Minds That Hate Page 4

  Then, as he masturbated towards a climax, the caravan door burst open. For a second Billy froze, unable to comprehend what he was watching. A burning ball fell to the ground and rolled over, before coming to rest in a pyre of smoke and flame. As recognition came, Billy knew beyond doubt that what he’d watched had been a human being. Now a human torch that burned even brighter than the blazing caravan beyond.

  As Billy lay spent and gasping, his mind plunged into an abyss of darkness. There could be no return. The last vestige of his sanity was destroyed in that instant, gutted as completely as the caravan.

  Nash’s sleep was disturbed by the wailing of sirens. He stirred, but as their clamour faded, he dropped back to sleep.

  Later, his mobile rang. ‘Nash,’ he growled.

  ‘Mike, it’s Clara. I’m on Netherdale Road. There’s been a caravan fire; completely gutted. I’m with Doug Curran. He reckons it’s arson.’ Clara’s voice quivered with distress. ‘There’s at least one dead. We found a body outside the van; burned to a crisp, completely unrecognizable. There may be more inside, but we can’t get near. Mike, the bloody thing’s just melted.’

  ‘I’ll be as fast as I can. Whereabouts exactly?’

  Nash wondered how a crowd of onlookers could have gathered at such an early hour. Did they lie awake, waiting for the sound of sirens?

  He ducked under the incident tape and paused for a brief word with Sergeant Binns.

  ‘Clara’s over there, with Curran.’

  Binns pointed towards the first of three fire engines. ‘She’s pretty shaken.’ Binns paused. ‘She’s not the only one.’

  Nash had to pass the caravan to get to Clara. The van was a hot, smoking shell of twisted metal and melted fibreglass, testimony to the ferocity of the blaze. Alongside it a dark tarpaulin sheet covered a shapeless bundle he knew would be a body. His nose wrinkled in revulsion as he recognized the sickly, cloying smell of burnt flesh.

  He nodded to his sergeant and the chief fire officer. ‘Any more news?’

  They shook their heads.

  ‘Clara, go to the travellers’ amenity site. Find the local headman. Get him out here ASAP. We need to know whose van this is. Was,’ he corrected himself. ‘And how many were inside.’

  He turned to Curran. ‘Clara said you think it was arson?’

  ‘Yes,’ Curran answered heavily. ‘Caravan fires are very rare. The odds against one going up are long.’

  Nash looked across to where Curran’s men were playing hoses over the wreckage. ‘Anything more positive?’

  ‘We’ll have to wait on forensics, but come and have a look at this.’

  Nash followed Curran. Closer to the caravan, he could feel the heat from the smouldering wreck. Curran pointed to the ground. Nash could see a broad streak of scorched grass leading to where the gas bottles had been stored.

  Curran looked at him and was about to speak when he saw the faraway expression on Nash’s face. He’d never seen that look before, but had heard Mironova describe it. What was it she called it? ‘Thinking, do not disturb’, that was it. He waited in patient silence.

  For Nash’s mind’s eye, the darkness intensified. He crouched in the bank of bushes, waiting. He would have to wait, to avoid detection. As soon as the caravan’s occupants had switched the lights out, as soon as they were settled for a good night’s sleep; then he could move. He’d ensure their sleep was eternal. At last, the lights went out; his signal for action. ‘This is it,’ Nash murmured to himself. ‘You’ve waited; now you can do what you came here for. They’ve gone to bed. Now you must creep ever so quietly, closer and closer. Now for the tricky bit. You’ve to disconnect the fuel lines and open the valves on the cylinders, all without making enough noise to disturb those inside; your target, your victims. You’ve done that, now the rest should be easy. Sprinkle the petrol you’ve brought onto the ground. When you’re far enough back, simply strike a match and toss it onto the ground. Whoosh! Instant inferno! What now? Did you wait and watch? Enjoying the tragedy you’ve created? Glorying in it? Why? What had they done to hurt you? Was it a grudge? A dispute? Had they crossed you in some way? Or worse.’ Nash chilled at the thought. ‘Are you a psychopath? In which case, nobody’s safe.’

