Mercy Killing (10 page)

The rest of the words were lost on Eric as he sat stunned and not fully grasping what he had heard. In spite of the warmth of the room and the hot meal he had eaten only moments ago, he
couldn’t help feeling a chill.

Someone had killed his good friend Albert.

With shaking hands, he picked up the phone and dialled the incident-room number that had been shown on the television screen.

It wasn’t long before someone answered and clearing his throat he said, ‘I’ve just seen on the news that a man’s been murdered. I know someone who lives in those flats
and if Albert Woodville’s been killed, I know who’s done it.’

‘So, come on then,’ said Jude Watson as he looked around the dingy back-street pub they had agreed to meet in. ‘What exactly are we going to do
now?’

He scrutinized Jonathan’s hands as he picked up a beer mat and began to tap it on the edge of the table. He couldn’t remember ever examining the back of another man’s hands
before and was surprised to see that one had a red welt across it.

‘How did that happen?’ he asked, pointing at the mark.

‘Very funny,’ said Jonathan. ‘Don’t pretend that you don’t know.’

Jude pulled a face and said, ‘Do you want another beer?’

‘No thanks. I’d better get going after this one. I’ve got to pick my daughter up from some swimming gala, so one bottle’s my limit.’

‘OK then,’ said Jude after the man nearby got up to go to the bar, ‘what exactly are we supposed to do now? What’s the plan?’

Before he gave his answer, he ran an eye over the few other customers, making sure they were out of earshot. ‘For now, I’d suggest that we do nothing.’

‘Genius. Wish I’d thought of that.’

Jonathan sat back in his chair, holding the stare of the other man. He wouldn’t exactly call him a friend, more of a passing acquaintance. He’d never wanted to join the amateur
dramatic society but had been talked into it by his wife; bullied into it was more like it. He used to spend a lot of time playing golf and cricket but owing to a busted ankle and a dive in
finances, one was now physically impossible and the other barely affordable. She had been telling him for ages that cricket was seasonal and he couldn’t play as much golf in the winter as he
used to so he should do something else, indoors and cheap. Gone were the days when he got away with giving her a right-hander. She told him if he touched her again, he wouldn’t see a penny of
the inheritance that was coming her way.

Although he wasn’t in a hurry to admit it, Jonathan Tey, accountant, knew he would miss being on stage and the centre of attention. It suited him and even if it was something he would
never credit his wife with, he was glad he had been forced into it.

He hadn’t been able to work out exactly what made Jude Watson tick but they got on all right and found they had the same views on several things – politics, sport and
paedophiles.

‘I still can’t get over that bloody idiot Eric allowing Woodville to join,’ said Jude as he tore at the label on his beer bottle.

‘Keep your voice down,’ said Jonathan as the man who’d been sitting nearby returned to his seat with a pint of something dark brown in a glass with a handle.

Jude followed his accomplice’s line of vision towards the elderly man as he placed his drink on the cigarette-burned table.

‘Has he got a pint of mild?’ said Jude. ‘I didn’t think they still made it.’

‘And in a jug? You’ve brought me to the pub that time forgot. And my shoes are sticking to the carpet.’

‘I thought it was the best place for us to talk in private,’ said Jude.

‘The only other people likely to see us are other sad bastards who look like they’re up to no good,’ said Jonathan, regretting not being able to have another beer. That would
at least have made the experience of being in such a dump with someone he didn’t entirely trust, talking about a sex offender, slightly more palatable. ‘We need to lie low. It’s
too soon for us to do anything without it being obvious.’

‘But how long do you think we should keep quiet?’

‘I don’t know, Jude. What am I? The Sage of Old East Rise Town? Have you come across anything like this before? Ever worried yourself to sleep about what you could have exposed your
kids to? I worry about mine every day as it is, without feeling like a giant piece of crap for encouraging my daughter to audition for poxy
Annie
. I’m only grateful that she’s so
much better at the front crawl than she is at singing “It’s The Hard Knock Life”.’

For some reason this struck Jude as extremely amusing and he battled to keep a smirk from his face. He wasn’t entirely sure that he’d managed it until he caught Jonathan staring at
him. He was cautious of his accomplice who clearly had the brains and the brawn. He didn’t want to get on the wrong side of him.

