gone inside.’

‘What do we do now?’ Ingeborg asked. ‘Is that technically a break-in?’

Technically, it wasn’t. In theory the intruder could be there by invitation, a friend or family member, but there wasn’t time to analyse the situation. ‘We close off the exits at front and back. Get as near as you can without being obvious and stop him when he comes out.’ Halliwell left the car and crossed the road. He would cover the obvious escape route, the end of the access path. Ingeborg would be at the far end and Paul would take the back door.

A minute passed.

Two minutes.

Confusing thoughts rushed through Halliwell’s head. Maybe this was just someone who had turned up too late for the funeral and decided to wait in the house for Emma’s return. He could be making himself at home, sitting in front of the TV or helping himself to a cup of tea. On the other hand, he might be ransacking the house, looking for whatever bits of jewellery Emma possessed.

The house was only a box of a place. Shouldn’t take long to search. Any self-respecting thief would go through it in under ten minutes.

There would come a point when the only sensible option was to ring the doorbell and see if anyone came.

Not yet.

He spoke into the radio. ‘Paul, where are you?’

‘Back of the house, right up against the wall by the back door. He can’t see me.’

‘Can you hear anything inside?’

‘Traffic’s too noisy.’

‘We’ll give it three more and then I’ll ring the bell. Inge, are you all set?’

‘All set. Wait, the door’s opening. He’s coming out, coming your way.’

This was it, then. Up to now, Halliwell had been out of sight, using the cover of the end-terrace house. He stepped onto the path and saw the black figure of the motorcyclist striding towards him, having removed the helmet and carrying it in his left hand. Halliwell didn’t recognise him. He was just a youth, but he could be dangerous.

In his right hand was a black plastic sack wrapped around an object with an ominous shape.

‘Hold it,’ Halliwell said, ‘Police.’

The youth dropped the helmet and it skeetered across the path. But he held on to the object in the sack. He ripped open enough of the sack to reveal the barrel of the automatic rifle Halliwell had suspected was inside. He gripped it in the firing position.

Halliwell’s flesh prickled. ‘Drop it,’ he shouted.

The young man spun on his heels and dashed in the other direction, towards Ingeborg.

‘He’s got a gun,’ Halliwell yelled, to warn her. He jammed the radio to his mouth. ‘Paul, get round the front.’ He was already sprinting up the path in pursuit, regardless that the gunman could swing around and fill him with bullets. There was no escape, nowhere to duck and dodge. This was death alley.

The next moves happened in a split-second that – to Halliwell’s adrenaline-charged brain – appeared like a slow motion sequence. The gunman reached the low wall at the end of the path and vaulted over. Ingeborg, crouching out of sight, made a grab for his leg. They crashed to the ground and the gun flew from his hand. Ingeborg held on and the pair of them rolled over and over.

Halliwell leapt over the wall just as Paul Gilbert appeared around the side of the house. Together, they flung themselves onto the struggling man and forced his arms behind his back. Halliwell handcuffed him.

‘You okay?’ he asked Ingeborg.

‘I think so.’ She hauled herself up and tightened the blonde ponytail. ‘You know who this is?’

‘Never seen him before.’

‘Soldier Nuttall’s son, Royston – and that’s a real G36, not one of their plastic jobs.’

‘Don’t handle it, then.’ Halliwell took a pen from his pocket and looped it under the skeletonized frame of the stock. ‘Let’s get him back to the car.’

Royston wasn’t the menacing figure he’d seemed when he arrived. He was shivering like a nervous pup. They walked him back and retrieved the helmet on the way.

‘The guv’nor was expecting him to break in, I reckon,’ Gilbert said.

‘If he did, he could have warned us about the gun,’ Halliwell said.

In the car, Royston was still shaking. ‘Are you going to bang me up in the cells?’

‘That isn’t up to us,’ Halliwell said.

‘I don’t mind if you do,’ he said.

Halliwell pretended not to be baffled by this reaction. ‘That’s all right, then.’

‘Long as you don’t tell my old man.’

So that was the reason for the panic.

‘I expect we will,’ Halliwell said. ‘He’s very concerned about you. He was in this morning asking us to find you.’

In what came out sounding like a whimper, Royston said, ‘I want protection from him. I don’t want to go home.’