  Nash was closer to guessing the motive than he realized. Which, given the confused state of Billy’s mind, was quite an achievement. Not that it helped.

  Back at Helmsdale, Clara sat opposite Nash as he phoned Tom Pratt. They could still smell smoke from their clothing. ‘The van belonged to a family named Druze. The leader of the local tribe reckons we’re looking for three bodies. Druze, his woman and a girl; six years old.’

  ‘What’s Curran say?’

  ‘He says it’s arson. Mexican Pete and the brigade forensic team are on site. We’ll have to wait for their reports.’

  ‘Nothing we can do it the meantime?’

  ‘Appeal for witnesses, but that’s probably useless.’

  ‘I’d better tell our new DCC.’

  ‘You might ask him how he thinks closing Helmsdale would have prevented it.’

  ‘I would if I thought it’d do any good. How’s Clara?’

  ‘Pretty shaken. She was first on the scene.’

  ‘She’ll cope. She’s tough and professional.’

  Nash put the phone down. ‘Tom thinks you’re a tough old boot,’ he told her. ‘Reckons you’re like an old pro.’

  Mironova glared at him, distress in abeyance. ‘I bet he didn’t say anything of the sort,’ she snapped.

  Nash smiled. ‘Not exactly.’ He repeated Pratt’s actual words. ‘Now, would the tough old boot like a coffee?’

  Rathmell was watching the local TV news when his phone rang. ‘Carl, it’s Frank Appleyard. Have you seen the report about the incident at Helmsdale?’

  ‘I was watching it on TV when you rang; terrible tragedy. One I’m sure would never have happened if the family had stayed in the travellers’ site.’

  ‘My thoughts exactly. However, that wasn’t why I rang. I have everything set up for our campaign. I’ve handed over the first part. We need to make arrangements for the remainder.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘As and when they carry out each assignment, a sort of productivity bonus.’

  Rathmell laughed. ‘That sounds appropriate. Give me twenty-four hours to make the arrangements. We also need to talk about next week’s meeting.’

  ‘Whereabouts? At your house?’

  ‘That would be inconvenient. My wife is in residence, and the less she knows about what’s going on the better.’

  ‘Where, then?’

  ‘I know the ideal spot. For the moment it would be better if we avoid being seen together until after next Friday.’

  Gemma’s mobile rang. She glanced at the display. If it had been anyone else she wouldn’t have answered. ‘I’m about to go into a meeting. What is it?’

  ‘Not on the phone. We need to meet ASAP. When are you free?’

  ‘After work. Usual place. I can get there by six?’

  ‘I’ll be waiting.’

  This time Tucker was prepared. As soon as he saw Gemma’s car turn onto the moor road he stopped and reversed onto the verge. He got out of the car and balanced his binoculars on the wall. He lit a cigarette, wondering how many he’d get through before the end of his vigil.

  Nash had the radio on. He heard the news announcer read a statement from the Home Secretary on the subject of the prison service.

  ‘In view of the current level of overcrowding, all inmates whose sentence is due to end within the next three months will be released immediately. This will apply whatever their offence or the original length of sentence. The Shadow Home Secretary and spokesmen from other opposition parties condemned the move as an indictment of government policy. Calls for an emergency debate are expected to be tabled during Prime Minister’s question time.’

  Nash paused, razor in hand. One effect would concern him directly. Vickers would be out within days. He was still pondering when he
reached Helmsdale.

  Clara looked up from the report she was reading. ‘There’s been another arson attack. Or an attempted one.’

  ‘Not another caravan? Anyone hurt?’

  Clara shook her head. ‘No, this time it was a house, fortunately unoccupied. A woman feeding her baby during the night raised the alarm. Only superficial damage.’

  ‘Where was this?’

  Clara glanced down. ‘Number thirty-two, Grove Road.’

  ‘Isn’t that —’

  ‘Gary Vickers’ house.’

  They were still considering this development when the phone rang. It was Pratt. ‘Did you hear this morning’s news, Mike?’

