Shooting Elvis (29 page)

Angie thought
Curlew
was a stupid name for a hairdresser, Jeff told me when I saw him Friday morning. She was staying with
Kurl Up and Dye
. There’s no pleasing some people. Dave and Maggie came back from the morning briefing down in the incident room but they had little to report. Leicester were taking their time with the cigarette butt, and Superintendent Isles was depending on it for a result.

I don’t know where I am with DNA. I grew up with it, and saw how DNA fingerprinting changed the face of criminal investigations, but lately it’s gone from being a fairly complicated but understandable technique to being little short of magic. The things they can do nowadays are beyond belief, stretching the incredulity of police officers and defence barristers. The DNA molecule is about six feet long but only a millionth of an inch
wide. One of them, tightly rolled up and compressed, is found in every cell in the human body. All ten trillion of them. In every cell in every living thing, if we’re going to be pedantic.

Except, we were led to believe, there was no DNA in red blood corpuscles, or in the shaft of hair, or in fingernail clippings, or in the semen and saliva of people who weren’t secretors. But now anything appears to be possible. DNA is obtained routinely from flakes of dandruff, droplets of sweat and fallen strands of hair. If you’ve got split ends or dry skin, don’t commit a crime. Murderers and rapists who did the deed twenty years ago are living in fear of a knock at the door. Some of them have led productive, blameless lives ever since, but the law’s egg-timer never runs out. If they dragged nervously on a cigarette and flicked the stub into the undergrowth, or peed on their victim, or spat, we’ll have their genetic fingerprint on file.

I’m not much wiser when it comes to mobile phones. We’re moving onto something called Airwave Tetra, which is a bells and whistle communications system that combines a police officer’s radio with a mobile phone and a terminal that gives him access to various databases like the PNC. It’s a national system and outside parties like villains cannot, we are promised, eavesdrop on our conversations. Each unit will also contain a location chip so any officer’s position can be monitored at all times, and a destruct device that
can be triggered from base, should one fall into the wrong hands.

It sounds good, but the phones available to business and the public are probably ahead of the game. Taxi and lorry firms use similar techniques, and companies employing salesmen now know exactly where, when and how long their man spent over lunch. The chance that the Executioner used one of these phones was slim, but psychos often have a blind spot as big as a mountain. Their minds are on other things. It’s what catches them, in the end. I rang Sonia and suggested we go for a curry after her training spin.

Next morning I brought her to the nick for an ID parade, except it wasn’t a parade. They showed her video shots of twenty men, all selected to fit a rough description of her attacker: small build, dark hair, thin features. The wire spectacles would have been too defining, so Norman the groper was allowed to remove them. The faces were shown to her randomly in full frontal, in profile and three-quarter view. Sonia said, ‘That’s him, that’s him, that’s him,’ without hesitation.

‘How did I do?’ she asked, afterwards, as we sat at my desk drinking coffee.

I said that I didn’t know, but a few moments later my phone rang. It was the PC who masterminds our ID parades, to say that she’d scored one hundred per cent.

‘You passed,’ I told her.

In the afternoon we drove up to the Lakes and booked into a B&B in Troutbeck. Next morning, bolstered by full English breakfast, toast and tea, we set out to do the Kentmere round. The sun was shining as we breakfasted, but had gone when we parked the car outside the church in Kentmere village. We waited until the service was under way then put our boots on and set off up the track towards Garburn Pass and the summit of Ill Bell. I looked up from my exertions and saw that the tops were lost in the clouds that lay across them like dead sheep. The rain started shortly afterwards and we donned our foul weather clothing. I helped Sonia pull her hood up and fastened the studs on her collar. Droplets were trickling down her cheeks and she looked terrific. I gave her a grin and pointed upwards. The top of Ill Bell is rocky, with several cairns dotted about it, but today the sky was as grey as the granite under our feet. The views down towards Windermere and the Kentmere reservoir are as good as any in the Lakes, but not when the rain is coming horizontal and the clouds are rolling across the landscape like smoke.

‘Ill Bell,’ I shouted at her, making myself heard above the rattling of our waterproofs, the drumming of the rain and the rush of the wind.

‘How high?’ she asked.

‘Not sure.’ I was trying not to get the map wet. ‘About two and a half thousand, I think.’

‘Higher than Ingleborough?’

