Imperfect Killing Page 7

  ‘I do,’ he proudly answered.

  ‘How often?’

  ‘After every use,’ he told him.

  ‘Every use?’

  ‘Every use,’ Mendham confirmed.

  ‘Straight away?’

  ‘Straight away,’ he assured him. ‘I have to – in case they need to be used again.’

  Sean nodded his understanding and returned to examining the revolvers, his eye drawn to a .357 Combat Magnum with a four-inch barrel. He lifted it to his face and inhaled before slowly turning to Benton and offering him the weapon to smell and then doing the same to Mendham. The props manager’s eyes widened. ‘Cordite,’ he announced.

  ‘This gun’s been fired recently,’ Sean confirmed, ‘and not cleaned after use.’

  ‘That’s impossible,’ Mendham argued. ‘That gun hasn’t been used since the last episode of Franks and Grimstone – a London-based cop show. Perhaps you saw it?’

  ‘I did,’ Benton told him. ‘It was terrible.’

  ‘You smelt it yourself,’ Sean reminded him. ‘This weapon’s been fired.’ He popped the chamber of the weapon open and peered along the inside of the barrel. ‘This barrel’s been bored,’ he continued.

  ‘Of course,’ Mendham admitted. ‘Most of them have – otherwise the flash when it’s fired wouldn’t look realistic.’

  ‘Bored, but not rifled,’ he added.

  ‘No need to rifle the barrel of a gun that’s only going to be used to fire blanks,’ Mendham explained.

  ‘But this weapon can fire live cartridges?’ Sean asked.

  ‘Well, yes,’ Mendham admitted, ‘but only with low charges – otherwise you risk blowing the gun to pieces.’

  Sean and Benton looked at each other. They’d both seen the footage of the weapon used to kill Sue Evans almost blowing apart when it was fired in her face at point blank range. Sean slowly placed the revolver back on the table.

  ‘We need to seize that,’ Benton told him.

  ‘Not yet,’ Sean insisted.

  ‘It could be evidence,’ Benton argued.

  ‘The killer wore gloves – remember? All we got is a gun that’s been fired.’

  ‘Forensics can match it to the bullet,’ Benton suggested.

  ‘Maybe – maybe not,’ Sean replied. ‘The barrel’s not rifled and the bullet’s badly misshapen. They can’t guarantee anything and even if they could all it proves is we’ve got the right weapon, but it doesn’t put anyone with it.’

  ‘But it’s evidence,’ Benton repeated. ‘We can’t leave it here.’

  ‘It’s more than evidence,’ Sean told him coldly. ‘It’s bait.’

  ‘I’m not sure about this,’ Benton shook his head. ‘This is not normal procedure.’

  ‘The best police work rarely is,’ Sean assured him before turning to Mendham. ‘Tell me – do you have any black boiler suits down here, and gloves and black ski masks or balaclavas?’

  ‘Of course,’ Mendham replied. ‘What would we dress our bank robbers in if I didn’t?’

  ‘Where d’you keep them?’ asked.

  ‘Over in the black-clothing section,’ Mendham explained. ‘I find it easier to organize them based on colour.’

  ‘Show me,’ Sean demanded.

  ‘Very well,’ he agreed. ‘This way.’ They followed Mendham as he weaved his way passed racks of coats, jackets, hats and every other prop imaginable until they reached a corner of the basement full of black clothing. Mendham ran his finger along the crowded racks until he came to what they were looking for. ‘Here they are – black boiler suits, various sizes.’

  ‘Any missing?’ Sean queried.

  Mendham sighed then counted them quickly, silently mouthing the numbers as he did so. ‘No,’ he declared. ‘All present and correct.’

  Sean thought it all through for a second, trying to identify anything he hadn’t yet covered. ‘The day Sue Evans was killed,’ he asked, ‘were you already at work?’

  ‘No,’ Mendham answered. ‘That was a little too early for me.’

  ‘But the props store was locked, right?’ he asked a deliberately leading question.

  ‘Er … no,’ Mendham answered tentatively.

  ‘All this equipment – including replica firearms – and you left it open?’

  ‘I always do,’ Mendham tried to explain. ‘You never know when one of the props might be needed – they might be filming a show in the middle of the night and realize they’ve forgotten to request something. I can’t be here twenty-four hours a day. So long as everyone sticks to the booking in and out system it works fine.’

