Dead of Winter

Chapter 65

Ebony looked at the postmark on the small padded envelope that had arrived at Fletcher house with no MIT number. It was simply addressed to DC Ebony Willis, Murder Squad and had been posted from a post box on the street outside. It had been franked at the main sorting office in London.

Ebony picked up the envelope and was about to tear the top open when Carter walked into the meeting room.

He was carrying a box-shaped exhibits bag in his arms, resting on a tray of files.

She tore off the top and slid out the plastic bag inside. Then she stood and walked down the corridor to Robbo’s office.

‘I’ve had a present in the post.’

He looked at her face first — she was pale; then he looked at what she had in her hands. The flesh was still soft and wet. The packet smeared with the blood: ten fingertips, severed at the knuckle joint.

‘There’s a note attached. It says: Check for a match.. ’

‘Take it to Bishop.’

Bishop had just finished filling the bag around Tanya’s shoulders with smoking Superglue. It had evaporated now and he took away the polythene and dusted her upper body with ink. The Superglue had stuck to the latent prints. He photographed the prints where someone had held her down. He was just feeding them into the PC when Ebony arrived.

‘What have you got for me?’ He waited until she pulled out the packet from a brown crime-scene envelope. ‘Christ, is this how they teach you to take someone’s fingerprints these days?’ He grinned.

Harding emerged from the cold storage and came to look over his shoulder. ‘Where did you get those?’

‘They arrived in the post.’ Ebony answered as Bishop went over to wash his hands and change his gloves and then he took the package from Ebony. He took them over to his lab table and filled a palette with saline. Then he took out the fingers from the paper they were wrapped in and dabbed each finger-tip into the water until it was clean of the dried blood. ‘Cut using wire clippers I would guess,’ he said, examining the knuckle end of each digit as he dried them gently by dabbing the flesh. He rolled the washed and dried fingertips in ink and then onto the Cellophane. Then he fed the images into the computer.

Firstly he checked them with the crime scene at Blackdown Barn and with the print next to Sophie. Then he looked at the results both from Tanya and from the fingertips.

Harding and Ebony stood by and waited. He turned to them after several minutes.

‘We have the person who murdered Sophie Carmichael and the person who murdered Tanya. Or rather, we have his fingers.’

‘Not sure if we’re going to get any more of him,’ said Ebony.

‘You better check the next post,’ said Harding.

Carmichael was doing the rounds of clubs who offered partially or fully nude tabletop dancers. Club Persuasion was his fifth club of the night and he was waiting for the owner, Buster Mills, to come and talk business. He knew he had to do it as part of his cover, build his profile, but his head was in a dark place; he wasn’t sure he could pull it off this evening.

Carmichael sat in the red leather booth and tried not to think about the news from Micky. He stared into space as the woman dressed as a cheeky schoolgirl swirled her gymslip round the pole in front of him.

She finished her dance and came up to sit next to him. ‘Fuck off.’ Carmichael was beginning to grow tired of the outfits, the smiles, the accents. He had enjoyed the first few dances but by this time he’d seen enough to make a living as a gynaecologist. The girl called him a pig and skulked off. Carmichael looked across at Buster making his way over. He was from Greece originally. His massive frame was a ball shape. Even his bald head had extra rolls of skin. He was an old player in gentlemen’s clubs and had been bankrupt more than once. He was hedging his bets with Club Persuasion. It had something for everyone: DJ sets in the week, football on a massive screen in the day, and strippers by night. Carmichael stood and shook his hand. Buster looked him over. He had a smile he could switch on and off.

‘Mr Hart. Nice of you to drop in. I hear you want to talk business?’

‘Buster. . nice to meet you.’ He stood and shook Buster’s hand. ‘It’s a great place you have here. I’ve come to see if I can interest you in getting the best dancers for your club.’

‘Thank you. Come with me. Let’s talk.’

Buster opened a door onto a private lounge with a couple of sofas, a long dining table, a pole and a picture of the Queen. An elaborate drinks trolley was next to the dining table.

‘So come. . sit down. . I’ll get you a drink.’ Carmichael went round to sit at the far side of the table and Buster poured Carmichael a Scotch and handed it to him. He sat down opposite. ‘You are new here in London? We normally deal with Sonny. . I saw the news today about his drowning. It’s a shame. Sonny’s mother is a good friend of mine.’ Buster kept his eye on Carmichael.

‘It’s very sad.’ Carmichael gave nothing away with his expression. He sat back, kept eye contact. ‘I’ll do the best I can to fill his shoes. In fact, I can confidently say I can do better. I have already expanded the network of contacts and have new girls just arrived; being acclimatized as we speak.’ Carmichael grinned. Buster smiled, tried to laugh; it came out high-pitched, strained. ‘You interested?’

Buster nodded.

‘Excuse me.’ Buster took his phone out of his pocket and read a text message. He put his phone back and looked at Carmichael, trying to hide it, but Carmichael could see he’d read something that made him nervous.

‘The thing is, Buster, I think Sonny made too many enemies. People felt ripped off by him. Take yourself, for instance. I understand that you felt loyalty but can you afford to waste hundreds of thousands a year? Sonny knew he’d captured the market with his father Dexter’s old friends. He knew his mother was well-respected. He’s been ripping off people like you for many years.’

Buster took a drink. He kept one eye on the door. Carmichael eased the revolver he’d stolen from Sonny out of his holster and held his hand steady, the silencer levelled against the underside of the table. He moved back slightly in his seat. Buster seemed not to be listening, to be thinking over what Carmichael had said, when the door opened and Deano walked in.

Carmichael concealed his gun as he turned to look over his shoulder at the man in the doorway. ‘Hart?’ Deano’s voice hit a bass note that boomed through the room.

‘Not here.’

Buster had started protesting but Deano was preprogrammed. Carmichael didn’t wait to find out what Deano wanted. As Deano took a step into the room Carmichael turned towards him and fired from beneath the cover of the table straight into Deano’s chest, three shots pop-pop-pop. He fell like a giant, just as Buster stood and reached for the gun he had concealed in his trouser belt. But it was like trying to get a monkey’s hand out of a jar. Carmichael swung back around and steadied his hand towards Buster’s chest and fired. He stepped over Deano and walked out.

He called Digger on his way back to the Velvet Lagoon:

‘Buster’s burst. Your mess. . you clean it up. Don’t fuck with me. No more games. Deal with me or deal with no one. I’m coming over.’