Read The Sister Online

Authors: Max China

The Sister (49 page)

"You got a problem with that, Brady?" The chief scowled at him.

"No, sir—"

Caulson cut him off again. "If we can tie it to a burglary, he might have left some forensic," he explained, a sudden weariness in his tone.
"How far back are we going with this?"

"Start digging your way backwards, I have a feeling in my water, it won't be too far back."

"He probably got it from a boot sale."

Caulson was uncharacteristically patient. "Maybe . . . he might have taken it out of a
skip
, but if this turns nothing up,
you'll
follow that line of enquiry afterwards."

"We could just go public?"
Caulson shook his head. "At the moment I want it kept quiet, but yes if nothing else turns up . . ." Caulson was already imagining the spate of copycat nutcases claiming to be the killer.

The chief stood up, signalling the end of their meeting.

"Brady, I want answers. Get your teams working on it, right now. We'll reconvene in the morning."

"Yes, sir," he said, faking enthusiasm.

 

 

Brady returned to his own office. He wondered if Cooper was still around; he could have just walked around the corner to see, but his encounter with Caulson had left him drained. He didn't even bother trying to raise him on the internal phone; he dialled him on his mobile.

Cooper was another ex-Metropolitan man, albeit he'd been in
Scotland for ten years.

"You still around? Good. Can you come to my office . . . Yeah, five minutes?"

Cooper dropped into the chair opposite. "How was he?" he flicked his eyes in the direction of Caulson's office.

"Is he always that personable?" Brady said.

Cooper laughed, "He's getting worse. Coming up for retirement, he was already getting a bit flaky - I think he was hoping to get out before anything too drastic presented itself. Go out with a whimper and not a bang. Looks like he's out of luck; the last time something like this happened was twenty years ago, I think he sees it getting out of hand, and you
are
the new boy . . ."

Brady shrugged, "He wants these initials checked out," he pushed a photograph of the handle towards Cooper.

Cooper frowned, "J.F.K . . ."

"It's one of three possibilities," he conceded.

"It's the only one," said Cooper. "Look, there's a stop after the J. and the F. There isn't one after the K—"

"Let me see that!" Brady interrupted, grabbing the photos back, irritated he'd missed that detail himself. Cooper was right; there are faint stops after only those letters. "J.F.K - well that narrows the field. I think we can safely say it's not the former American president's bat."

Cooper grinned at him, "That's just narrowed it some more!"

Brady took a swipe at him with the photo. "Seriously, we need to run a check on lost property - a long shot I know - All victims of burglaries with those initials, find out if they had a bat stolen. If we can find one and tie it in with forensics, that would be great. He doesn't want to go public, so we're stuck with doing it this way."

"Not a problem," Cooper said, "but I'd be surprised if we turn up a single lead . . ."

"Well, he said to start local and then fan out. Let's get onto it."

 

 

Chapter 104

 

3rd April 2007, late evening.

 

Paedophile Killings! Police Seek Vigilante Suspect.

The headlines were on billboards and newspapers everywhere. The story spread like wildfire. Aside from regurgitating the original story, the press was unable to do anything to satisfy public demand for the truth. Whoever he was, he'd captured the imagination of people all across the country. From up-market hairdressers to backstreet barbers, bistros, bars and restaurants - everyone was talking. The story
quickly
topped the list of the most searched news articles on the internet.

If he were to step out of the shadows, he'd become an instant celebrity.

For once, the press was not to blame for the reaction of the public. The stranger couldn't quite believe the things he heard people saying.

"He deserves a medal for what he done . . ."

"I've heard the police aren't looking for him too hard . . ."

"I heard they had him, but let him go . . ."

"It's part of a secret crackdown by the government, costs too much to keep 'em in prison, so they're wasting 'em using ex soldiers . . ."

"He's ex SAS; he has to be . . ."

 

 

In a pub, in North Wales, a stranger sat quiet and unnoticed, nursing a pint of dark ale at a small table, tucked away under the rake of the stairs. There was no room on the other side for another chair. Smoke curled from his cigarette joining the thin grey fug that collected above his head.

He had a way of watching from beneath his eyebrows that wasn't obvious to the casual observer. The object of his attention was a tall, oddly balanced, curly haired man with a high voice, who held court among a small crowd at the end of the bar a few feet away. Delivering a punch line he half-twisted and bowed with a burst of laughter, turning to reveal, an empty sleeve pinned to his chest at elbow level. The remaining arm had compensated for the loss and developed to almost the size of his thigh. Those who had known him before his loss would probably have said he'd also developed a bigger personality, and that it had helped him to erase the bitterness he felt. Losing an arm was bad enough at any age, but in one so young… It also made him fiercely competitive, always out to prove himself. He was regaling a group of men around him in a loud drunken voice, with a version of how
he
thought the vigilante had pulled off the killings.

"They'd have sent the dogs out first . . ." He bowled his one arm forward, re-enacting the releasing of the dogs, the thickly braided sinews of his forearm rippled as his hand opened.

"Oh, no . . . come on, Bryn, you can't know that!"

He shook a huge fist at the interrupter. "Yes, I can. Shut your mouth while I'm telling it to you, will you. What would be the point of the dogs, if you wouldn't send them out first?"

Someone else agreed with him. "Oh, he's right about that, what
would
be the point?"

"And then, when he comes right in - after he's done away with the dogs - they know they're in trouble, right?"

