JM04 - Deadly Justice Read online

  Collins liked to think he was a good judge of character, but sometimes it could be a problem. He might sense when someone was lying, but they might be lying about something completely irrelevant. Pete Morton might be sweating because he had a series of unpaid traffic tickets.

  As Collins continued with routine questions, Pete Morton started to shuffle from foot to foot. His arms swung at his sides, then crossed his chest, only to fall back to his sides again.

  Usually Collins would have just asked a few general questions, perhaps a ten minute chat, especially with someone like Pete Morton, who hadn’t been anywhere near East Street during the incident, but the longer Collins spent talking to him the more likely Morton would make a mistake, and Collins could get to the bottom of whatever he was hiding.

  “Phones these days,” Collins said. “Quite amazing how far they’ve come in the last few years. You can make notes, take photos, send emails – they’re like mini computers, aren’t they?” Collins walked across to the display of mobile phones dotted across the wall.

  Pete Morton looked a little thrown by the change in subject. “Yeah, I suppose they are.”

  Collins picked up one of the phones. It was a plastic model with a fake screen and was attached to the wall with a stretchy black cable. Presumably so it couldn’t be stolen, although why someone would want to steal a pretend mobile phone, Collins had no idea.

  “So, you said you didn’t see Mr. Hammad at all yesterday. Are you sure?”

  Pete Morton was now sweating profusely. Under his arms damp patches were spreading. “Erm, I can’t really remember. I suppose I may have seen him in the morning. But I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary.”

  “Had he seemed depressed recently?”

  Pete Morton blinked. “Depressed? Well, I suppose he must have been if he topped himself, mustn’t he? But, like I said, I hardly knew him.”

  “How long had you known him?”

  “A couple of years, I suppose. As long as I’ve worked here.”

  Despite the fact Pete Morton was getting more and more uptight, Collins couldn’t work out what he was hiding.

  Pete Morton wiped his hands on his suit trousers, and his eyes flitted around the shop, resting on the phone display, the till, then the window. Looking everywhere except at Collins.

  “So you think he topped himself then? I heard that those kids had been bothering him again. They were always hassling him. Maybe he’d had enough.”

  Collins shrugged. “Maybe.”

  Pete Morton seemed very eager to distance himself from Syed Hammad. Collins might not find out why today, but he would. If there was a link between Pete Morton and Syed Hammad’s death, Collins would find it.

  12

  CRAIG FOSTER GRUNTED WITH relief when he opened the front door to his ground floor flat in Bexley house.

  Sweat trickled down his back. The walk back from the kebab house seemed to get longer with each visit. He supposed he should think about getting a little fitter and maybe cutting down on the takeaways.

  He’d start on Monday. There was no way he could start cutting out his favourite foods now, not with all the stress he was going through.

  Craig pulled out his new mobile. He’d been scared to use it at first. He had some crazy idea it might lead the police to his door. He considered chucking it in the Thames, but in the end, decided as he had been through hell to get it, he may as well use it, and he’d put his old sim card in it this morning.

  A quick glance at the screen told him he had no missed calls, no messages. Craig tightened his grip on the phone.

  He hadn’t heard anything from Vinnie since the newsagent’s job went tits up. Rumours had been flying around the estate. Lowered voices, gossiping away, talking about how Syed killed himself and tried to take the rest of East Street with him. But none of them knew what really happened. They hadn’t been there.

  Craig shuddered remembering the feeling of being trapped in the shop. It was bloody Vinnie’s fault. There was no doubt in Craig’s mind it had to do with the Brewerton brothers. Everyone knew Vinnie had pissed them off. But what annoyed Craig was the fact Vinnie must have had some idea of the danger they were walking into, but he’d said nothing. He let Craig and the others walk into a trap.

  It was the last time he did any jobs with Vinnie.