‘Oh yes. Are you warm enough?’

‘I’m fine. Let’s go.’

I followed her, down a dip and then up again, keeping to the high ground. A crow came gliding across in front of me and hung stationary where the hillside fell away, balanced on the updraught. I watched it until it tipped a wing and sailed off to vanish into the mist.

The next summit was Froswick. I checked the course on the compass and we headed upwards on the long drag towards Thornthwaite Crag, where we needed to make a right turn. Miss that and we’d find ourselves in Scotland. A few thousand pairs of boots had made the path fairly distinct, and the Romans came this way, so we soon found the tall spire of stones that marked the peak. Then it was downhill into Nan Bield Pass.

Walking in bad weather, when you have the proper clothing, can be fun, but eventually the charm wears off. I was thinking about work, wondering what was happening with the cigarette butt, and if Dave had made any progress with the telephone call. I had a feeling that, come Monday morning, events would take control and the Executioner case would take another direction. Hopefully, one that led to a conviction, but there was a good chance that the suffering wasn’t over, yet. At the pass we had hot coffee from the flask, drinking it standing up, and shared some chocolate. A party of walkers as colourful as a flock of parrots
loomed out of the mist and we exchanged greetings made more jovial by the shared hardship. They were all carrying walking poles and their breath came out in intermittent clouds from within the hoods of their waterproofs.

‘What do you think?’ I asked Sonia as we watched them snake away.

‘It’s a bit miserable, isn’t it?’ she declared, although she was grinning as she said it.

‘We’re about halfway,’ I told her. ‘Six miles. We can either go upwards and onwards to complete the circuit, or dive down the valley back to Kentmere. That’s about another two, two and a half miles. If you’re happy I suggest we abandon it.’

So we did. An hour later we were stripping off our wet gear and pulling fleeces on. The vicar hadn’t wheel-clamped the car or left a terse note about worshippers only, so we drove off towards the M6. We had a late lunch at Tebay Services, which was way above motorway standards, and Sonia snoozed for the rest of the journey home, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I didn’t come up with anything profound.

Leicester University lab found DNA on the cigarette butt found in Doc Bones’ house and spent the weekend amplifying the sample until there was enough to work with. Monday morning they did the electrophoresis thing and produced a band pattern that would identify the smoker more
accurately than his passport, driving licence and any number of utility bills. His mother might not recognise him, but we would.

There was a note in my diary to say I was expected at the firing range later in the day for some extra-curricular practice. I thought about cancelling, then decided not to. Dave and Maggie came back from the briefing with nothing to report, other than they were still waiting for the experts to produce the goods. I looked at the list of weekend crimes and passed it on to Jeff. Norman Easterby appeared before a magistrate and was remanded in custody, which was good news.

Dave gave me a thumbs up from his desk, his phone clamped to his ear. He made notes, then came to see me.

‘Action at last,’ he reported. ‘Both calls about Doc Bones were made from the same mobile phone. It was purchased from T-Mobile in Stantown and is one of those pay-as-you-go tariffs, which means the owner is not registered anywhere. And would you believe it, he didn’t take out the extended warranty. Here’s the number.’ He passed me a slip of paper with an 07 eleven digit number on it. ‘So far, it’s been used to make the two calls, that’s all.’

‘Can we track it down?’ I asked.

‘Only if it’s left switched on.’

‘And it’s not.’

‘No.’

‘So what’s happening?’

‘The Met scientific work with a company that traces them. They do it for anyone who registers. It’s mainly company people, but you can register your kids’ numbers with them if you want, and they’ll keep you informed of their movements. And it works with any phone, including the cheapos. They’re listening out for us, full time. If he switches on, we’ll have him. It’s accurate to five metres.’

‘Would you want to know where your kids are?’

‘I think I’d rather not.’

‘Has anyone tried ringing it?’

‘No. We’re thinking about it. We need a good story if they answer.’

I rang Les Isles and we discussed the possibilities of dialling the number. I liked the idea at first, because it meant that we were doing something rather than wait for the Executioner to make a move, but Les talked me out of it. If we rang him and he answered, our chances of keeping him on the line while a trace was made were nil. He’d realise we were onto him and throw the phone in the river.