  ‘Is there any CCTV down here?’ Sean enquired.

  ‘No, no,’ Mendham insisted. ‘Sometimes the actors strip down to almost nothing trying on costumes. It wouldn’t do to have CCTV covering that – privacy laws and all that.’

  Sean considered the way they entered the basement and was sure that if the killer had come from there he wouldn’t have used the same entry-exit to make his way to the car park. ‘Is there another way out of here,’ he asked, ‘other than the way we came in?’

  ‘Of course,’ Mendham assured him. ‘Health and safety made sure of that.’

  ‘Where?’ Sean rushed him.

  ‘Two fire exits,’ Mendham explained. ‘One on the west side leading to a stairwell that leads into the main lobby.’ Sean immediately dismissed it in his mind. ‘And one on the east side that opens onto a small stairwell that leads up to the side of the building.’

  ‘Directly to the outside?’ Sean seized on it.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘To the car park?’

  ‘Close,’ Mendham confirmed. ‘Turn right and it’s only a few yards away. Turn left and it’s not far to the Southbank.’

  ‘That exit’s not covered by CCTV,’ Benton added fuel to the flames in Sean’s head. ‘We checked it in case the shooter ran past that way, but there’s no camera. Closer to the car park there is and at the corner of the Southbank, but not covering the fire exit. We picked him up running past the camera covering the car park corner, but not the one on the Southbank. We just assumed he knew where the camera was and avoided it.’

  ‘He’s not on the camera,’ Sean spelt it out, ‘because he never passed it. He came in here early in the morning when there was no one here and dressed in the boiler suit and balaclava before taking the revolver he’d already selected, and loading it with his homemade bullet. Do you keep records of ammunition usage?’ he asked Mendham.

  ‘Good Lord, no,’ he answered. ‘I just keep an eye on it and order in some more if supplies are looking low.’

  ‘He probably knew that,’ Sean guessed, ‘he could easily have taken a few cartridges without anyone being any the wiser.’ Sean headed east across the basement, past yet more racks of clothing and other props, followed by Benton and Mendham until they reached the fire exit. He pushed the bar down and eased the door open waiting for the sound of an alarm, but there was none. The cold air from outside rushed over him, and he imagined it hitting the shooter – catching him by surprise, quickening his already shortening breath, making his already trembling hand shake even more. Did you almost turn back? he asked the ghost of the killer. Did being outside – the shock of the cold – almost bring you to your senses, almost make you go back inside, return the suit, the gun, the balaclava and forget the whole thing? But you couldn’t, could you? Your hate and jealousy were too strong.

  He stepped outside and immediately saw the small stairwell Mendham had described. He climbed the first two steps and peered over the top of the flight. It gave him the perfect view of the car park, while affording him near perfect concealment. He could see the empty space where Sue Evans used to park her car – the forensic team long since packed up and gone, taking her car with them. ‘Then he came out here,’ he picked up his commentary, ‘and he waited – waited for her to arrive, ducking back inside as and when he had to until she eventually turned up. He waited for her to park and prepare to get out of her car, then he moved quickly acros
s the ground, catching her completely by surprise. He hesitated for a second. She said something to him and he pulled the trigger. Then he ran back to the fire exit – he would have had to wedge it open with something – back into the basement, replaced the gun, returned the clothes and made his way up to the lobby to join the growing crowd who were by now waiting for the police to arrive.’

  ‘Hell of a plan,’ Benton told him, ‘if, that is, any of it’s true.’

  ‘Who is it exactly you’re talking about?’ Mendham asked.

  ‘I can’t tell you,’ Sean answered as he continued up the stairs to the car park followed by the others.

  ‘We need to seize all the boiler suits,’ Benton pointed out, ‘and the gloves and balaclavas.’

  ‘No,’ Sean snapped back. ‘We need to use them – use them to snare our rabbit.’

  ‘How?’ Benton asked.

  ‘Fear,’ Sean told him before walking past them down the stairs and back inside. Again the others followed him, Benton closing the door behind them. ‘Don’t let anyone touch any of the boiler suits, gloves or balaclavas,’ he instructed Mendham, ‘and especially don’t let anyone touch the revolver.’

  ‘Should I lock it away?’ he checked.

  ‘No,’ Sean insisted. ‘I need them all left out – for a while anyway.’