He let out a long, slow breath when Jonathan said, ‘I can see how cut up all of this is making you too.’

As soon as Albert Woodville’s post-mortem was completed, Harry left the mortuary, annoyed that the pathologist had been so delayed. He left behind the smell of clinical
bodies and climbed into the sanctity of his own car, shook off his exasperation and made a phone call.

Martha Lipton answered on the third ring.

‘Hello to you,’ she breathed in his ear. ‘Give me a second. There are a few people here.’

‘It sounds like you’re in the street,’ he said.

‘Very astute, Inspector. We’re in the good part of town, handing out leaflets. I can drop you one in to the police station if you like. It’s only a short walk over to you at
the rougher end of town.’

There was a pause as he made up his mind whether he wanted to see her in person, or if a chat on the phone and a leaflet drop would suffice. She still made his flesh crawl and he had just
watched a pathologist peel the face off a paedophile. He preferred the dead; they gave him less to worry about.

‘I don’t think it’s necessary to meet up,’ he said, hearing what sounded like a chuckle in his ear, although he might have been mistaken over the traffic noise and sounds
of East Rise’s shoppers on a Saturday afternoon. ‘Anything new to tell me?’

‘I’ve been thinking about this. If I tell you what I know, what’s in it for me?’

He let out a sigh. ‘Martha, I thought you founded the Volunteer Army so that you could help people feel safe in their own homes, send their kiddies to school without the big, mean pervert
waiting for them by the swings on the way home. The rousing speech bullshit you gave me yesterday in front of your stooge wasn’t only for effect, surely? You had me believing you and now
you’re asking for money?’

‘I didn’t say I wanted money.’ It was Martha’s turn to sigh. ‘I want some sort of public recognition for the work of the VA.’

This was the part that Harry had to stop himself laughing at. He wanted to shout down the phone line that these imbeciles were nothing more than glory-hunting prats, but thought better of
it.

His mind ran over what he had to be careful of telling her. She was a dangerous woman and he wouldn’t put it past her to record their conversation. If he made her any promises, it might
cause him complications down the line. She was a potential witness, so entice her with anything other than the reward of justice, as soon as they had their murderer on trial Harry knew he’d
be in the witness box waiting for the defence barrister to make a meal out of him for encouraging her to give information, whether it was true or not.

‘You know full well, Martha, that I want to find out who killed Albert Woodville, but I’m not prepared to jeopardize a potential conviction for murder by offering you anything I
can’t give you.

‘I’m treating you the same as any other witness and asking you if you know anything. Don’t mess me around on this and after it’s all over we’ll meet and talk things
through. It’s the best I can offer you, you know that.’

‘When you say talk things through—’

‘That’s exactly what I mean. Come on, Martha. Help me out on this. We want the same thing at the end of the day. People murdering paedophiles can’t be doing your business much
good either. It’s certainly killing mine, pardon the pun.’

Harry heard the sound of footsteps and when she spoke next she was breathing faster.

‘Tell you what I’ll do,’ she said, ‘I’m on my way to the police station now. I’ll leave you a copy of our newsletter, you read it and tell me what you think
and by the time you’ve got back to me, I should have some news.’

The sound of the disconnected tone told him that his conversation with her was over.

He scratched the stubble on his chin and contemplated what he found more abhorrent: working so hard to identify a paedophile’s murderer, or that he had just sweet-talked the most depraved
of all human beings.

He prayed to a God he didn’t believe in that hell had a special place for Martha Lipton and her kind. The last bastion of all that was good was finally breached when Harry discovered that
mothers who sexually abused their own children were allowed to walk the earth.

Now he had found himself placating her.

It was this kind of horror that stopped him from going home and telling his wife what he’d done at work all day. Some things were better left unsaid. Harry knew that if his untainted wife
got even a hint from him of the daily crap that came his way he would probably repel her for good.

It wasn’t only the thought of that on top of the issues Martha had brought to his door that was bringing on a headache. Despite rubbing his fingertips against the base of his neck, he
couldn’t quell the invisible band that was tightening across his forehead.