  ‘You mean about prisoners being released early?’

  ‘Yes. Well, I’ve just had word. Vickers will be out on Friday next.’

  ‘That’s the last thing we want. He’s going to need round-the-clock protection, Tom.’

  ‘I don’t see that. He chose to come back to Helmsdale.’

  ‘Maybe, Tom, but that was before last night.’ He explained about the fire. ‘This situation’s impossible. We can’t leave Vickers unguarded. King’s attitude means we can’t draft anyone in. Given Vickers’ record, leaving Clara to guard him is out of the question.’

  Pratt agreed. ‘It’s a bloody shame Pearce is on leave. All I can suggest is I lend you a DC from Netherdale.’

  ‘It would help if you can supply someone to baby-sit during the day. I’ll do the night shift until Viv comes back.’

  ‘I could always go over King’s head and ask the chief.’

  ‘That would prove King’s point. It’d set his back up even more. Besides, we can’t prove the fire was directed at Vickers. It could be a random act of vandalism.’

  They were unaware of a conversation taking place elsewhere.

  ‘Jake, how did it go?’

  ‘Danny sent Billy. Somebody must have spotted him. He’d to scarper when the fire brigade rolled up.’

  ‘Shit! I wanted that place destroyed.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Gem. I’ll get him to try again.’

  ‘You don’t understand, Jake. He’ll be out in a few days.’

  ‘Even better: next time we’ll torch the house with him in it.’

  ‘Tucker speaking.’

  ‘I’ve got the information you asked for.’

  ‘Fire away.’

  ‘The vehicle is registered to Mrs Vanessa Rathmell, of Houlston Lodge, Helmsdale.’ Tucker whistled. Sometimes a journalist has to pay a lot for information. Sometimes the information is worth the outlay. Tucker knew this was worth every penny.

  Now he’d a decision to make. Should he follow Rathmell and the adultery angle, or continue to follow Gemma for more background on the Vickers case? He’d been tipped off by a contact at Felling that Vickers was due out. What intrigued him was the planned return to his home, almost unheard of for a convicted sex offender. There was a human interest angle in Vickers’ tale.

  On the other hand, there was Gemma Fletcher’s adultery with the local MEP. Elected as an Independent, Rathmell had shown little inclination to either wing of the political spectrum. Despite that, there were rumours that Rathmell held strong views on immigration and race. Tucker thought there’d be more mileage in pursuing Rathmell. It was no secret that Rathmell relied on his wife’s money. It was also known that Vanessa Rathmell’s family were staunch Catholics, certainly where divorce was concerned. They were also intensely private and wouldn’t take kindly to their name being splashed across the tabloids. First he’d research the man. This involved scanning newspaper files and reading his speeches and press announcements. Not a task Tucker looked forward to with enthusiasm.

  Chapter six

  Juris was content. Homesick, but content. When his father died, the future looked bleak for him, his mother and his younger brothers. At eighteen, Juris was unable to support the family. Mechanisation had reduced the need for agricultural workers dramatically. Unskilled in anything else, Juris had to compete with other, more experienced applicants.

  A welcome solution arrived. The rumour flashed round the village that a stranger was offering work. True, it was many hundreds of miles away, but the pay was good and the stranger was prepared to loan the fare. It was agricultural work too. He met the stranger, a Lithuanian called Zydrumas, and the deal was struck. That had been two years ago.

  When he arrived in North Yorkshire, Juris was billeted in a camp for migrant workers. After three months, more suitable accommodation was found, close to the farm where he worked. Juris wrote to tell his mother he was sharing a house on an estate called Westlea. He wrote home often with his news, and to send money. She received the letters and money with equal pleasure and wrote back to thank him. She expressed her pride and love. Her only sadness was that she missed him.

  The work was seasonal, but by limiting expenditure, Juris could support his family throughout the year. Although there was opportunity to return home once the season was over, Juris declined this. That would mean extra fares. He would rather save that money and remain in England. He might even find work during the winter.