  He’d really thought he was a goner. God, what a horrible feeling. If he hadn’t gathered the strength to lift that stool and smash it through the glass, they’d probably have all gone the way of Syed Hammad.

  Craig had never really liked Syed. He always felt like the newsagent was looking down at him somehow. Judging him if he bought a copy of the Sun, or if he bought more than one chocolate bar at a time.

  No. He would never work with Vinnie again, but he did want to know what was going on. The police would want to nab a suspect, and Craig didn’t want it to be him. He’d have to lie low for a while and hope the police concentrated on Vinnie and the Brewertons. But as he’d heard Vinnie was still in hospital he would have to wait. There was no way he could risk a visit.

  He walked down the hallway, squeezing past a bag of rubbish he hadn’t taken out to the chute yet. It was getting a bit whiffy. He wrinkled his nose. He’d take them out just as soon as he’d finished eating his kebab.

  He opened a window in the front room, letting a bit of fresh air into the flat. He stood by the open window for a moment, hoping to feel a cool breeze, but the evening was stinking hot.

  Disappointed, he removed the white, plastic carrier bag that had been looped over his arm as he stomped around the coffee table. The couch creaked as he lowered his ample backside onto it. Bloody sofa. It was a tatty brown velvet thing that sagged in the middle and was covered with food stains. He’d inherited it from his mum years ago.

  Craig kicked off his trainers and put his feet up on the coffee table. Sometimes he missed his ex-girlfriend, Kelly, but right now he was grateful she wasn’t here to complain about his smelly feet like she used to.

  He pulled out a can of Coke from the carrier bag. The steamy heat from the kebab had condensed against the cold can. He wiped it against his jeans to get rid of the water droplets.

  He popped the ring pull and took a long drink. The fizzy liquid instantly cooled his throat and quenched his thirst. That was better. He’d needed that. He was sick of summer already. It was far too hot outside. It was all right for places like Spain. They had air conditioning, so you could fry yourself under the sun all day and then go back to your nice cool room and have a good night’s sleep. Tonight he’d have to sleep in a stuffy bedroom, sweating like a bastard.

  In his opinion, summer was overrated.

  Craig didn’t bother with a plate. He pulled out the plastic carton containing the extra-large kebab and chips. He left his double cheeseburger on the coffee table. If he couldn’t manage it now, he’d have it as a snack later.

  He screwed up the carrier bag and dumped it on the floor next to his trainers. He wrinkled his nose. What was that awful smell?

  He sniffed the kebab. No, it wasn’t that. He looked suspiciously down at his feet… Maybe Kelly had had a point.

  He decided to change his socks after dinner, settled back into the sofa and grabbed the remote control, while trying not to drop any of the kebab’s contents onto his lap.

  There were some benefits of living alone. He always kept the remote balancing on the arm of the sofa so it was within reach whenever he wanted it. It used to drive him nuts when Kelly would leave it by the television. What was the point of a remote control if he had to get up and walk to the television to change the channel anyway?

  He pressed the red power button and groaned as the news appeared. Changing the channel brought up male athletes in Lycra, limbering up by the side of the track for the men’s running. Craig stopped chewing. God, that Lycra left nothing to the imagination. How was he supposed to eat while watching them parade around with it all hanging out?

  He quickly changed the channel again. There was som
e kind of reality show on ITV. That was better than nothing, so he left it on and listened to some silly old bint singing her heart out.

  He sniffed again. That smell was getting worse. It smelled of blocked drains. A prickling sensation crawled over his skin. That was how it had started in the newsagent’s – a subtle smell like this that got worse and worse until … No. He shook his head. He was being paranoid. Imagining things. He would empty the bins tonight. And if that didn’t solve it, he would have to get on to the council, get them to sort it out.

  He took a large bite of his kebab, and the juice from the meat trickled down his chin. He wiped the greasy drips away with the back of his hand. It might be messy, but it tasted bloody handsome.

