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Authors: Stuart Pawson
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we’ll leave that one. Anything else?’
We kicked ideas around for another hour. Our murderer didn’t take risks, probably had a criminal record and lived not too far away. None of the normal motives fitted. He was a sociopath, incapable of recognising another person’s feelings, and he’d done what he did for the hell of it. He was a sadist and would probably kill again.
‘So what was the purpose of the killing?’ I asked.
‘He did it for fun,’ I was told. ‘Or just to feel what it was like. He’d probably fantasised about it for years.’
‘And how did he pick his victim?’
‘He looked for a lonely old man that nobody would miss.’
‘So it wasn’t personal?’
‘No.’
‘Perhaps the killer’s a gerontophile,’ one of the young guns suggested, showing off.
‘In that case, wouldn’t there have been some form of sexual interference?’ I responded.
‘Um, yeah, probably, boss.’
‘That’s it, then,’ I told them. ‘Remember, this is not evidence. Hopefully it’s given us an insight into the type of person we are looking for, but in itself it’s not worth a hill of beans.’ God, I wished I’d said that.
Eddie Carmichael hung back after the meeting, waiting for me. ‘Are we going to see this plonker bank robber?’ he asked.
‘Right now,’ I said, pulling my jacket on. I asked one of the DCs to make a note of what was on the board and headed for the door.
‘I need to collect a gun,’ Eddie said as we passed through the foyer.
‘A gun? What for?’
‘Because he’s a convicted armed robber.’
‘He was using a carrot in a paper bag.’
‘Only because he didn’t have a gun. He’d have used it if he’d had one.’
‘He’d have used a cucumber, if he’d had one,’ I argued.
‘With respect, guv, you’re relying on your memory of the case. The file has him as an armed robber, so I want to be armed, just in case.’
‘Have you got authorisation?’
‘Right here.’ He waved it under my nose. ‘I saw Mr Wood, first thing.’
The armoury is what was intended as number eight cell, hastily converted when the Yardies started shooting each other, with a counter inside, racks for the few guns we have and shelves for the ammo. There are Heckler and Kochs, Glocks, a sniper rifle that will shoot off a gnat’s left testicle at half a mile, and a sawn down shotgun for firing lead powder-filled cartridges that can blow a door off its hinges. The H & K machine gun is the standard weapon, with a Glock pistol as standby for when the Heckler jams, but in this case Eddie would just take the Glock.
It’s fairly routine. If there’s a faint chance that a suspect or witness may have a gun we might carry one concealed in a belt holster, just in case, although I’ve never bothered and neither has Dave. I killed a man, once, but that was on a raid. He fired at me and I fired back, three times. I didn’t know his gun was empty, but I don’t lie awake at night wondering about it. Not too often.
The desk sergeant led the way with Eddie hard on his heels, me loitering. He unlocked the thick door and let himself behind the counter.
‘One nine-millimetre Glock 17 semi-automatic,’he said, as he placed the weapon in front of Eddie. ‘You want a holster for it?’
‘Yes please.’
‘’Spect you’ll want a bullet, too.’
‘A bullet! A full magazine, if you don’t mind.’
‘You can have fifteen. They cost money, y’know.’
‘How many does it hold?’ I asked. I’d never used a Glock. In my days it was all Smith and Wesson revolvers. I picked it up, felt the weight of it and how it fitted my hand.
‘The mag holds seventeen,’ the Sergeant told me, ‘but we only put fifteen in to avoid compressing the spring too far. It helps prevent jams, not that they jam too often. You don’t want one, do you, Charlie?’
Eddie strapped the belt round his waist, put the gun in the holster, checked the hang of his jacket. I swear he looked round for a mirror.
‘No,’ I
We kicked ideas around for another hour. Our murderer didn’t take risks, probably had a criminal record and lived not too far away. None of the normal motives fitted. He was a sociopath, incapable of recognising another person’s feelings, and he’d done what he did for the hell of it. He was a sadist and would probably kill again.
‘So what was the purpose of the killing?’ I asked.
‘He did it for fun,’ I was told. ‘Or just to feel what it was like. He’d probably fantasised about it for years.’
‘And how did he pick his victim?’
‘He looked for a lonely old man that nobody would miss.’
‘So it wasn’t personal?’
‘No.’
‘Perhaps the killer’s a gerontophile,’ one of the young guns suggested, showing off.
‘In that case, wouldn’t there have been some form of sexual interference?’ I responded.
‘Um, yeah, probably, boss.’
‘That’s it, then,’ I told them. ‘Remember, this is not evidence. Hopefully it’s given us an insight into the type of person we are looking for, but in itself it’s not worth a hill of beans.’ God, I wished I’d said that.
Eddie Carmichael hung back after the meeting, waiting for me. ‘Are we going to see this plonker bank robber?’ he asked.
‘Right now,’ I said, pulling my jacket on. I asked one of the DCs to make a note of what was on the board and headed for the door.
‘I need to collect a gun,’ Eddie said as we passed through the foyer.
‘A gun? What for?’
‘Because he’s a convicted armed robber.’
‘He was using a carrot in a paper bag.’
‘Only because he didn’t have a gun. He’d have used it if he’d had one.’
‘He’d have used a cucumber, if he’d had one,’ I argued.
‘With respect, guv, you’re relying on your memory of the case. The file has him as an armed robber, so I want to be armed, just in case.’
‘Have you got authorisation?’
‘Right here.’ He waved it under my nose. ‘I saw Mr Wood, first thing.’
The armoury is what was intended as number eight cell, hastily converted when the Yardies started shooting each other, with a counter inside, racks for the few guns we have and shelves for the ammo. There are Heckler and Kochs, Glocks, a sniper rifle that will shoot off a gnat’s left testicle at half a mile, and a sawn down shotgun for firing lead powder-filled cartridges that can blow a door off its hinges. The H & K machine gun is the standard weapon, with a Glock pistol as standby for when the Heckler jams, but in this case Eddie would just take the Glock.
It’s fairly routine. If there’s a faint chance that a suspect or witness may have a gun we might carry one concealed in a belt holster, just in case, although I’ve never bothered and neither has Dave. I killed a man, once, but that was on a raid. He fired at me and I fired back, three times. I didn’t know his gun was empty, but I don’t lie awake at night wondering about it. Not too often.
The desk sergeant led the way with Eddie hard on his heels, me loitering. He unlocked the thick door and let himself behind the counter.
‘One nine-millimetre Glock 17 semi-automatic,’he said, as he placed the weapon in front of Eddie. ‘You want a holster for it?’
‘Yes please.’
‘’Spect you’ll want a bullet, too.’
‘A bullet! A full magazine, if you don’t mind.’
‘You can have fifteen. They cost money, y’know.’
‘How many does it hold?’ I asked. I’d never used a Glock. In my days it was all Smith and Wesson revolvers. I picked it up, felt the weight of it and how it fitted my hand.
‘The mag holds seventeen,’ the Sergeant told me, ‘but we only put fifteen in to avoid compressing the spring too far. It helps prevent jams, not that they jam too often. You don’t want one, do you, Charlie?’
Eddie strapped the belt round his waist, put the gun in the holster, checked the hang of his jacket. I swear he looked round for a mirror.
‘No,’ I
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