The exertions in the Lake District had left me hungry and aching slightly. We’d eaten at odd times, and now I was feeling the cost. My blood sugar level was in turmoil. I went over the road and ordered an egg and bacon sandwich. Great on the taste buds, hell on the arteries. I was at my usual corner table, chatting to the waitress when Dave came steaming in, his big face red with exertion or
excitement. He sat down opposite me and the waitress saw he wanted to talk and wandered off.

‘They’ve got a match,’ he told me in a stage whisper, leaning across the table. My sandwich arrived and I cut it in half.

‘What? On the DNA?’ I said.

‘That’s right.’

‘Great. Anybody we know?’ I pushed the plate into the middle of the table and nodded towards it. Dave took half of my breakfast and bit into it.

‘Yeah,’ he mumbled. ‘Terry Hyson.’

‘Terry Hyson,’ I echoed. ‘Of Angie’s sex shop fame?’

‘That’s right.’

‘I don’t believe it.’

‘It’s a match.’

‘They’re saying Terry Hyson is the Executioner?’

‘Not necessarily, but they’ve proved that he smoked the cigarette. DNA doesn’t lie, Chas, or so we’re told. It’s accurate to one in fifty quadzillion.’

‘So what’s happening?’

‘They’re getting an FSG together to lift him.’

The firearms support group don’t do that full time. They are normal serving officers with specialist training. When needed they are called from their other duties to don the protective gear and go to where the action is, a bit like lifeboat men. ‘C’mon,’ I said. ‘We’re nearer than they are.’

We stuffed the remains of the sandwich into our mouths as we dashed across the road. ‘Can you
remember where he lives?’ I asked Dave as we strode into the nick car park.

‘The street, not the number.’

‘That should do. I’ll drive.’

We were there in ten minutes, and there was no sign of the FSG.

‘How are you getting on with Eddie, these days?’ I asked.

‘Eddie the Lip?’

‘Who else?’

‘OK.’

‘OK? That’s an improvement.’

‘Watch this space,’ he growled.

Before I could ask for clarification I saw a white Transit van in my rear-view mirror, crawling along, looking for clues to where Terry Hyson lived, like his house number.

‘Silly buggers,’ Dave said, twisting in his seat to watch them approach. The normal technique is to come squealing round the corner, leap out, burst the door down and arrest their man before he can sit up in bed and blink the sleep from his eyes. I got out and stood in the road, waiting for them.

‘I could arrest you for kerb crawling,’ I told the driver, but he wasn’t amused. Les Isles was in his car, right behind the van.

‘Hi, Chas,’ he said. ‘Couldn’t you stay away? Why don’t these houses have numbers on them?’

‘It’s done to cause maximum confusion. What do we want?’

‘Forty-seven.’

I pointed. ‘Down there, on the left. Probably about where that car is parked.’

I told Les about Terry Hyson, about Angie’s sex shop and about his latest refusal to be cautioned. I said he had no history of violence and under no account was he to be shot. We needed him alive and kicking. He repeated the mantra: DNA doesn’t lie. I offered to knock at Terry’s door, said I was sure he’d come quietly, but Les would have none of it. Eventually he agreed on a softly-softly approach and we processed in convoy towards number 47.

The wife of the man with shiny shoes opened her mouth wide and contorted herself in front of the bathroom window, holding her husband’s shaving mirror so she could examine her teeth. Something had broken whilst she was eating her breakfast apple –
a Cox’s, not one of those dreadful Golden Delicious
– and it looked as if she’d lost a filling. She went downstairs and found the number of her dentist in the diary and dialled the surgery while holding the diary open with her elbow. It was engaged.

She uncoiled the flex from her vacuum and started her chores. Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays she hoovered the carpets throughout, Monday and Tuesday she washed and ironed, Wednesdays she dusted, Friday it was the glass. Her husband was a stickler for cleanliness, but she
agreed that if you kept on top of the work it was more easily done. She wasn’t scared of him, but was careful not to displease him. He’d never been violent towards her, apart from that one time, long ago. If anything, after tears all round, it had brought them closer, but he did have a biting sarcasm and could destroy her self-esteem with a carefully barbed comment about the state of the cooker or the rings of talcum powder on her dressing table. She moved the low coffee table to one side and pushed the vac into the far corner of the room. Since he put the new cable on, several weeks ago, she could do most of the downstairs without having to move to a different socket.