Waterloo Sunset: A Lake District Mystery #4 (Lake District Mysteries) Read online

  ‘Have they arrested him?’

  ‘No, he’s hiding there, threatening to kill anyone who goes near. The negotiators have been trying all night. The Strand is closed, the whole area is cordoned off.’

  Hence the helicopter. He could still hear its distant buzz. The police must be desperate to make sure that their man didn’t get away. Easier said than done. The Salthouse was a vast, soot-stained warren that stood on the other side of the road from the born again dock buildings. The salt traders had deserted it long ago and for years the complex had housed a motley gathering of ship-repairers, chandlers and assorted leftovers from the city’s maritime hey-day. When the last business shut its doors, the Salthouse was left to moulder. Eighteen months back, it had disappeared behind a huge grey hoarding as a consortium of developers set about transforming it into yet another shopping mall. But the builders had gone on strike over a pay dispute and a couple of months back, work on the site had come to a halt.

  ‘Not a bad place to hole up for a few days if you didn’t want to be found.’

  ‘He couldn’t stay there forever. Sounds like the moment he decided to make a move, he gave himself away. Once they’ve caught him, they’ll lock him up and throw away the key.’

  So Kay would be granted justice. Forensic evidence was less easy to intimidate than a witness who was short of money. Harry drummed his fingers on the breakfast bar. In his mind he pictured Tom walking towards the police, hands in the air. Defeated, finished. But where did this leave Ceri?

  He didn’t understand that breasts don’t have eyes.

  ‘Are you still there?’

  ‘Sorry, wool-gathering. See you shortly.’

  He put down the phone. Half of him thought it was a eureka moment, the other half wondered why he hadn’t realised sooner.

  The man in the photograph outside the Adelphi must be Ricky Hussain. He’d been admiring Denise Onuoha’s ample charms on their way into the Adelphi. Presumably he’d booked a luxury suite for the evening, the better to enjoy his paid-for escort while Ceri remained preoccupied with the dead.

  The owners of Cultural Companions must keep their staff under surveillance. Knowledge was power, and the information that the Coroner’s husband had hired an escort and taken her to a hotel was worth a small fortune.

  No wonder Ricky Hussain had killed himself.

  ***

  Within five minutes he was outside Empire Dock. The obvious thing to do if he was to head straight for the hospital was to pick up his car, turn left out of Empire Dock, and keep clear of any drama down the road at the Salthouse. Of course, he couldn’t contemplate the obvious thing. He’d go for a walk before he visited Jim.

  His path took him past the elegant curves of the nearly-completed Arena and a gathering of cranes. Tall, green and angular, they resembled alien creatures, visitors from a distant galaxy. Invisible workmen hammered behind the fence. A new Liverpool was taking shape before his eyes.

  As soon as he reached the Strand, he saw the barrier across the road. The Salthouse Quarter was a couple of hundred metres further down. Yellow tape and red cones spanned all six lanes of the highway. A couple of paramedics stood next to an ambulance. Beyond them, unmarked white cars and vans formed a blockade. Blue lights flashed, walkie-talkies crackled. Someone was talking through a loudspeaker, but Harry couldn’t make out the words. The helicopter swooped low over the Salthouse, then whirled back towards the river.

  He crossed the road and headed for the maze of streets behind the Strand and Jamaica Street. They were crammed with small industrial units, silent and shuttered because it was Saturday morning. He didn’t have a game plan, but there was nothing new about that. The atmosphere was clammy and it had started raining again. His shirt was thin and he wished he’d brought a jacket to keep his shoulders dry.

  He imagined Tom Gunter hiding in the overgrown remains of the Salthouse at dead of night, wondering what to do next. Even though Tom hadn’t lasted five minutes in the army, he’d probably picked up a few survival skills. He’d spent most of his life in Merseyside and there was nowhere obvious for him to run. He’d have heard small creatures scurry by in the dark, and the quiet drip of water seeping from holes in the roof and walls. Some men would find the hopelessness of it impossible to bear. But Tom would never surrender to the warmth of a prison cell with satellite TV and all mod cons. Not with a life sentence stretching out ahead of him. No wonder there was a stand-off. Tom Gunter never gave an inch.

