Carl Sant Murder Mysteries Collection

Chapter 4-2

Both had been outstanding recruits, but in the last ten years their fortunes had taken different turns. Superintendent Hardaker had continued to please the Chief Officers Team with his diplomacy and public-facing proficiency. Sant, an awkward son of a b***h, was thought to be doing extremely well to have achieved his lesser rank.

‘What do you make of these numbers, Carl?’

Sant bent forward for a closer look. ‘I’m stumped, Chiefman. What do the prints say?’

‘As expected, there’s a match with Dryden’s. What we’ll never know is how far the poor devil got with his last remarks before the lights went out.’

Sant pointed to the marking furthest right. ‘5? Or an S?’

The red-bearded officer squinted at it. ‘Probably a 5, though we’ll need more analysis. What do you say to the phone number theory?’

‘Already ran a check.’ Hardaker looked up, lips parting. The inspector rubbed his disjointed nose and smiled. ‘According to BT’s database, the directory is full of landline numbers beginning 3-1. But only ninety-two begin 3-1-5. I’ve got civvies trawling through those numbers as we speak.’

‘Excellent work. Let me know your findings A-SAP and I’ll report to Lister.’

Sant shuffled on his feet. ‘So I take it you’re heading up this investigation and Lister is “overseeing”.’

Hardaker stifled a laugh. ‘Don’t mock the chief constable, Carl. This isn’t the time for cheap shots. We’ve a m*********r to deal with. Let’s keep it professional. Agreed?’

Sant didn’t reply. He ambled to the back of the bus, passing technicians in masks dusting black powder onto upholstery, hunting for fingerprints. A blonde woman nearly his height was placing scraps of fabric in a plastic jar. He eased by, ignoring his body’s response to her warmth and scent. Peering out of the rear window, up the hill down which the bus had careered, he got a letterbox view of stubborn rows of red-brick terraces rising up tree-topped slopes against the raw grain of the land. To his left, light industrial estates and long-gone industrial wastelands were shielded from everyday life by shrubbery and grassy mounds. To his right, search teams were taking apart bins in the hope of unveiling murder weapons and anything else that might constitute a clue.

Over the crest of the hill protruded the partially ruined tower of Kirkstall Abbey, monument to ancient Leeds. Somehow, despite all the years and all the shifting ways of life, the abbey was still standing – most of it intact. No other city in England could boast a medieval monastery as well preserved as this one. Could Dryden have met his snitch there? It seemed a likely place to hang out. Impossible to miss, secluded enough not to draw attention.

Sant retraced his steps to the front of the bus, glanced again at Dryden’s lonely numbers, then left.

* * *

The police canteen was heaving, the din of chatter constant, the main topic of conversation a dead man among the rank and file. The concerned looks of officers sat at other tables made small talk with Holdsworth impossible. She and Sant ate boxed chow mein, too entwined with Dryden to close the shutters on his dreadful fate.

‘What about Dryden’s desk?’ he asked. ‘Anything revealing?’

‘Nothing we’ve been party to since forensics took over,’ said Holdsworth as she twisted her fork around a mouthful of noodles, ‘though it appears he was still occupied with a couple of hangovers from his uniformed sergeant days.’

‘A dedicated man,’ Sant said. ‘Most folk work to live. He lived to work.’

‘But that was stupid of him, wasn’t it?’ She glanced over her shoulder to warn off prying eyes. ‘Working when he wasn’t supposed to; chasing some dodgy lead without telling us.’

Sant spooned sugar in his tea. ‘That’s how some detectives do their business. It’s an addiction. Dryden wanted the world and still some. His next promotion was on his mind twenty-four seven.’

‘Except some of the time he was looking back, not forward.’ She reached for the expensive handbag perched on the chair next to her. Pulled out a plastic folder. ‘I found some notes under his desk relating to two incidents. Why he kept tabs on them is not clear.’

‘Go on.’

‘The first was an armed robbery at a jeweller’s, but I’ve tracked the latest updates and there’s a watertight prosecution under way.’

‘Must’ve done a good job,’ said Sant, thumbing his empty box to one side.

‘True, but the same can’t be said of the other case. I can’t get my head around it, Carl. It appears he brought in a young man for possession of a screwdriver – going equipped for breaking and entering. The man gave his name as Owen Madeley but had no ID on him and was told to report back to Bridewell.’

‘No show?’

‘Not as yet.’

‘Don’t hold your breath.’

Holdsworth belched shamelessly before lowering her voice and drawing closer. ‘But there’s something odd here. You see, Dryden’s notes make it clear no officer on duty that night could identify him. So no previous, unlike most youths carrying screwdrivers round town.’

Sant thought hard. ‘Maybe he’s good at disguises.’

‘What’s really strange, though, is the screwdriver. It was a cheap affair, bought by this Madeley character from a pound shop in town. I’ve seen the thing. It’s still with the duty sarge at Bridewell. The man signed a disclaimer allowing us to confiscate it.’

He chewed that one over. ‘A pointed object, regardless of its value, is capable of doing damage.’

‘Not when it’s still wrapped in its packaging.’

Sant had no argument this time.

Holdsworth craned her head even closer to him, her spicy breath on his face. ‘And here lays the mystery. How do you know if someone’s carrying a screwdriver in its packaging?’

