Cop to Corpse

1Hero to zero.Cop to corpse.One minute PC Harry Tasker is strolling up Walcot Street, Bath,on foot patrol. The next he is shot through the head. No scream,no struggle, no last words. He is picked off, felled, dead.The shooting activates an alarm over one of the shops nearby,an ear-splitting ring certain to wake everyone.Normally at this time on a Sunday morning – around 4 a.m. – thestreets of Bath are silent. The nightclubs close officially at three.The last of the revellers have dispersed. PC Tasker was on his wayback to the police station after checking that Club XL was quiet.His body lies in a bow shape under the light of a street lamp onthe flagstone pavement, a small puddle of blood forming underthe head. His chequered cap is upturned nearby.Harry Tasker is the third police officer murdered in Avon andSomerset in twelve weeks. The others, like him, were shot whileon foot patrol. A huge operation to identify the sniper has cometo nothing. All the police know for certain is that the victims wereshot by someone using a high velocity assault rifle that fires 5.56x 45mm cartridges. The killings and the hunt for the so-calledSomerset Sniper have been splashed in headlines across the nation.Nobody else is on the street at this hour. This is the pattern.The killing is done at night. The victims are discovered eventuallyby some early riser, a milkman, a dog owner.But today there is a difference. In a flat above one of the shopsin Walcot Street, a hand grabs a phone.The 999 call is taken at the communications centre in Portishead,logged at 4.09 a.m.‘Which service do you need: police, fire or ambulance?’‘Ambulance, for sure. And police. There’s a guy lying in the streethere. I heard this sound like a gunshot a minute ago and lookedout and there he was. He’s not moving. I think he’s a policeman.’Another police officer. The operator is trained to assess criticalinformation and act on it calmly, yet even she takes a sharp breath.‘Where are you speaking from?’The caller gives the address and his name and in the emergencyroom the location is flashed on screen. An all-units call. Withinminutes all available response cars and an ambulance are headingfor the stretch of Walcot Street near Beehive Yard.A new shooting is terrible news, but the speed of this alert givesthe police the best chance yet of detaining the sniper.Walcot Street was created by the Romans. It is believed to haveformed a small section of the Fosse Way, the unswerving road thatlinked the west country to the Midlands. It runs north to southfor a third of a mile, parallel to the River Avon, from St Swithin’sChurch – where Jane Austen’s parents were married in 1764 – to StMichael’s, where it morphs into Northgate Street. Located outsidethe old city walls, Walcot was once a village independent of Bathand still has the feel of a place apart. It was always the city’s lumberroom, housing, in its time, tram sheds, a flea market, slaughterhouses,a foundry, a women’s prison and an isolation hospital forvenereal diseases. Now it goes in for shops of character and variablecharm such as Jack and Danny’s Fancy Dress Hire; Bath SewingMachine Service; Yummy House; Bath Aqua Theatre of Glass; andAppy Daze, Bath’s Premium Hemporium.The first police car powers up the street, blues and twos going.By now some local people in nightclothes are grouped aroundthe body. Two officers fling open their car doors and dash over totheir shot colleague as more cars arrive from the other direction.The ambulance snakes through and the paramedics take over, butanyone can see Harry Tasker is beyond help. His personal radio,attached to his tunic, eerily emits someone else’s voice relayinginformation about his shooting.A real voice cuts in: ‘Let’s have some order here. For a start,will somebody stop that fucking alarm.’Ken Lockton is the senior man at the scene and must directthe operation. ‘Senior’ is a contradiction in terms. InspectorLockton is not yet thirty, came quickly through the ranks andpassed his promotion exam at the end of last year. He wouldn’tbe the first choice to deal with a major incident, or the second,or even the tenth, but he’s the man on duty. As the uniformedinspector lowest in the pecking order he gets more night shiftsthan anyone else. He knew Harry Tasker well and is shocked bythe killing, yet can’t let that affect his handling of the incident.Lockton knows he must suppress all emotion, lead by example,and set the right procedures in motion. Inside him, every pulseis throbbing, and not just because another policeman has beenshot. His strap-brown eyes are wide, eager. He doesn’t mind anyoneknowing he’s a career man, a high flyer aiming for executiverank. This is a thumping great chance for glory, the best chanceanyone has had to bag the sniper. And he hasn’t got long. Assoon as Headquarters get their act together they will send somehotshot detective to take over.The men available to Lockton aren’t exactly the A team. Likehim, they happen to be on the night shift, almost at the end ofit, ready for sleep, stumbling