Mercy Killing (12 page)

‘You printed this vile shit and then handed it out in the street, the day after a sex offender was murdered.’

Harry stopped waving the piece of paper around his head. He knew that he appeared to be slightly demented and he had, after all, knocked on the door of her ground-floor flat. It was one of only
two in the large converted Georgian house that had its own entrance. The other four flats on the next two floors were reached via a communal door but it didn’t stop everyone within the street
or neighbouring buildings seeing and hearing the spectacle he was making of himself.

‘Do you want to come in?’ she said. ‘We can stand out here and discuss this if you like.’

What got to him most was that she came across as so reasonable, so rational and was so beautiful.

It made it all the worse for Harry.

‘I don’t have to tell you what’s on the front page of your own sheet of spite.’

He held the page out in front of him with one hand and jabbed at the article with the other.

‘Right here,’ he said, ‘under the main piece about Albert Woodville being murdered and your helpful top ten of how to spot a nonce, immediately below that, you print the
address of Norman Husband House and list the likely sex offences those housed there might have served time for before their release into East Rise.’

‘Listen,’ she said, standing tall, the height of the doorstep making her head and shoulders over the policeman, ‘everyone around here knows where Norman Husband House is
anyway. Most people know it’s a hostel for those released from prison with nowhere else to go. The only thing they wouldn’t necessarily know is what kind of crimes those people have
served time for.’

Harry stared at her for several seconds. He saw that it unnerved her. That made him smile.

He took a step forward. He took a step upwards, bulled toecaps touching her bare toes.

She inched backwards.

‘It’s lucky for you that the fire didn’t spread.’

Her jaw dropped open.

‘Fire . . .’

‘There are only two reasons,’ he said, face closer to Martha’s than he would have liked, ‘that I haven’t nicked you. The first is that I don’t at this point
think you had anything directly to do with it, and the second is that you’re coming down the police station in the next five minutes to make a statement to one of my officers, telling them
everything you know about Woodville and the fire.’

He moved his head back.

‘Got that?’

‘Yes,’ she said, unable to make eye contact. ‘I’ll get some shoes on and my coat.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘We’re not leaving together. I don’t want to be seen with the likes of you.’

Head held high and chin thrust forward, she said, ‘How do you know I’ll turn up?’

Harry looked her up and down.

‘You’ll turn up all right.’

He turned and walked away.

Jonathan Tey was a man with a lot on his mind. He sat in front of the television with his wife curled up beside him, daughter on the floor doing her usual last-minute homework
before school the next day.

It was a scene that should have shown domestic Sunday-evening bliss but he couldn’t help feeling restless. He couldn’t stop his foot from tapping, a nervous sign that gave him
away.

His wife glanced at him a couple of times, distracted from the drama she was watching on the screen. He knew that she wouldn’t ask him what the matter was. That was a comfort.

Everything probably would have been all right if he hadn’t decided it would be a good idea to go along to a vigilante meeting. That was probably a dumb mistake to have made.

He hadn’t been all that interested in finding anything to replace the void left by his exit from the East Rise Players, an unusual mixture of individuals, all in all a decent albeit
clueless bunch of people. On joining them Jonathan had immediately gained a self-importance he hadn’t expected. Other than his enjoyment at being on stage, they asked his advice, got him to
settle squabbles between them. That was what he missed – not having something to occupy his time and his already overcrowded mind, but the sense of purpose and belonging.

How was he to know that the day after he walked out of the Cressy Arms, livid with Eric Samuels for his stupidity, he was going to watch one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen stride
towards him on the High Street?

He had barely regained his composure when she handed him a leaflet and smiled.

Jonathan had found himself smiling back, unable to drag his eyes away to look at the news-sheet he was gripping on to as if his life depended on it.

‘We could do with some new members,’ she said, unbuttoning her jacket.

Rather than stare at her chest, he concentrated on the words in front of him.