  Craig took another swig of coke then belched loudly. He shovelled the last of his chips in his mouth, stifling a yawn. He was so sick of this hot weather. It made him feel tired all the time.

  He dumped some of the lettuce from inside the kebab - he didn’t want that filling him up - and polished off the kebab in one final large bite.

  He had just put the polystyrene container back on the coffee table and reached for his cheeseburger when there was a knock at the door. Craig dropped the burger back on the table and got to his feet heavily. Who the hell could that be at this time of night?

  Craig waddled down the corridor towards the front door. That was funny. His front door had a glass panel, which meant he could usually see the shadow of whoever was outside. But there was nothing there. No shadow, no silhouette. Nothing.

  Craig had tried to get the council to replace the door. Anyone with an ounce of common sense would realise a glass-panelled door was a security risk here on the Towers Estate, but common sense was probably asking too much from the council. Technically, it was a housing association now, but there wasn’t much difference between them and the council in Craig’s opinion.

  He opened his front door, keeping the chain on because you never really knew who you might come up against on the estate.

  Craig was a big bloke, so he wasn’t as vulnerable as some. But there was no point in being careless. Size didn’t mean much when knives were involved. Lots of the kids on the estate carried some sort of weapon. Knives were common. Craig had even heard rumours of certain gangs carrying guns. With those kinds of nutters about, a bloke couldn’t be too careful. Sometimes size could actually make you a target.

  He pushed the door as far as the security chain would allow, and peeked through the crack.

  There was no one there. His eyes scanned the empty corridor.

  He closed the door, so he could remove the security chain, then he opened the door fully and stuck his head outside.

  Nothing.

  A movement to his left caught his eye, and he jerked his head inside. His fingers gripped the door, ready to slam it shut, when he realised it was just a cat.

  The tabby cat sat back on its haunches and stared back at Craig with huge green eyes. The cat kept its distance, eyeing Craig warily before disappearing into the stair lobby.

  Craig blew out a breath and grinned. Why was he so jumpy tonight? It was to be expected after what happened at the newsagent’s, he supposed. Because of Vinnie Pearson.

  Craig shook his head and went back inside, slamming the door behind him. It was probably kids, having a laugh, knocking then running away. Well, next time they rang, he wasn’t going to answer.

  Feeling stuffed and uncomfortable, he wrapped his arms around his belly as he waddled back into the lounge. He went to sit down on the sofa, reaching out for his burger at the same time, when he noticed something odd.

  A movement outside.

  Craig blinked and stood up slowly. He moved towards the window.

  Although Craig had a ground floor flat, there was only a small patch of grass outside, and he didn’t normally see people walking by. Most people tended to use the path. Every now and then he’d see a couple of kids kicking a ball around during the day, but even that was pretty rare. Especially after Craig had sworn at them and told them to bugger off.

  Craig stared out at the shadows. The council had put up a number of lights after complaints by the residents, but most of them had been vandalised, which gave the grounds around the block of flats an eerie, shadowy appearance.

  He couldn’t see anyone out there. Maybe he’d imagined it. He really needed to relax.

  He was just about to turn away and get back to his burger when he noticed there was something propped up against the window.

  It looked like a sheet of paper. He picked it up. It was A4-sized and it had been laminated. It was blank on one side. Craig turned it over and saw that there was a message written on the other side.

  Warning.

  Toxic gas. Suicide committed inside.

  Do not enter. Call 999.

  And there was a bloody skull and crossbones printed at the bottom of the sheet.

  Craig looked outside again, staring into the darkness.

  What the hell was going on? That wasn’t there earlier. He would have seen it.

  He frowned and tried to remember the last time he’d looked at the window. Was it there when he opened the window earlier? He hadn’t really been paying attention. It could have been there for a while.

  The smell … It washed over him again, worse now.

  His breath caught in his throat. There was no mistaking it now. It was the same smell…

  He had to get out of here.

