Crossed Lines: “Summerskill and Lyon” Police Procedural Novels, #4

A NineStar Press Publication

www.ninestarpress.com

Crossed Lines

ISBN: 978-1-64890-428-8

© 2021 Steve Burford

Cover Art © 2021 Natasha Snow

Published in November, 2021 by NineStar Press, New Mexico, USA.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact NineStar Press at Contact@ninestarpress.com.

Also available in Print, ISBN: 978-1-64890-429-5

CONTENT WARNING:

This book contains depictions of violence, and references to domestic abuse, homophobia, and cheating.

Crossed Lines

Summerskill and Lyon, Book Four

Steve Burford

Table of Contents

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

About the Author

For Robert.

Good friend. Good opponent.

Chapter One

Dave Lyon examined the muscular, naked man smiling up at him from the sheepskin rug. I’m a Power Bottom, read the caption beneath him, And I Always Have Safer Sex. Dave sighed.

Wishing you were curled up with him? his immediate boss, DI Claire Summerskill, asked as she entered the cramped office. Or is there only room on your rug for one other now?

You know you get very camp when you take the piss. Ma’am.

Claire shrugged. That was quite a longing look there. Love’s young dream isn’t fading already, is it?

Love’s young dream is, at this moment, on hold while Love’s young dreamers investigate a murder. Dave indicated the poster they had been considering. And actually, I was wondering why gay men have to be in such a rush to label themselves. ‘Top’. ‘Bottom’. ‘Passive’. ‘Submissive’. It’s more confusing than quantum physics. He gave one last look at the happy stud on the rug, particularly at his magnificently rounded arse. Still, this was in a good cause, I suppose.

Eyes back in your head and on me, Sergeant. Let’s have a look at what we’ve got here. Could you give us a moment, please, Maggie?

The SOCO officer in whites put down her camera and stepped away from what she was photographing, revealing the figure of a man slumped in a chair in front of a desk. His face was distorted and blackened. Around his neck was a length of telephone cord wrapped several times and pulled tightly into the flesh.

I’ve only seen one other person killed like this, Claire said quietly.

Bill Kilby.

Yeah. But he was a big man, prime of his life. She grimaced. Bit of a shit, too, as you’ll recall. But this. An old man. On his own. She scanned the cramped room. Surely there wasn’t anything of value here?

I wouldn’t have thought so, Dave said. We’ll find out soon enough, I suppose.

Claire took a moment to imprint the unpleasant scene on her memory. She hated it, bitterly resented filling her mind with such vile imagery. But it was her job, and the only way to exorcise the picture was to find the bastard responsible for it, and if that meant sitting on any squeamishness she had till it was done, then that was what she would do. All right, Maggie, she said finally, gesturing for the SOCO officer to return to her work. She turned to Dave. Let’s go and talk to these witnesses Chris has got for us and see if we can’t begin piecing together what’s gone down here.

Summerskill and Lyon stepped out of the office and into a large, incongruously ornate hall. On three sides was a series of doors, all presumably leading to small offices or rooms similar to the one they had come out of. Above them, there was a mezzanine, with more doors all around that. White columns, presumably wooden but carved like something out of a Greek temple, reared up around the space, topped with gilded wreaths of what Claire assumed were meant to be laurel leaves. What is this place?

How long have you lived in this city? Dave reached for his notebook.

Claire scowled but couldn’t deny the implied criticism. The building they were in stood on the very edge of the city’s high street, its worn brick and wood exterior a sharp contrast to the clean-cut brightness of the metal and glass shop fronts surrounding it. Over the years she had lived in Worcester, Claire must have passed it several hundred times, either while on duty or when out shopping, but beyond its name, which was carved in stone over the impressive main double-door entrance, she realised she didn't know anything about it at all.

The Halo Centre, Dave read from his pad. Grade Two listed building. Built 1887 by the Congressional Church as a Sunday school. Repurposed as Vagabonds Nightclub, 1974. Repurposed again in 1990 as a centre for various arts and charity groups. He flipped his notebook shut and slipped it back into his jacket pocket. Including the Worcester and Hereford Gay and Lesbian Switchboard.

And what’s that when it’s at home? Some kind of hook-up operation?

It’s a telephone helpline. The sort of place you can turn to in the face of all too prevalent homophobia. And microaggression. He gave his boss a look that he would have described as jaundiced and she would have dismissed as sarky. The Centre is noted as having an unusual plan with offices in rows around a central two-storey hall with a gallery on columns in polygonal plan.’