  The rain fell harder as Harry walked down a narrow street skirting a patch of waste ground. Ahead of him stood the fence at the rear of the Salthouse Quarter. Ten feet high and topped with razor wire. If he strained his eyes, he could make out the wording of large red and white posters on the grey boards. They warned that the site was protected by 24/7 security. Had the guards been skiving or sleeping when Tom broke in? Most likely, the money to pay them had run out. He saw more yellow tape, more unmarked vehicles, more police officers with frames made chunky by body armour. Several men and women carried guns. The air was sour with tension.

  For a moment Harry felt sorry for Tom Gunter. With such force ranged against him, the man didn’t stand a chance. Harry’s default emotion was to side with the underdog. But when he remembered how Tom had defiled Kay’s mouth post-mortem, any sliver of sympathy was washed away.

  A tubby ginger-haired constable, panting and out of condition, ran towards him.

  ‘You can’t go any further, sir.’

  ‘What’s happening?’

  Sometimes it bothered him, how easy he found it to act stupid. In unkind moments, Jim would say he had a head start.

  ‘It’s an incident, sir,’ the constable said, as though that answered every question. His voice was scratchy with suppressed anxiety. ‘If you wouldn’t mind moving along.’

  ‘An incident involving Tom Gunter?’

  The constable took a step towards him. ‘Now what do you know about…?’

  At that moment, a door in the fence began to open. Harry pointed towards it and the young policeman stiffened. A skinny figure in black skipped out. His movements were jumpy and familiar. In his right hand, he held something. Harry thought he recognised the handle of the Swiss army knife he’d pulled in St. Nicholas Gardens.

  One of the police officers shouted through a loudspeaker. ‘Armed police! Put your weapon down!’

  ‘Get back!’ the young constable hissed.

  Harry saw Tom Gunter lift his right arm. Jesus, he was about to throw the knife.

  He dived for the cover of a low brick wall. The impact of hitting uneven, stony ground jarred his whole body, but pain dissolved in the roar of an explosion that ripped the air. As he blinked dust out of his eyes, police officers yelled, but he couldn’t make out the words. Another explosion rocked everything, made the world seem to shift out of kilter.

  For a horrifying moment, a man shrieked in agony.

  And then came silence. The desolate quiet of horror sinking into stunned men and women.

  A few moments passed, though Harry felt as though an hour passed. He heard people begin to move around and call to each other. His elbows and knees hurt, but he was still alive. He raised his head and saw armed men and women moving in the distance, heard people shouting, as if to reassure each other.

  ‘The shots didn’t hit him!’

  ‘He pulled the knife.’

  ‘Did he cut his own throat?’

  ‘The fucking scumbag.’

  ‘He’s not moving.’

  He turned to the young constable.

  ‘Once upon a time, I was Tom Gunter’s solicitor.’

  The constable’s voice trembled. ‘I don’t think he’ll be giving you any more business, sir.’

  Chapter Twenty

  Seagulls soared over Empire Dock. They cried out loud, but weren’t mourning Tom Gunter. Nor was Harry as he limped back to his car, trying to get his head round what had happened.

  Tom must have tired of the waiting game and decided to make a break for
it. Perhaps he was past caring what happened next. The moment he ignored the police warning, he was doomed. If he hadn’t killed himself, they’d have done the job for him. Harry remembered the final scene of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, a favourite film. He hummed the poignant melody that accompanied the last frozen frame.

  What should he feel—relief, satisfaction, pleasure? Kay had been avenged, justice done. Gunter was callous, and the world better off without him. Yet he could not delight in the death of another human being.

  And what of Ceri, might Tom’s death break her heart?

  At the door to the underground car park, he whipped his mobile out of his pocket on an impulse and dialled her number. Straight to voicemail. She sounded calm and in complete control.

  ‘This is Ceri Hussain. Please leave a message after the tone and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.’

  No time to compose an elegant message. He found himself gabbling like a teenager on a first date.

  ‘Ceri, this is Harry Devlin. I have to tell you, Tom Gunter is dead. The police cornered him and he committed suicide.’

