The Sister(90)

‘No, he wasn’t; only Natasha and the other one.’

‘What other one, Bletchley?’

‘You know which one, the girl that looks like Marilyn Monroe.’

What Bletchley said, overshadowed the sense of relief Kennedy first felt, the knowledge he’d got Bletchley in the nick of time. An element of doubt now crept over him.

Kennedy dismissed it as the last desperate efforts of a guilty man trying to shift the blame.

‘You’ll have to do better than that,’ he said.





Chapter 71



With Bletchley returned to the cells, Kennedy said, ‘I don’t know about you, Tanner, but listening to all that bullshit has made me thirsty.’

On the way home, they called into their regular pub. After a couple of pints, Kennedy forgot about his doubts and became jubilant and puffed up about Bletchley. He even started calling Tanner by his Christian name. ‘That’s another scumbag off the streets. See, John, that’s what good old-fashioned police work is all about. Forget your computers and DNA.’

After his superior had consumed five pints on an empty stomach, Tanner thought on the irony of his earlier words, his drunken bullshit had left him thirsty, but he couldn’t drink, not now that he realised he’d end up having to drop the DCI home.

He continued rambling in the car. ‘I mean, John, they always say things like that don’t they? “Oh, I admit the photos were mine, but I never stuck them on the wall. I admit the chloroform, but it was for someone else.” What about the gasmask and the other deviant paraphylia?’ he said, laughing out loud. ‘Is that even a word? What does the defendant have to say about that then? “I’ve never seen them before in my life, your honour.” Can you imagine it, John, what the judge will make of that?’

‘You are absolutely right, as long as he doesn’t fall for the “Other Stalker” story.’

Kennedy turned around in his seat to face him. ‘What, you mean the other stalker, the one he says stole his keys and rearranged the photographs and then planted all that parafellation? Anyway, even if it were true, think about it for a minute. Why would anyone do that?’

They were about halfway home; he did not want to spend the rest of the journey treading on eggshells as the DCI became more belligerent, so he changed the subject. ‘I don’t know about you, sir, but I’m tired, can’t wait to get into bed.’

‘Bed? Now that’s a good idea.’ He fumbled in his pocket and producing his telephone, called someone.

Tanner assumed it was a woman.

‘Hey, it’s JFK, are you doing anything? It’s just I miss ya,’ he laughed. ‘No, of course I’m not. I promise I’ll be a good boy.’

He clicked off the phone. ‘John, my old buddy, do me a favour, will you? Drop me at the end of Petits Lane.’

‘Going to the girlfriend’s, sir?’

‘Mind your f*ckin’ business, Tanner!’ He tapped the end of his nose. ‘I don’t ask you about f*ckin’ Theresa, do I?’

Whatever problems had dogged him during the last few days seemed to have disappeared and Tanner was relieved he did not have him in the car for the whole journey; there was something undignified about his behaviour. It had to be the stress coming out. The last he saw of him that night, he was staggering down the road, heading northwards.





Chapter 72



Midnight had no qualms about setting someone up. A few nights before, when he’d seen what he had in his flat, he’d had no doubt whatsoever; he was doing the public a service. ‘Sweet mother, this man is a pervert,’ he muttered beneath his breath, adding certain items he’d taken in with him, to those belonging to Bletchley.





He located the garage at the end of the garden. The access to it was down a wide alleyway littered with muddy craters. Someone had filled the worst of the potholes with broken brick and chunks of concrete. He made his way down the strips of concrete people had laid outside their own garages, until he reached the one he was looking for. The back gate number confirmed it was the right one. The garage had its metal vehicle door in the alleyway. Beyond the fence, in the garden, a single door led out of the garage, and a concrete pathway ran up to the house. Most of the houses, like this one, were in darkness.

He reached over carefully to unlatch the gate.

Tuning his ears, he listened for any unusual sounds. His eyes had already adjusted to the dim light of the back garden. He shifted the rucksack off his back and squatted by the back door into the garage. He was about to pick the lock, when he tried the handle.

It was unlocked.

Carefully, he opened it. The hinges creaked, but not loud enough to be audible from more than a few feet away. He stole inside, drawing it shut behind him, he clicked on his infrared penlight. There was no car; just a stripped down motorbike, the parts scattered around in a half circle that the mechanic had left to give himself room to work in.

The rest of the concrete floor was clear. There were rows of shelves with labelled boxes containing nails or screws, and adjacent to where he’d just entered at the far end, was a workbench. The bench had a shelf midway between the top and the floor and underneath that, an old army ammunition box. He took a cardboard box out from the rucksack, turned it onto its narrowest side, and carefully slid it out of view, pushing it right back against the wall. Under the shelf, he moved a pile of discarded greasy rags to allow the box to pass behind them, the glass inside rattled, as he adjusted its position, finally satisfied it wasn’t visible at a cursory glance.