You had time to look up and memorise all that, and you still got here before me?

Other way round, ma’am. I got here first and then had time to learn it. While I waited.

Claire scowled at him again and strode out across the hall towards the small group of people gathered at the far end. I might be slow in traffic, but you’d be amazed how fast I can bust mardy sergeants. Chris! she called out.

Sergeant Chris McNeil looked up from the seated person he was dealing with. Inspector. Sergeant.

What have we got?

Will you excuse me for a minute, please? Sergeant McNeil stepped away from the man he’d been talking to and moved to one side so he could speak to Claire and Dave in a low voice. You’ve seen the victim? Name is Victor Whyte. Midseventies. Was working for the Worcester and Hereford Lesbian and Gay Switchboard. That’s their office where you saw him. The Switchboard is for—

I know what the Switchboard is for, Claire said. Dave coughed. She ignored him. And these people are witnesses? She indicated the man McNeil had been talking to and the woman across the hall who was also seated and being attended by a pair of paramedics.

Kind of. Both that bit too late to stop the killer, and neither able to detain him. He was long gone before we got here, ma’am.

Claire looked across to the seated woman. Is she okay?

Slight bump on the head and a small amount of bleeding from a cut on her cheek. Nothing major. Bit shook up though.

Not surprising. And what were these two doing here at this time of night? Do they both work for the Switchboard?

The man does. He’s another Switchboard volunteer. The current chairman in fact. The woman is a cleaner for the Halo Centre. Works in all the offices.

Right. Pad out again, Sergeant, she said to Dave. Let’s go and talk to these people.

They began with the man McNeil had been interviewing. This is Mr. Clive Grover, ma’am, the sergeant said, stepping back to let the detectives take over.

Claire made the introductions for herself and Dave, and the two of them drew up a couple of old, wooden fold-up chairs that McNeil had brought over from the corner of the hall. She reckoned Clive Grover must have been in his early fifties. He was stocky, his hair thinning and silver at the temples but very fashionably cut for a man his age, and he had those little round glasses she always associated with accountants but which were also inexplicably trendy at the moment. Somewhat at odds with the hair and glasses was the tweedy though not inexpensive jacket he was wearing. Right now, he had that look: the dazed expression of someone shocked by the sight of something he had never dreamed he would ever see.

With an unexpected bitterness, she remembered when she’d been that unspoiled. I know Sergeant McNeil has already asked you to explain what happened to you, Mr. Grover, but if you could, I’d be very grateful if you’d run through it again, for Sergeant Lyon and myself. She watched as Grover made a visible effort to compose himself before speaking.

Of course, Inspector. Grover glanced up at an ormolu clock over the entrance to the hall behind the officers. It must have been forty, fifty minutes ago now, when I called in on the office. Most of the hall was in darkness which it usually is at this time of night unless one of the other groups that uses it is holding an evening meeting or event. That was how I could see the light from our office coming through the gap at the bottom of the door. As I was walking towards it, I heard someone talking. At first, I thought it was one of our operators on the phone but then I realised whoever it was was shouting, which is definitely not normal practice.

Did you recognise the voice?

No. I’m sorry. Anyway, I thought something must be wrong, maybe one of our operators was having a really rough call, so I made my way over to the office pretty quickly. But as I reached the door, it flew open in my face and a man barrelled past me and sent me flying. I fell back against one of the pillars there. It fair knocked the breath out of me, I can tell you. I could hear him running across the hall, and then I heard the door thrown open. I suppose I should have got up and run after him, but as I was getting up again, I heard Karen screaming.

Karen?

Grover nodded towards the woman with the paramedics. Our cleaner. I say ‘our’—she works for the Centre as a whole. As I said, she was screaming— He paused. —shouting I suppose would be more accurate, so instead of following the man I ran into the office to see what was wrong. And that was when… He stopped, and they saw again that effort to compose himself. That was when I saw him. Victor. He was… He looked down at his hands clasped in his lap, unable to go on.

It’s all right, Mr. Grover. We know. You don't have to say it.

I…I don’t think I could believe it. It was so horrible. Karen flung herself at me and clung to me. It was several minutes before I could get her to let go. Then I called the police. On my mobile. I have to say, it didn’t take them long to get here.