  He spun around, faster than he’d ever moved before. He knew what effect that gas would have on him. He didn’t have long. He needed to get out into the fresh air.

  His life depended on it.

  But Craig Foster didn’t get very far. There, standing in the doorway, was a figure dressed in black. He wore some kind of mask and looked like something out of ‘Call of Duty.’

  Craig’s heart nearly jumped out of his chest. He willed his arms and legs to move, but they remained frozen, like big useless lumps of flesh. He stayed rooted to the spot as the man in black approached him.

  Now, the man was so close Craig could see the darkness beyond the distorted eye-piece of the mask. The man said, “Hello, Craig. Are you ready?”

  Craig bent double as the acrid gas washed over him and made him want to gag.

  Craig’s lower lip wobbled as he asked, “Ready for what?”

  “Justice, Craig,” the masked man said. “Are you ready for Justice?”

  13

  THE KILLER HAD TO take off his gas mask in the stairwell before he left Bexley House.

  No one would pay any attention to a man dressed in dark clothes walking down the street in this neighbourhood, but even the self-absorbed residents around here might notice the gas mask.

  He shoved it into his black holdall and chucked the bag over his arm. He looked like a normal middle-aged man heading to the gym. Innocent enough. Nothing about him stood out. There was no reason for anyone to remember him.

  He pushed open the swing doors and left the flats, sucking in the warm, clean night air and smiling to himself. He’d done a good job tonight.

  One down. Four to go.

  Vinnie Pearson had made it almost too easy, getting his four friends to descend on the newsagent’s. Not knowing that that was what the killer wanted all along. He wasn’t sure if they had all been involved in the riots last summer, but it didn’t really matter. They’d all gone along with Vinnie, prepared to trash the newsagent’s. And it wasn’t the first time for any of them. They all deserved it.

  They were all crying out for justice.

  Killing them with the gas in the shop would have been too easy. That would hardly have been a worthy punishment. He wanted them to be afraid. To know that he was coming for them, hunting them down. To know that there was no escape.

  They deserved to suffer.

  The killer slipped his right hand in his pocket and touched the cool smooth surface of the mobile phone he’d taken from Craig Foster’s dead body.

  He strolled along under the rustling plane trees tha
t lined the road. He could hear a few lairy shouts from the punters in the pub in the distance. The warm weather always brought out that type of person.

  He narrowed his eyes. A group of men stood outside the pub, laughing, joking and waving their pint glasses around. It was all very amiable now, but how long would that last? Someone would say the wrong thing at the wrong time and it would all kick-off.

  The happy revellers turned his stomach. He turned away.

  They had no idea. They weren’t bothered what kind of depravity went on right under their noses as long as it didn’t affect their sad little lives.

  Dante had once said, “The hottest places in hell are reserved for those who maintain neutrality.”

  The killer needed a drink, something to stop the shaking. His hands were trembling uncontrollably. This was unexpected. Was it some kind of delayed reaction?

  He couldn’t believe he’d actually done it. He’d performed the execution. He turned Craig Foster’s flat into a gas chamber. Rather fitting and thoroughly deserved.

  The killer had done his research. He knew Craig Foster deserved this. He’d stolen things and trashed honest businesses, just wandering in and taking what he wanted. Scum of the earth.

  So why was he still shaking?

  This wasn’t right. He should be feeling good. Craig Foster had it coming.

  The killer rubbed a hand across his face. He couldn’t wipe the image of Craig Foster stumbling to his knees out of his mind.

  For some reason, the line from the Wilfred Owen poem, Dulce et Decorum est, ran through his mind on repeat.

  He didn’t want it to. He tried to shove it away, to block it out, but it kept coming. Those words…

  “He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.”

  The poem was about the effects of mustard gas in World War I. He’d read it at school, but he hadn’t thought about it for years.

  The killer had stood there, wearing his gas mask with the hydrogen sulphide filter, and watched the life fade from Craig Foster.