‘Right now, son, you’re in no position to dictate terms.’

Halliwell decided he’d better report the arrest to Diamond. He stepped out of the car and used his mobile. ‘Guv.’

‘Yep.’

‘Is this a good moment?’

‘Not bad. I’m in the Hop Pole with a glass in my hand.’

‘We pinched Royston Nuttall coming out of the Tasker house.’

Diamond didn’t sound unduly surprised. ‘Nice work. He was sure to surface at some time. No one got hurt, I hope.’

‘We’re okay. He was carrying a rifle.’ Halliwell felt like adding, ‘And you could have warned us what to expect.’ Only he wasn’t totally certain Diamond had known in advance.

‘That’ll be the murder weapon.’

‘I thought we already found the murder weapon in the river.’

‘This is the one that did for Harry Tasker. Treat it carefully. I expect it’s been wiped of prints, but you never know.’

‘I don’t think I follow you.’

‘It’s a G36 assault rifle, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘It was hidden inside the house and the funeral was Royston’s chance to get it back.’

‘Get it back?’

‘It belongs to his father. That’s why Soldier Nuttall was round at the station this morning. He wasn’t worried about Royston. He wanted the gun back.’

‘I thought all his guns were imitation.’

‘A major player like Nuttall isn’t satisfied with plastic. He has some of the real things squirreled away inside that house. Okay, the search squad didn’t find anything when they raided the place, but that was because Royston had borrowed the G36 some time ago. What better to raise a tough teenager’s street cred than a genuine firearm? He took it into Walcot to impress his friends around the pubs. Unluckily for him, Harry Tasker got to hear about this gun being shown to all and sundry. Harry caught up with the kid and took it off him. In the words of Anderson Jakes, Harry practised what he like doing best – confiscation. He took charge of the gun. But Harry didn’t bring it back to the station. He took it home.’

‘I’m with you now, guv. I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, least of all today, but we all knew Harry was working some kind of racket.’

‘Yes, and he knew Soldier Nuttall would throw a fit if he found out, so he had Royston by the short and curlies. He could demand money whenever he ran into him, the same as he collected hush money from other kids he’d caught misbehaving. It’s not surprising Harry was so insistent that no one else walked that beat.’

‘I guess the raid alerted Nuttall and made him check his personal firearms.’

‘For sure. Royston panicked and fled the house. He’d already got the idea that with Harry dead he might have a chance to get the gun back. He was watching the Tasker house the other day when I visited Emma. I was almost knocked over by a motorbike revving up and racing away.’

‘For a second time.’

‘Right, but different bike and different rider. It had to be Royston
this time and he was bound to work out that the funeral – with Emma out of the way – was the ideal time to get inside and collect his dad’s property.’

‘You don’t think he’s Harry’s killer?’

‘Royston? No, I don’t. Tell me something. You said you pinched Royston, but you didn’t say where. Did you go inside the house?’

‘No. We waited for him to come out. He didn’t break in, you see. The key was under the doormat.’

‘Handy.’

‘Stupid, we thought. Asking for trouble.’

Diamond didn’t want to get into that kind of debate. ‘Look, I’ve got to go now. Keep the kid under arrest. He won’t object. He’s safer with us than he is if we let him go.’

Halliwell had discovered that much from Royston himself. He was still listening to Diamond, but his attention had been drawn across the street, to Emma’s house. ‘Hold on, guv. Something’s happening here. A bloke just walked up the path to the house. He seems to have a key and he’s letting himself in.’

‘D’you know him?’

‘Christ, yes, I do. We interviewed him at the Paragon. It’s Sean Willis, the smart-arse civil servant in the top flat who belongs to the gun club.’

32

T
he Hop Pole, Emma’s choice for the refreshments after the funeral, was only a few hundred yards along the Upper Bristol Road from Onega Terrace. It was her local, and she couldn’t have found a better one. The dark-panelled bar was Victorian in style, comfortable and not noisy. From there you moved through a restaurant created out of a skittle alley to the real glory of the place, a secluded beer garden ideal for summer drinking, with vines around the perimeter and threading upwards into well-placed gazebos. This was where the mourners had gathered in sunshine, becoming relaxed by the minute as the more formal part of the day became a memory.