  Like Ricky Hussain, he thought, as he switched off the phone. Frustration gnawed at him like a hungry rat, nibbling his stomach. He wished he’d not been so abrupt. He didn’t want to speculate about how she would take the news. One thing was for sure; no way would she conduct Tom’s inquest.

  ***

  ‘Heard the news about Tom?’ he asked Carmel as he walked into the waiting room at the General.

  She nodded. ‘I’ve just come off the phone. Good riddance. There has to be an inquiry, but the officers should be in the clear. From what I hear, we carried out a textbook operation.’

  ‘I suppose it’s for the best.’

  ‘Too right, after what he did to Kay Cheung…’

  ‘We’re absolutely certain that he did kill her?’

  ‘The footprint evidence is strong, but there’s more. The CSIs have linked him to Lee Welch.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yep. They’ve finally recovered a fingerprint from her skin using superglue. It matches with Tom’s records.’

  He stared. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Well…’

  Her expression said it all. It didn’t matter whether he understood. All that counted was the evidence.

  ‘Tom was in a relationship with Kay. She said in her email to me that he was sick of her. It might have suited him to kill her and hope that the case was linked to a murder that he couldn’t have committed. But what connection did he have with Lee?’

  ‘That’s for the investigating team to figure out. Remember, he’d used prostitutes in the past. My two cents is, he hired Lee and then they fell out. Perhaps he decided not to pay for her services.’

  ‘Denise Onuoha was killed in the same way as the other two. Strangled, tongue cut out, body left on a beach or a river bank. Yet Tom had a perfect alibi. He couldn’t have killed Denise.’

  ‘From the look in your eye, I deduce you have a theory.’

  ‘I hope I’m wrong.’

  ‘That’s not like you. Are you going to share your ideas?’

  ‘Not until I’ve had a private conversation with someone.’ He folded his arms. ‘So how do you explain it all?’

  She gave him an exasperated look. ‘It’s not my job to explain it, Harry. Thank God I’m just a humble lawyer. Now, are you ready for a word with Jim?’

  They set off down the corridor that smelled of antiseptic. Jim was tucked up in bed in a small private room with a picture of Coniston Water on the wall. His head had been shaved and his skin was the same dull shade as the sky outside. He seemed shrunken and old, but he was alive, and nothing else mattered. Although his lips were pale, a faint smile played on them.

  ‘Harry,’ he said in a thin voice. ‘Why aren’t you minding the shop?’

  ‘It’s Saturday.’

  ‘What sort of excuse is that?’

  Harry sat by the side of the bed and clasped his partner’s hand. ‘You had me worried there.’

  ‘You don’t get rid of me that easily.’

  ‘The doctors said you might undergo a personality change.’

  ‘Don’t get your hopes up. I still keep the parking space.’

  ‘Attention deficit syndrome, it’s common enough after a blow on the head.’

  ‘I’m not bothered. You’ve suffered from it for years.’

  ‘So how does it feel, having a near-death experience?’

  ‘Remember when we were at the College of Law, listening to endless lectures on the law of landlord and tenant? They were ideal preparation.’

  ***

  ‘He looks good,’ Harry said when they were back in the little room.

  ‘Relatively speaking.’ Carmel was fighting to keep her emotions in check.

  ‘It’s going to be okay.’

  ‘I think so, Harry.’

  As she hugged him tight, he said, ‘Can you do me a favour?’

  ‘You can always ask.’

  ‘I want to find out something about Lee Welch.’

  ‘Go on, break it to me gently.’

  ‘Did she ever work as a cleaner at the Coroner’s Court?’

  Her lips compressed into a thin line. ‘What’s this all about?’

  ‘Call me when you find the answer. Please?’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I told you, I need to talk to someone.’

  ***

  Outside, the hospital car park was jam-packed as usual. Dodging between the vehicles that circled, vulture-like, in search of a free space, he switched his phone back on. Better see if Ceri had called while he was inside with Carmel and Jim.

  Sure enough, she’d recorded a message.