‘I don’t want to join a cult,’ he said, a frown on his face.

‘We’re not a cult,’ she said. ‘It’s all very out in the open what we do. Have a read of that, and here—’ She opened her jacket to remove a pen from the
inside pocket and taking the leaflet back scribbled her mobile number on it. As she handed it over she looked up at him, eyelashes fluttering, and added, ‘And my name’s
Martha.’

It was some time later that Jonathan got the creased-up newsletter out of his overcoat pocket and read through it. His interest was piqued at what the Volunteer Army were trying to do, although
that alone wouldn’t have been enough to ensure his attendance at their meeting. What tilted the balance was the smile and wink Martha had cast over her shoulder before the throng of dreary
shoppers swallowed her up.

Smile still playing on his lips, Jonathan realized that he was back in his own living room, wife watching some brain-numbing period drama on the box and his daughter whingeing under her breath
that she didn’t understand the point of learning about the industrial revolution, it wasn’t as if it would happen again.

Elaine turned towards him at the point where he was recalling the full details of Martha’s backside, skintight leggings moulded to her buttocks as she sashayed away from him.

‘I knew that a night at home with us would cheer you up, love,’ said his wife.

‘Something like that,’ said Jonathan as it crossed his mind that even in her heyday Elaine was no Martha. And especially not recently.

She’d let herself go quite a bit. He might even reward himself with an affair.

Hazel’s phone bleeped somewhere in the living room, jolting her from her thoughts. Still full of nervous energy, she jumped up to find it, moving magazines, cushions and
handbags, finally locating it under a couple of old blankets she had fished out of the back of the airing cupboard and added to the heap of bedding on the floor.

As she unlocked the phone and opened the text, she was half hopeful that it would be another message from work, cancelling the request that she get in at the crack of dawn the next day. She was
nervous enough as it was at the thought of having to be there before most of the other DCs were on duty, and then being sent off to carry out enquiries on a murder she knew nothing about. At least
the old familiar practice of putting the staff’s welfare at the bottom of the list made her feel as if she had never left. Nothing had changed in that respect.

It was also doing little to make her think she had made the right decision to rejoin Major Crime and that she could pick up from where she had left off. The problem was, she had missed the work
more than she imagined she would. Hazel had battled against choosing an easier but less fulfilling option over the biggest buzz a career was capable of giving her, though it gave room for little
else.

The one other thing she did make time for outside work was now messaging her on her phone.

Hazel
, she read from her phone’s screen,
is there any chance you’re free for an overnight emergency? Wouldn’t ask but I’ve tried everyone
else . . .

She held the phone to her chest and let out a long sigh. She couldn’t say yes when she was starting a new job so early the next day. Any other time, she would have requested a last-minute
day off, but there was no way she could ask her detective inspector she hadn’t yet met for a favour. Not before she had a chance to set foot inside the department’s door.

After a few seconds, with heavy heart, she tapped out a reply.

Really sorry but off to work at 5 a.m. Call me tomorrow morning if you’re still stuck. Hazel xx

She hated to say no when someone needed her and couldn’t help but wonder if getting the blankets and spare sheets out of the various storage places around her home had triggered the call.
This was something that she knew was nonsense and Hazel was by no means a superstitious person, but it had been several weeks since she’d been contacted out of the blue asking if she would
take in a last-minute lodger.

Hazel didn’t expect a reply to her text and turned her concentration to what she was going to wear to work for her first day and packing the correct stuff in her bag. Uniform officers had
the advantage of not having to pick an outfit – one less thing to worry about. At least she wasn’t going to have the added bother of picking stray dog hairs from her clothes.

She stacked the bedding into a neat pile and left it at the end of the sofa. Something told her that before the week was out she would have use for it.

Monday 8 November

Monday morning had started a little earlier than usual for Detective Constable Pierre Rainer. He and his other half had been away for a week, soaking up the sunshine in the
Canary Islands, and he wasn’t officially due back on duty until 8 a.m.