  He’d no success the first year and to alleviate his boredom Juris began improving his limited English. Although his education had been basic, he’d a quick brain and soon mastered a few simple words and phrases. Listening carefully and copying those around him accelerated the process and by winter Juris felt confident enough to enrol for night classes.

  During the second winter he found casual work in the kitchens of a local hotel. It was only at weekends, except during December and January when this extended to most nights of the week. Juris didn’t mind that it was tedious, repetitive work. He didn’t even mind being sworn at, or blamed for everything that went wrong. Although his English was improving rapidly, the college courses didn’t give him the fluency a few nights in the hotel kitchen provided.

  Later, his teachers explained the difference between English and Anglo Saxon. He learned that a snappy response delivered by a chef isn’t always polite. Juris discovered that calling somebody ‘a lazy twat’ or ‘an ignorant dickhead’ was no way to win friends.

  The farm where Juris worked was visible from the migrants’ house. To get there by road would mean a walk of three miles, but there was a footpath that cut this to less than half a mile. When Zydrumas had to speak to the farmer about the forthcoming harvest, he took Juris along.

  The first part of the meeting concerned the labour needed. When the discussion turned to rates of pay, Juris set off home. Zydrumas said he’d follow.

  The day had been overcast and cool. The track led through a small wood before it bisected a series of miniature farms, dedicated to the growing of vegetables and other produce. Juris had learned these were called allotments. His teacher had explained the reason for their existence. The woods were a dark impenetrable mass of foliage, tangled briar and brambles. As Juris walked, he heard the rustle and creak as the wind stirred the trees around him. Suddenly he felt very alone, very far from home and, for no logical reason, very afraid. It was only when he’d passed the woods and come to the edge of the Westlea that the irrational fear subsided.

  Billy sat in his room. His hand moved lazily to and fro as he passed the long bright blade of his knife across a sharpening stone. His movements were accurate, with precision born of practice. His eyes appeared to be fixed on the wall opposite. In fact they were unfocused, far away.

  Danny led by example. Billy remembered when Danny returned home with the gun, remembered with equal clarity when Danny used it. He hadn’t been allowed to see the weapon, but the look on Danny’s face told Billy more than his elder brother suspected.

  Before Ricky moved in, the Juniors had been having a lot of trouble with their drug dealer. Poor-quality gear and lack of regular supplies were only part of the problem. More critical was the exorbitant price charged by the Turkish Cypriot who controlled distribution.

  When Danny returned after being absent all day and half the night, Billy knew some
thing must have happened. Danny didn’t stray from Helmsdale and the estate often. He certainly didn’t vanish for such a long time without a convincing explanation.

  Next day, Billy saw the news report on TV. Telling of the discovery of a man’s body in a house on the outskirts of Leeds, the item went on, ‘The man is believed to be of Turkish Cypriot origin. Police investigating the shooting are looking into a possible drugs connection.’

  Danny had pointed the way. Billy knew exactly who Danny was referring to when he mentioned ‘The Immigrunts’.

  He wasn’t quite as clear as to how the Immigrunts had made their lives so miserable, but Danny had said so, and Billy wasn’t prepared to argue. Billy knew what to do. He had to kill one. It didn’t much matter which one. That wasn’t the point. He’d a target in mind. Not a person but a location. He remembered them working on the farm close to the Westlea. They were starting to arrive back now. He’d seen two in the street, bold as you like, strolling along. It stood to reason they’d be working at the farm again. That meant they’d be walking through the woods. It’d be exciting. Not like the fire of course, but good nevertheless.

  His decision made, Billy put the stone away. He fingered the blade, then wiped it with a soft cloth. He replaced the weapon in the sheath on his belt and put his jacket on, left the bedroom, left the house and headed for the woods.

  Tucker had followed Rathmell for three days without anything to show for his efforts. Many journalists might have abandoned the story, but Tucker was made of sterner stuff. On day four he followed Rathmell out of Helmsdale. Within minutes of leaving the town Tucker thought he could guess who Rathmell was going to meet. His guess was wildly inaccurate.

  When Rathmell turned onto the moor road, Tucker allowed his car to coast to a stop and got out.