While the group of men drunkenly thought it through, Bryn repeated himself. "They
know
they're in trouble all right!" An unintelligible murmur of agreement rose from the group. All nodded eagerly, waiting for the next dramatisation.

"One of them grabs a baseball bat . . ." The men hung on his every word. "And he grabs it off him, uses their own baseball bat against them, before shoving it up their arses!"

In the brief silence, as they paused on the moment, Owen, who up until now had kept quiet, made a remark. "I bet they were glad he didn't pick up a frying pan!"

The pub erupted with laughter. Bryn looked exasperated, covering his face with his hand.

When the laughter subsided, eager to take up centre stage once more Bryn said, "I don't know about you lot, but if he were to walk in here right now, I'd be the first to shake his hand!"

The murmurs of agreement were almost as enthusiastic as the laughter at Owen's frying pan observation.

Someone noticed the rough looking stranger at the bar behind Bryn. He was holding an almost empty glass. All eyes stared in his direction. The small group fell eerily silent. Bryn, sensing something amiss, turned to follow the direction of their gaze. His eyes settled directly on the man. Dead silence fanned out through the rest of the pub.

The man steadily returned his stare. He was alone, but showed no sign of being intimidated. Lost for words, for once, and in a drunken muddle Bryn exclaimed, "It wasn't
you,
was it, boyo?" The bar remained silent as a small crowd drew in around the two men, waiting for the stranger's response.

The stranger took in the crowd and half smiled. His hand slowly extended for Bryn to shake. The whole pub held its breath.

The one-armed man took it. A farm labourer used to using his surviving arm for everything any normal man could do; his arm was at least twice as strong as a normal labourer's, but with a handgrip, much stronger, and out of all proportion to that. Discounting the likelihood that the man was the
actual
vigilante, Bryn turned to the small crowd. His facial expression beaming as if to say:
Are you all watching this?

Bryn put the grip on the stranger's hand; confident his freak strength would cause the other to buckle up in pain. Rope-like veins stood out among the sinews. The other man was older, but bigger, as wide as a door. His hands were gnarled. The knuckles looked like they were full of arthritis. He accepted Bryn's grip, and held firm as he finished the last of his glass with his free hand. Putting the glass down, not taking his eyes off the one-armed man for a second, he squeezed back. A look of surprise flashed in Bryn's eyes. The bones of his hand squashed together, he gritted his teeth to hide the pain; his grin fixed on the verge of becoming a grimace. He maintained eye contact.

A flicker, a narrowing, a dilation of the pupils . . . something barely perceptible passed between the two men. Recognition. Knowledge. The stronger gave way to the weaker. After all, what value was there in defeating a one-armed man?

The man released him.

Bryn had saved face. He held the stranger's hand aloft alongside his own. "A draw!" he cried. Releasing the stranger's hand, Bryn shook his own, flexing the stiffened bones, clenching and unclenching his fist. Then he remarked with a humour more befitting Owen. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you were a one-armed man too!" Grinning, Bryn, said, "Tell you what, let me buy you a drink, boyo?"

The man lit a cigarette, tilted his head back and blew a plume of smoke at the ceiling. "Another time, maybe . . ."

"Now, Bryn, give him an arm wrestle!" Owen wrapped an arm around Bryn, and pulled him in close, so that they faced the stranger together, square on. "I'll have my money on my, boyo, here!"

"Sorry, fellas, I got to go. You boys have a drink on me," he said and put two twenty pound notes on the bar. As the door closed behind him. Owen broke the silence, voicing what they were all thinking, "You don't think that really
was
him do you?"

Bryn rubbed his aching hand against his chin, thoughtfully. "You know what, boyo. I think it definitely could have been
someone
like him."

 

 

Two miles down the road the stranger pulled in to offer a hitchhiker a lift. The girl was in her twenties, raven-haired with a heart shaped, friendly face.

She was relieved to see that he was an older man. She'd never have got in with a younger man. They couldn't be trusted.

Once inside the car she noticed the boiler suit he was wearing. "Just finished work?" she said.

"No," he replied, activating the car's central locking system, "actually, I'm just about to start…"

 

 

Chapter 105

 

It was already just after 3 p.m. Caulson had deferred their meeting until the afternoon and Brady was dreading it. After spending all day following up what little he had - every avenue had turned into a blind alleyway - he was just finishing his tea. He held the cup against the side of his face for warmth and comfort; an old habit picked up from his father, his thoughts about nothing in particular, when he experienced a eureka moment. Pulling the telephone towards him, he dialled a familiar telephone number. The operator came back to him.

"I'm not getting an answer from that extension, is there anyone else who can help you?"

"Can you try John Tanner?"

She put him through.

"John, it
's Michael Brady."

Through gritted teeth, he said, "What can I do for you?"

"This is a long shot, but I don't suppose for one minute you'd know if Kennedy owns a baseball bat…"

 

 

He knocked on the DCI's door, just as he always did, even when expected. The DCI called out, "Come in." He opened the door and stepped inside. Kennedy looked up from his desk. He looked tired, the bags under his eyes, heavy. "You wanted to see me?"

Tanner rolled an empty chair back on its castors and sat down. "Your phone is off the hook."

"Yes, I know it is," he said, sounding weary.

"Sir, have you ever owned a baseball bat?"
His eyes narrowed. "Of course, I have."

"Stars and Stripes, American style . . ."

"Yes, I have one like that. Why are you asking?"

"Did you carve your initials—?"

"Tanner, stop pissing about. Get to the point."

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