He had a reputation for being very conscientious and keen, always ready to help out even after twenty years as a police officer. Harry Powell had immediately thought of Pierre when he had to
pick someone who would not only answer their phone on a Sunday when off duty, but also be prepared to spend a long day on a very sensitive and important enquiry, possibly being required to stay
overnight.

Pierre knew he had been picked for those reasons and Harry knew that Pierre was aware he was one of the most reliable on the team. It was something that Pierre took for granted with no hint of
arrogance or self-importance, despite usually landing the best roles on the most interesting enquiries.

As he got ready for whatever was about to be heaped upon his workload, Pierre swiped his access card through the security door and headed for his desk. He took a good look around the incident
room, ran an eye over the wire post trays screwed to the wall, the box files and heaps of paperwork strewn over the desks, and checked the whiteboards for the latest official and unofficial
updates. It was reassuring to see that nothing had changed. It was its normal, messy, chaotic, familiar jumble of evidence with a hint of policing’s human side, borne out by the mock-up
photographs of members of the team stuck to the whiteboards complete with sarcastic comments underneath each one.

Usually, he would spend the first hour or so back at work checking through his emails and any post that had made its way to him. Today, he knew that he didn’t have the time.

Despite it being 5.30 in the morning, Harry Powell was in his office, waiting for Pierre’s arrival.

He heard the door swing shut as Pierre made his way out of the incident room, the computers in idle mode, hardly a light on in the entire area.

‘Morning, boss,’ said Pierre as he leaned one of his broad shoulders against the door frame of his detective inspector’s office. ‘Don’t see you here very often
before even the cleaners have put in an appearance.’

‘Morning, P. How was the holiday?’

‘We had a brilliant time, thanks. And it’s always great to be back at work.’

‘Did you miss us?’

‘No.’

‘Got to admire your honesty. Look, get yourself a coffee or something, grab a notebook and I’ll give you the heads-up about this enquiry.’

‘Well, you’ve certainly got me intrigued,’ said Pierre as he walked off in the direction of the kitchen, putting caffeine before making notes.

‘Very much a need-to-know basis,’ called Harry after Pierre.

Once Pierre was back in Harry’s office, he glanced up at the open door. He thought briefly about shutting it but knew that anyone coming into the incident room through the only entrance
would make enough noise for him to be able to hear them long before they heard one word of what he was about to say.

‘I take it that this has something to do with last week’s murder?’ guessed Pierre.

‘In a roundabout way,’ said Harry. ‘You’re aware that a male called Albert Woodville was murdered in his own home? Found with a plastic cable-tie around his neck and
another bound around his wrists, hands behind his back.’

‘Suicide was out then,’ said Pierre as he looked up from his notebook.

‘It’s funny that you should say that,’ replied Harry. ‘Actually, it’s not fucking funny at all.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry. I—’

‘No, no,’ said Harry. “I’m not giving you a bollocking. It’s that there’s been another couple of deaths that looked like suicide, but one or two aspects of
them appeared a little bit odd.’

‘Odd?’

Harry broke eye contact to scratch the stubble on his cheek, and to give himself a few extra seconds to get the words out in the correct order. He wasn’t a man who struggled to find the
right thing to say, but his bluntness wasn’t one of his best characteristics.

‘One was so badly decomposed, it was difficult to tell. The pathologist couldn’t even give a definitive cause of death. Nothing had been stolen and there was no other DNA,
fingerprints or sign of anyone else having been inside the flat. That wouldn’t have been so unusual had it not been for the neighbours saying he had a lot of visitors. I won’t go into
lots of details about that one at the moment but you get the idea. It’ll be looked at again and we’ll see if it’s linked to these latest ones. For now, you only need to get the
gist of it.’

This was the point where Pierre knew to keep quiet and contemplate what was coming his way.

‘I want you to deal with this,’ said Harry as he pushed a folder across the desk to him.