bleary-eyed out of patrol cars andminibuses uncertain what their duties will be. He must make effectiveuse of them.He gets one success. The jangling alarm is silenced.He grabs a loud-hailer and begins issuing orders. No one mustbe in any doubt who is in chargeThe first imperative is to seal the crime scene. A stretch of thestreet for about a hundred yards is closed to traffic by police carsparked laterally at either end. Cones and police tape reinforce thecordon. While this is being done, Lockton assesses the location. Ifthe sniper is still in the area the local geography will hamper him.Behind the row of small shops on the side where PC Tasker liesis the river, deep and steeply banked. Not much chance of escapethere. On the other side of Walcot Street is a twenty-foot highretaining wall. Above it, on massive foundations, are the backs ofBladud Buildings and the Paragon, grand terraces from the mideighteenthcentury sited at the top of a steep escarpment.The armed response team arrives by van. They were sent automaticallywhen the seriousness of the alert was known and they arehere in their black body armour and bearing their Heckler & KochG36 subcarbines. Ken Lockton, glowing with importance, tells thesenior man he wants stop points on all conceivable escape routesfrom the sectioned-off area.He also has work for his sleep-deprived army of unarmed menand women. Residents disturbed by the noise and coming to theirfront doors will find officers standing guard. They will be told tolock up and stay inside.Another group is sent to make a search of Beehive Yard, onthe river side.Do Not Cross tape is used to enclose the area around the body.Later a crime scene tent will be erected. The police surgeon isalready examining the body, a necessary formality. He’s a localGP. The forensic pathologist will follow.The 999 call originated from a flat above a charity shop andLockton goes in with a female officer to question the informant,a first year undergraduate.Ponytail, glasses, pale, spotty face and a wisp of beard fit thestudent stereotype. The young guy, who gives his name as DamonRichards, is in a black dressing gown. The questioning is sharpconsidering that he raised the alert. Lockton knows that peoplewho call the emergency number are not always public-spirited.They may well be implicated in what happened.‘Take me through it. You heard gunfire, right? Where wereyou – in bed?’‘Actually, no. I was at my desk, studying. If I wake early, that’swhat I do. I had a book open and I was making notes.’ He is tiresomelyslow of speech.‘What woke you – a noise?’‘If you really want to know, I needed a pee. Then I was awake, soI started to work. Ten or twenty minutes after, I heard the shooting.’‘Where were you when you heard it?’‘I told you. At my desk. Over there by the window.’The room is typical of early nineteenth century Bath houses,high-ceilinged, corniced, spacious. And typical of the twentyfirstcentury, it is in use as a bedsit, crammed with self-assemblyfurniture. The desk is hard against the sash window and booksare stacked on it. One book is open and there is a notepadbeside it.‘With the curtain drawn?’‘Yes. I heard the gunfire and didn’t know what it was so I pulledback the curtain and saw the guy lying there. He wasn’t moving.That’s when I phoned. I didn’t go out to him because I was scared,to be honest. Is he dead?’‘You heard more than one shot?’‘I think so.’‘What do you mean – “think so”? You’d know if there was morethan one.’‘There could have been an echo.’‘Do you have any sense of where the shooting came from? Wasit close?’‘It sounded bloody close to me. Other people must have heard it.’‘The difference is that you were already awake. Was the gunfirefrom out in the street, would you say?’‘Well, obviously.’‘As distinct from one of these houses?’‘I get you. I couldn’t say that. How could I tell?’‘Do you remember if there was a vehicle nearby?’‘There are some parking spaces that get filled up quickly. Otherwiseit’s double yellow lines all the way.’‘I’m not talking about parked cars, for God’s sake. Did you hearanything after the shots, like a car or a motorbike moving off?’‘I don’t remember any. I could be wrong. I was in shock, to behonest.’‘You keep saying “to be honest”. You’d better be honest with me,young man. We’ll need a written statement from you. Everythingyou remember.’ Lockton nods to the constable and leaves her tostart the paperwork.It is still before 4.30 a.m.Reinforcements are arriving all the time. Lockton knows hecould find himself replaced any minute as the Senior InvestigatingOfficer. He needs to make his opportunity count, and soon. Hemoved over to where the police surgeon has now stepped backfrom the body.The shooting fits the pattern of the previous attacks. The entrywound is above the right ear. The bullet must have fragmentedinside the skull, shattering much of the opposite side of the head.It’s not a sight you want to linger over.‘Nothing I can tell you that isn’t obvious. A single bullet wound.’‘We think there may have been more than one shot,’ Locktonsays.