He now had another very real problem to contend with: the post-mortem had showed up old, healing injuries to Albert Woodville’s face.

Prior to his murder, someone had given him a beating, and Harry had no way of knowing if both attacks had been carried out by the same people.

Evening of Saturday 6 November

Leon Edwards was eating his way through a half-pounder burger, fries, coleslaw and extra-large side of pickles at his new favourite diner. The only disappointment of the day,
apart from getting to the late-night eatery and finding that the waitress he had taken a shine to was not working, was that when he had phoned Toby that afternoon, his friend had sounded a little
distracted. He was feeling a bit down that his oldest, most trusted friend hadn’t even called him by either his Christian name or his nickname.

As he chomped, open-mouthed, on the hamburger, Leon thought that perhaps he had got it wrong and the two of them were supposed to remain incommunicado for a couple of days.

He was so puzzled by the turn of events that the large crease on his forehead drew the attention of the waitress who hurried over to ask if everything was OK.

‘Blinding, love,’ he replied, spraying relish across the Formica table and giving her a thumbs-up in case she couldn’t understand him. At least the menus were wipe-clean, he
thought, as a chunk of tomato hit the chef’s-special section.

There had been few times in their thirty-or-so-year friendship when Toby had excluded him and it always worried Leon more than it would most people.

He really had had very little in his life for starters but despite his bulk giving him a tough exterior he was someone who cared more about others than himself. Though he cared about his
food.

Leon ate out more than he should; once a week he ate at Toby’s, Shirley always asking in advance what he wanted. Sometimes she even cooked it too. Eating out on Fridays had become a ritual
for him and Toby, and he had been cheered to hear his friend say that they would have to keep going to the same place every Friday for a few more months to come. Once a week he ate in his local
pub, but it was dreadful, everyone said so, including the cook.

Whatever his life had become, and it wasn’t much, Leon was determined to make use of his time on the planet, but because he had no family of his own it was taken up with work and the
Carvells.

He knew how much he owed them and thought about how, if things had been different, he could have had a smasher of a family like Toby’s. He mulled it over as he slurped at his milkshake,
rammed chips into his mouth in handfuls and tried to see how far he could open his mouth to push food inside without actually dislocating his jaw.

It wasn’t long before he was finished and, as he had already paid, he threw a couple of coins on the table for the waitress when she finally waddled over to him to clear his table. She
wasn’t as fast on her feet as Lorraine, his favourite, but he spared a thought for the woman who, on the wrong side of fifty, arse like a waterbed squeezed inside her leggings, probably
didn’t want to be working anywhere on a Saturday night, least of all at the Waterside Late Night Diner.

Feeling a little less satisfied with life than he should have done after one of his favourite meals, Leon made his way outside and towards the High Street. The noise of late-night drinkers,
screeching women and men goading each other on in loud voices reached his ears as soon as he turned the corner into the main drag of the town. He thought back to the previous evening when he had
told Toby how he was feeling about not having anyone in his life. Then the full realization of why he had been experiencing such melancholy emotions hit him.

He and Toby had turned a corner with what they’d done.

The thought stopped him in his tracks as he paused mid-stride at the junction of Duke Street and the High Street, several people having to move out of his way. A smaller, less visible presence
coming to a sudden stop on the pavement might have got a few comments or even some abuse. Not Leon with his size. The tide of drinkers parted around him, like a human stream navigating a
twenty-three-stone island.

He didn’t know that he could live with himself now. The panic started to rise up to his throat, making its way to his brain. How could he look people in the eye, talk to them, act normal?
Act like anything other than what he was – a criminal?

Leon tried to catch his breath, but his mind was telling him that he didn’t deserve to take a breath. That was something he didn’t have the right to do. Surely, if you did wrong and
harmed someone, you were forced to carry the guilt for eternity. He felt the weight of something that common sense told him wasn’t there. He knew it was in his imagination but he
couldn’t stop the pull of his head towards the ground as he doubled up, there and then on the broken paving stones that East Rise Council hadn’t even had the decency to fix.