  ‘This is risky, Sean,’ Benton argued. ‘What if someone takes any of it before the suspect comes looking? We could lose our only evidence.’

  ‘I’ll make sure no one takes it,’ Mendham assured him.

  ‘But if you’re always hanging around the shooter won’t risk coming anyway,’ Benton explained, ‘so it would all be for nothing.’

  ‘He’ll come,’ Sean stepped in.

  ‘And risk being seen?’ Benton asked.

  ‘He’ll think he has no choice. He’ll come anyway, ready with some excuse as to why he needs to look around. If he sees you then he’ll try and distract you,’ he told Mendham. ‘Get you out of the way long enough to take what he needs.’

  ‘It would be a lot easier if you told me who he is,’ Mendham pointed out.

  ‘I can’t,’ Sean told him. ‘Not yet. But when he comes I reckon you’ll have a pretty good chance of knowing it’s him.’

  ‘And what d’you want me to do while you’re talking him into walking into your trap?’ Benton asked. ‘Come with you?’

  ‘No,’ Sean replied. ‘You stay here. Find somewhere you can watch from without being seen.’

  ‘The raised platform in the corner,’ Mendham suggested helpfully. ‘I’m sure we can rig something for you there.’

  ‘Great,’ Benton rolled his eyes.

  ‘Fine,’ Sean answered more positively.

  ‘So I’m stuck in here for God knows how long,’ Benton complained.

  ‘You won’t be here long,’ Sean predicted. ‘Now, I need to see a man about a revolver.’

  ***

  Sean stalked the corridor off the meeting room where he’d discovered Stokes was in attendance, waiting for his quarry to appear. Finally the door burst open and about a dozen people spilled from the room – some laughing, some more serious. Stokes was amongst the serious. Still faking mourning, Sean wondered, or genuinely worried about the sudden attention of the police? Sean stepped out in front of him, catching him totally unawares. He was pretty sure he registered a look of fear and annoyance on Stokes’ face, but the ex-presenter still managed a slight smile.

  ‘Excuse me, Mr Stokes,’ Sean addressed him, dispelling any chance he was there to see someone else.

  ‘Yes, Sergeant,’ he replied, taking a deep breath, ‘can I help you with something?’

  ‘Sorry,’ Sean began, trying to sound as harmless as he could. Easy, he reminded himself. Just take it slow and set the trap. ‘When we spoke earlier I forgot to ask you how long you’ve known Miss Evans for.’

  ‘You sure?’ Stokes asked, his eyes narrowing. ‘I thought maybe you did.’

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ Sean persevered. ‘I was checking my notes of our … conversation and noticed my mistake. If you could just clear that up for me.’

  ‘Of course,’ Stokes seemed to relax and started to walk, Sean keeping pace. ‘I’d say it was about five or six years.’

  ‘Five or six years,’ he faked surprise. ‘That’s a long time. From watching the early shows you did with her I would never have guessed you’d known each other that long. When did you start making that show together – about two, three years ago?’

  ‘About that,’ Stokes replied sounding casual.

  ‘Yet by then you’d already known her for at least a couple of years.’

  ‘Known her,’ Stokes explained, ‘but we didn’t really become friends until we’d been filming together.’

  ‘And as friends you’d have known if she was seeing anyone?’

  ‘If it was anything more than a casual relationship, yes, I suppose she would have told me,’ Stokes co-operated, ‘but I thought we’d covered all this in some detail.’

  ‘’Yes,’ Sean sighed as he followed Stokes into his own office, ‘Yes we have. To be honest I’m just going over old ground, in case we’ve missed anything – before we really go to town on the man we already have in custody.’

  ‘Naturally,’ Stokes agreed as he sat in his chair. ‘But it certainly sounds like you’ve got the right man.’

  ‘Looks that way,’ Sean smiled, ‘although I’ll feel better once we find the gun he used, and the clothing too, if we’re lucky.’

  ‘You think you’ll find them?’ Stokes asked, involuntarily sitting forward a little. ‘I would have thought the gun would be at the bottom of the Thames by now and the clothes incinerated somewhere.’

  ‘No, no … I don’t think so,’ Sean told him.

  ‘No?’ Stokes asked.

  ‘No,’ Sean explained. ‘With someone like him, the gun would have been far too precious to get rid of, and the clothes too in all likelihood.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Stokes admitted.