‘Have you found other bullets, then?’‘Not yet. Other priorities. Is there any way of telling the directionof the shots?’‘Depends where he was when he was hit. The bullet entered here,quite high up on the right temple, and you can see that most ofthe tissue damage is lower down on the opposite side. That couldbe an angle for you to work with.’‘You’re talking about the trajectory?’‘That’s for you to work out. I’m only here to examine the body.’‘A high velocity bullet?’‘I’m a doctor, not a gun expert.’Ken Lockton goes into deduction mode. ‘It’s unlikely the shootingwas from ground level, so it’s a good bet he fired from aboveus, like a window over one of the shops.’ He’s pleased with that.CID would approve.‘In that case, he would have been walking away from the towncentre, towards Walcot.’Lockton isn’t sure now. He betrays some of the tension he feelsby chewing his thumbnail. ‘The right side, you say.’‘You can see for yourself.’Actually he’s seen more than he wants to. He doesn’t need tolook again to know where the bullet entered. He gives a nervouslaugh. ‘His shift was nearly over. He should have been heading theopposite way, back towards Manvers Street nick.’‘So?’‘If you’re right, the killer wasn’t on the shop side. He musthave been somewhere behind us.’ He turns to look again at thatmassive brick rampart along the west side of the street, a far cryfrom the cleaned-up stone structures that grace most of the city.Blackened by two centuries of pollution, the wall is tall enoughand grim enough to enclose a prison.A disused Victorian fountain is recessed into the brickworkunder an arch flanked by granite columns. When the marketacross the street thrived, the trough must have been a place wherethirsty horses were watered after delivering goods. Its modernuse is as a flowerbed – with insufficient cover for a gunman tocrouch in.‘I’m leaving,’ the police surgeon says. ‘I’ve pronounced himdead. There’s nothing more to keep me here.’Lockton is too absorbed to answer.Left of the fountain his eyes light on an ancient flight of stepsleading up to Bladud Buildings. Is that where the shot was firedfrom? The gunman could have made his escape up there and bein a different street.His heart-rate quickening, Lockton crosses for a closer inspection,runs halfway up the steps and at once discovers a difficulty.It is far too narrow. To have fired from a height the sniper needsto have been at least this far up, but the tall sides mask the view.You can’t see the fallen man from here. The sniper would haveneeded to wait for his victim to draw level across the street. Theshooting from the steps didn’t happen.Cursing, Lockton descends, returns to the middle of the street,stares at that long expanse of wall and gets a better idea. Up tonow he has accepted the structure without fully taking it in. Nowhe can see that the brickwork isn’t entirely solid. At intervals thereare cavities where entire bricks are missing. Maybe they are meantfor drainage. They look like spy-holes.Or sniper points.The holes go in a long way. Beer cans have been stuffed intosome within reach. You could put your whole arm into them. It’shard to tell how far back they go.He has assumed up to now that solid earth is behind the wall.Still thinking about the possibility, he steps back for a longer lookand some way to the right of the fountain notices a door andwindow spaces.A lock-up. It belongs to a local firm that salvages and retailsmasonry and statuary.His spirits surge.Padlocks and hasps would be no great problem for a committedassassin.He orders two pairs of armed officers to force the lock-up door.The window spaces would be ideal sniper-points, allowing a clearview of the street and a human target walking by.Overhead, the police helicopter hovers, more proof of the seriousnessof this operation. This is the biggest moment of KenLockton’s career. All of this is under his command, the chopper,the cars, the bobbies stepping down from minibuses, the gun teamyelling, ‘Armed police,’ as they storm the lock-up.The doors are kicked in and the interior searched by flashlight.In a situation as tense as this, violent action is welcomed by theteam. Inside are large chunks of masonry and statuary harvestedfrom old buildings all over Somerset, griffins, dragons and hounds.Several are large enough to hide behind.But it ends in anticlimax. There’s nothing to show that the lockupwas entered recently. The team steps out, deflated.4.40 a.m.Lockton feels the pressure. For all he knows, the sniper couldbe inside one of the shops or flats holding people hostage. Eachdwelling will need to be checked, every resident questioned as apossible witness, but unless something happens quickly this willhave to be a later phase in the operation, after he hands overresponsibility. Headquarters have already radioed to say CID areon their way and will take over.He stares at the wall, the sodding great wall. Logically that wasthe side the bullets came from if one penetrated PC Tasker’s righttemple. Or was he facing the other direction for some obscurereason?His gaze travels up the rows of blackened bricks. There isn’tenough daylight to see properly and the height goes well abovestreetlamp level. He asks for a flashlight and picks out an iron railingalong the top. ‘What’s up there, Steve?’ he asks Sergeant Stillman,one of the patrolling drivers who had answered the all-units call.The two were sergeants together for four years. Stillman is worthhis stripes, but in Lockton’s opinion won’t ever make inspector.No officer qualities.‘Behind the rail? Gardens. They’re all the way along. They belongto the houses in the terrace.’‘Gardens?’ Fresh thoughts stampede Lockton’s brain. He can’tsee anything except overhanging foliage from down in the street,but he is visualising a gun position.‘They’ll be roof gardens really. Just a few feet of soil.’‘How would he get up there?’‘He wouldn’t, unless he lived in one of the houses. He’d haveto come through someone’s flat.’‘Drive me up there.’‘Now?’ Stillman doesn’t appreciate that Lockton wants a personaltriumph out of this.‘Get the car, for fuck’s sake.’He could just as easily run up the steps. It would be quicker.Sergeant Stillman decides this is about power. Ken Lockton isasserting his rank.A silver-haired sergeant is deputed to take over at street level.Without another word Sergeant Stillman fetches the car anddoes the short drive as ordered, ignoring the one-way system byturning at Saracen Street and back down Broad Street to park onthe front side of the terrace, level with the cast-iron bollards atthe top of the steps – the same steps Lockton could have used inhalf the time.To the right of the steps is Bladud Buildings. The Paragon isto the left. There’s little difference. It’s all four or five floors highand Georgian neo-classical in style: entablatures, pediments andcornices.Lockton stands by the car with arms folded, trying to understandhow this building is grounded on the steep slope. It isn’t easy tovisualise from this side. ‘There have got to be basements,’ he tellsSteve Stillman. ‘The ground floor is going to be above the levelof the garden.’He steps up to one of the entrances and looks at the arrayof bell-pushes on the entryphone system. Each terraced housemust have been a sole residence once. Now there are flats onall floors. Beside each button is the name of the tenant. Hetries the lowest.Through the grill a weary voice says, ‘Chrissake, what time is this?’‘Police,’ says Lockton.‘Fuck off,’ says the voice.‘That’s what we get for safeguarding the great British public,’Lockton comments to Stillman. ‘We’ll try another place.’Stillman is frowning. ‘It could be him.’‘I don’t think so. He wouldn’t answer, would he?’There was some logic in that.They study the bell-system two doors along. Someone has beenefficient here. Each name is typed on white card rather thanhandwritten on odd scraps of paper. ‘Not this one,’ Lockton says.‘Why not?’ Sergeant Stillman is starting to question Lockton’sdeductive skills. By his own estimation, the house must overlookthe place where Harry Tasker’s body lies.‘Because it’s not what I’m looking for, not what the sniper wouldlook for.’He finds it at the next house, handwritten names for flats 1, 2and 3 and a blank for the fourth, the lowest. He presses 3.After a long pause, a woman’s voice. ‘Who is this?’‘The police.’‘How do I know that?’‘Look out of your front window. You’ll see our car.’‘Hang on a mo.’Presently they are admitted to apartment 3 by a young womanin blue winceyette pyjamas. She rakes a hand through her blondehair and tells them it’s early in the day.Stillman bites back the strong comment he’d like to make afterbeing up all night.Lockton asks who occupies the flat below.‘Nobody,’ the blonde says. ‘It’s been empty some time, far asI know.’‘You haven’t heard any sounds?’‘Tonight?’‘Any time.’A shake of the head. ‘There was a noise like an alarm down inthe street a short time ago, or I think there was. It woke me. ThenI drifted off again.’‘How do we get into the basement?’‘The what? Do you mean the garden flat? The stairs in the hall.’The two policemen find their way down. The door is locked.‘Force it, Steve.’Sergeant Stillman aims a kick at the lock. The door gives at thesecond try. ‘Shouldn’t we get armed assistance?’Lockton doesn’t listen. ‘Give me your torch.’He’s already inside, still living his dream of instant fame. Theplace has the smell of long disuse and the lights don’t work. Hesenses that the sniper isn’t here. Through what must be the livingroom – though the place is unfurnished – he can see a smallsunroom, too poky to call a conservatory. Beyond is the garden,overgrown, a fine crop of stinging nettles waist-high and bedraggledwith the overnight dew.He steps through the sunroom and notes that the door isn’tbolted from inside. Not a huge security risk, but any landlord worthyof the name would surely take the trouble to secure an empty flat.If nothing else, he’ll get a view of Walcot Street from the end ofthe garden. Parting the nettles, he moves on, following the torchbeam, and then stops.‘Jesus.’Ahead, resting against the railing, is an assault rifle.