  ‘I’m so sorry, I’ve ruined everything. Please don’t think too badly of me. Everyone else will.’ She sounded weary and beaten. ‘Thanks for your kindness, Harry. I wish I hadn’t put myself out of reach.’

  Hands shaking, he rang her number.

  ‘This is Ceri Hussain. Please leave a message…’

  Shit.

  He raced to his car.

  ***

  ‘Ken Porterfield.’ The coroner’s officer sounded stern. Probably Harry had interrupted him in the middle of sinking a pre-lunch pint.

  ‘Listen,’ he hissed into the mobile, ‘have you spoken to Ceri Hussain today?’

  ‘No, but why do you ask? Is anything wrong?’

  ‘Can you tell me Ceri’s home address?’

  ‘Why do you want to know?’

  ‘I want you to meet me there.’

  ‘At the Coroner’s house?’ His tone suggested that Harry was proposing a joint assault on the Vatican. ‘What on earth for?’

  ‘I’m worried sick. I think…something may have happened to her.’

  ***

  Carmel called as he queued at the lights at the end of Jericho Lane.

  ‘Culture City Cleaners has a contract to clean the Coroner’s Court.’

  He swore in fury. Never had he been so sorry to solve a mystery.

  ‘What’s wrong, Harry?’

  ‘Everything.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Later. What about Lee Welch? Did she work on the contract?’

  ‘Yep, you were spot on. She was on the evening shift there for a few weeks earlier this year.’

  He gripped the steering wheel so hard his hands hurt. ‘Fucking hell.’

  ‘What does this all mean?’

  ‘Trouble,’ he muttered, as amber turned to green and he turned in the direction of Sefton Park. ‘Big bloody trouble.’

  ***

  Ceri Hussain’s house was a smart detached at the end of a tree-lined cul-de-sac. Pleasant, nondescript, the sort of place where nothing bad ever happens. Ken Porterfield lived on the far side of the park, a five minute stroll away. He had already arrived by the time Harry turned into Bullough Walk. Although it had stopped raining, a grey mackintosh was draped over his bulky shoulders. As he peered at a ground floor window
with its curtains drawn, he looked more like a nosey neighbour than a one-time vice cop.

  ‘You’d better not be having a laugh.’ For once there was no hint of amusement in Ken’s voice. ‘It’ll be more than my life’s worth if you’ve brought me out on a wild goose chase. If the Coroner turns up and catches us prying…’

  ‘Listen to this.’

  Harry put his mobile to Ken’s ear and played back the message that Ceri had recorded. As he listened, Ken’s face crumpled like a used crisp packet.

  ‘Bugger me, Harry. It sounds like…’

  ‘Goodbye?’

  ‘Well…I mean, what is going on?’

  ‘It’s a long story. First things first. We need to find her.’

  They followed the brick path that led around the house. In the neat garden at the rear, hydrangeas bloomed, pink and blue. Ivy and a deep purple clematis scrambled up a freshly painted white trellis. A sparrow supped at a bird table carved from stone, reached by stepping stones across a square of lawn. There were hanging baskets filled with lobelia and petunias. All very ordinary, an English suburban garden. The only sound came from a distant hedge trimmer. The house was silent. Ceri might be having a well-deserved Saturday morning lie-in, but Harry doubted it. His stomach felt queasy, as if he’d swallowed a mouthful of something rotten.

  ‘We have to break in.’

  Ken puffed out his cheeks. ‘Can’t do that, Harry. The Coroner’s house? We’d need a bloody good reason to smash her back window in.’

  ‘If the shit hits the fan, you can blame me.’

  ‘I’ll blame you anyway.’

  ‘That’s settled, then.’

  ‘She might have gone shopping.’

  Harry nodded towards the gabled garage. Through its back window he made out the sleek contours of Ceri’s red BMW.

  ‘On foot?’

  ‘Why not? She’s not a bloody invalid.’

  ‘You don’t really believe she’s out shopping. She’s not answering her mobile, yet she once told me she keeps it switched on 24/7.’

  ‘It comes with the territory, when you’re City Coroner. An unexplained death may occur at any time of day or night.’

  ‘Ever known her blip off the radar like this before?’