He caught her drift. ‘If you’ve seen him buy it.’

‘Absolutely. It seems Dryden shadowed Madeley to the pound shop, waited for him to purchase the screwdriver, and hey presto, nabbed him.’

‘You’re on to something, Holdsworth. Dryden was tailing the man, maybe suspecting him of something, and found an excuse for an arrest on whatever grounds he could.’

‘But what’s even more bizarre,’ she continued, ‘is that screwdrivers are not defined by law as bladed articles – anyone, kids included, can buy a screwdriver. Of course, they can be classed as offensive weapons where there are reasonable grounds for suspicion, but Madeley had only just purchased the thing. Had a receipt to prove it.’

Sant nodded. ‘Sounds like an abuse of stop and search. The only screwdrivers I’ve confiscated were adapted in some way; bent or sharpened.’

‘And this was neither. It was fresh out of the shop! We’re talking about such a petty matter. Most PCs wouldn’t even issue a caution, never mind a high-flying sarge like Dryden. I mean, how can we convict the ringleaders if we waste time on the artful dodgers?’

‘Or Owen Madeleys.’

‘Exactly,’ she said, discarding the remains of her lunch. ‘Dryden wanted Madeley badly. May’ve even set him up. All he’d have to do was collar the kid, hand him the quid to buy the screwdriver while feeding him some crap about checking the store complies with trading laws, and the result? Double-crossed Madeley – the poor pet – finds himself facing a criminal charge.’

Sant looked puzzled. ‘Didn’t you say screwdriver sales were not restricted by law?’

not‘Yes, but wide-eyed Madeley would be none the wiser.’

‘I’m not convinced, Holdsworth. It all feels a bit contrived, and surely the charge was refused?’

‘Categorically. No real proof, no charge. The duty sarge overturned Dryden on the spot.’

‘Leaving the high-flying detective red faced,’ Sant added, getting up to leave. ‘It’s a line worth pursuing, but keep searching through Dryden’s stuff. His computer foremost.’

‘Computer’s out. Someone’s taken it away.’

‘On whose orders?’ barked the inspector, a fresh surge of anger brewing around the chow mein.

‘Hardaker’s of course. His desk and all his belongings are gone too.’ Holdsworth returned Sant’s glare. ‘Don’t blame me. Hardaker’s command overrides yours, Carl. I don’t like it either, but orders are orders and I’m not risking my job to save your face with the Chiefman.’

Huddling around the nearest table, a group of young officers were held captive by her rising voice. Sant knew that nothing good ever came from making a scene. He took his cue and left Holdsworth to suffer the lingering gazes.

She made to leave. Hiding a grin behind a mask of madness, she took one long look at the onlookers and bawled: ‘Can’t you lot keep your noses out?’

* * *

He sat at his desk meditating over the bus murders as the afternoon wore on. Praying for a break in the forensic searches. Not a lot more could be done until Dr Wisdom delivered his preliminary report.

He sat up, chair creaking. Looked at his workstation, the phone next to it, and was angry all over again.

There was no jealousy regarding Hardaker. The ginger nut was a fine detective with a proven track record, comparable to his own. And besides, this wasn’t the first time Sant found himself firmly beneath the Chiefman in the pecking order.

But this case was different; involved the murder of a sergeant under his watch, ploughing the same furrow in the field of death. Over the last few months he and Dryden had got on well. Sant would never forget them sharing a pint of the black stuff and, later, Dryden introducing his wife as they both swayed and laughed like morons in her charming presence. Christ, he knew the man better than Hardaker or anyone else pulling the strings.

hisAnd still, no-one had asked his opinion.

The questions kept coming, the absence of answers an increasing weight, a terrible throbbing pressure.

What was he doing on the bus? Why would someone want to kill him? And what about the other passengers and the driver? Why them too?

Was this the work of a random gunman, a serial killer? Or was Dryden the target and the others simply unlucky bystanders?

Sant knew the bulk of the answers would be packaged together, boxed and locked out of sight. He rubbed his nose, stared across his office. The key lay in discovering what Dryden was investigating.

What the hell had the man got involved in?

Sant was not naïve; he knew officers who sometimes worked on the sly without informing their colleagues. He was not immune to lone-wolf syndrome himself.

But Dryden had been a rookie when it came to missing persons cases, and certainly had never worked a serious one. Why risk his blossoming career laying a wild-card punt on tenuous intelligence? Unless, of course, the source was too good to ignore.

As Sant lapsed into meditation, weighing up the visions and sounds pelting his mind, he became conscious of a buzzing noise doing battle with his inner self – his desk phone. He reached for the handset, his rigid arm outstretched like a robot.

‘Hello, is that you Carl? Hello?’

‘Speaking?’

‘It’s your mother, you silly billy!’

He shook himself out of his trance and grunted an acknowledgement, propping the handset several inches from his ear. She hailed from that generation who shouted, didn’t speak, down the line.

‘Are you taking good care of yourself? Keeping out of harm’s way?’

Now that he was a middle-aged divorcee Sant’s mother constantly worried about him. In defiance of logic, she worried more these days than ever before. He suspected his break-up with Elizabeth had tipped the scales.

‘No need to fret about me,’ he mumbled, leaning more on his elbow to rub his nose again.