  ‘The thing is,’ Sean continued, ‘this was no professional hit or gangland slaying – this was a crime of passion. The killer thought about it for months – maybe even years – planning every aspect of it, fantasizing about it. He probably did so holding the gun he eventually used and almost certainly while he was dressed in the clothes he wore when he killed her.’

  ‘But once he’d made his fantasy a reality surely he’d just get rid of the lot?’

  ‘No,’ Sean told him. ‘Once he’d used them in her murder they would have become even more precious to him. No doubt he planned to wear them over and over, holding the gun in his hand to help him relive every moment of killing her. We’re not dealing with a sane or rational man here, Mr Stokes. We’re dealing with a man who was obsessed – made homicidally insane by her rejection. We’ll find the gun and the clothes. I can assure you of that.’

  ‘And if by some chance you don’t?’ Stokes asked – his eyes a little narrower, his lips a little thinner – his body unwittingly betraying him with signs he couldn’t control.

  ‘Then I’ll know he didn’t kill her,’ Sean smiled with serpent eyes. ‘But we will. If not now then sometime in the future. We’ll keep looking for them, that’s for sure. Maybe someone else will find the gun and use it in another crime and drop it at the scene. Maybe someone will be stopped, searched and arrested for carrying it. As a matter of routine it would be sent to the lab for ballistic and DNA testing – to see if it had been used in other crimes. If it has our man’s DNA on it, we might be able to match it. If we find DNA on the gun maybe I’ll be told to take DNA from everyone who knew her or worked with her. We do it sometimes – I’m sure you’ve heard of it, seen it on the news.’

  ‘I see,’ Stokes answered, his confident veneer slipping further.

  ‘Maybe some time in the future the government will order the ballistic and DNA testing of all blank-firing guns as part of an initiative to clear up unsolved crimes,’ Sean continued, enjoying Stokes’ torment more than he k
new he should. ‘Who really knows? But I know one thing – forensic DNA evidence is getting better and better. We can get DNA off almost anything now, no matter how old it is. Not a week goes by when we’re not arresting someone for something they thought they’d got away with years before. You were right about what you said: the only way to be really sure is to incinerate the clothes and throw the gun in the deepest part of the Thames. Anyway. Like I said – it’s only a matter of time. Modern science is a wonderful thing.’ Sean let his words sink in for a few seconds. ‘Well, once again thanks for your time. I’ll be in touch if we find anything.’ He stood to leave as Stokes found his voice.

  ‘I hope they give him life,’ he said without feeling. ‘No one wants to see him walk free just because he claims to have some sort of mental health problem.’

  Sean just nodded and kept heading towards the door, only stopping and turning once he’d reached the exit. ‘Oh I wouldn’t worry about that,’ he assured Stokes. ‘Sue Evans’ killer will get life. That much I can promise you.’

  ***

  He slowly pushed the door to the studio’s basement open and peered inside – only entering once he was sure no one was around. He closed the door behind him and leaned against it while he tried to control his rapid breathing. Lines of sweat ran down the sides of his face from his hair line. He was reminded of the morning, such a short time ago, when he had felt exactly the same as he did now – a mixture of terror and exhilaration, fear and determination. But above all else the dreadful feeling of having cast the die, only now to wish he hadn’t. All of the feelings he’d expected when he’d pulled the trigger had never come to be, leaving him with an emptiness and coldness that was like being trapped in a bad dream – the feeling of being hunted.

  The split second before he’d fired he’d almost changed his mind, was prepared to run. But he’d been sure that somehow she’d recognized him, despite the balaclava. She’d recognized his eyes. Once he’d realized, he had no choice but to go through with it. Every second since he’d cursed himself for not wearing mirrored sunglasses – a simple pair of sunglasses that would have saved both their lives. And now the police were sniffing around the studio asking everybody and anybody questions about her. He’d assumed they’d be hanging around for the first day or so, and that they may even want to speak to him if he was unlucky, but for them to still be here, asking questions – it concerned him deeply, intensifying the fear that plagued him every second, whether he was awake or asleep. He reminded himself they’d already charged the stalker with her murder – an almost perfect suspect, one that everyone seemed happy to convict and lock away. Everyone that is except the over-conscientious DS Corrigan. But without hard evidence to the contrary even he would eventually have to accept the stalker’s guilt.