The station is very close by, sir.

Of course. Anyway, they got here, and then they called the paramedics, and then you, and now…here we are. In under a minute, Clive Grover had summed up what would probably prove to be the most traumatic event in his entire life.

The man who pushed past you, Dave said. Did you manage to get a look at him? Could you describe him?

I’m sorry, Sergeant. I don’t think I can. It all happened so fast. Plus, as I said, most of the hall was in darkness. When the office door burst open in my face, the sudden light in my eyes made everything else seem even darker, and it was coming from behind the man, so he was just a giant shadow to me. All I got was an impression of this hulking black outline.

Hulking? And giant you say. Definitely a big man, then?

Yes. No. Grover’s face twisted in anguish as he struggled to answer the question. I’m not sure. I’d like to say yes, but it all happened so quickly, and for most of it I was on the floor on my back looking up. He gave a mirthless, disparaging laugh. And I’m not a big man myself. Most people look large to me. It could have been that he was wearing a heavy coat. I’m afraid I can’t say with any degree of confidence. I really am very sorry.

There’s no need to apologise, sir, Dave said. We know how hard it is to take everything in under circumstances like that.

Over the months she and Lyon had been working together, Claire had grown increasingly grateful for her partner’s patient handling of the public. She knew he was right in what he had said to Grover, but that didn't stop it being bloody irritating when someone who could have been a prime witness turned out to be of such little use. To prevent her feelings showing, Claire looked up into the dark oak rafters of the restored hall. She quickly found what she had hoped she would. At least two CCTV cameras that she could see straight away. Pretty standard for a public space like this. One of them looked like it would cover the Switchboard office door, and the other most definitely covered the main hall exit.

Thank you for your help, Mr. Grover, she said, hopeful now that the little he had been able to offer might yet prove unnecessary. I’m afraid we will have to interview you again within the next couple of days to make a formal statement, but what you’ve told us has been very useful. My advice now would be to go home and try to put as much of it out of your mind as you can. Would you like one of our officers to drive you to your house?

The look on Grover’s face made it clear he didn’t have much hope of putting the evening’s events out of his mind. No. Thank you. That’s very kind, but my car’s only parked round the corner. He went to rise from his chair.

One more question, Mr. Grover, Dave said, if I may? You say you arrived at about nine fifteen, I think that’s correct? May I ask why you had come to the Halo Centre tonight, at such a late time?

I came to talk to Victor.

Any particular reason?

Victor was like me, on the Switchboard Committee. We’d had a meeting a couple of nights ago and he hadn’t turned up. That was very unusual for him. I thought I’d drop in to see that he was all right. I was passing by anyway.

I see.

Grover took off his glasses and polished them furiously with a cloth pulled from his jacket pocket. If I’d been earlier. Five minutes even. I could have… I might have been able…

There really is no point in thinking like that, sir, Dave said. Go home, have a drink maybe, but do as Inspector Summerskill said, and try to get a good night’s rest.

Grover nodded, jammed his glasses back on, muttered his goodbyes, and left. Summerskill and Lyon watched as he walked, head bowed, from the Centre. They waited until he had gone before turning to the second witness of the night’s crime.

The paramedics who had been attending her were leaving as they approached. Is she okay? Claire asked.

Well, she’s fairly shook up of course, said one of the paramedics, a young man Claire was pretty sure she’d met at some other incident in the not-too-distant past. She hoped he wouldn’t expect her to remember his name. We’ve given her something to help her sleep tonight if she wants it, but other than that, yes, she’ll be okay. She hit her head on a wall or door, she’s not sure which, and at some point, got a scratch on her face, but it really is only that, a scratch. Nothing to worry about.

Claire thanked him and moved on to the woman who was, she now saw, in good hands. Well done, PC Joe Jones. With the apparent ability to rustle up a hot drink in any situation, the rookie constable had brought a cup of tea to the woman and was now squatting by the side of her chair, chatting quietly. At least, Joe was chatting. The woman was sitting silently, the mug in both hands in her lap. In shock like Grover? Claire wondered.

Before beginning her questioning, Claire snuck a look at Dave. When Joe Jones had started at Foregate Street, only a few weeks previously, she’d taken great pleasure in teasing her sergeant about the inevitability of a romance with the only other (openly) gay officer in the station. He’d responded, as she’d known he would, scathingly to the idea that he and Joe would have to fall for each other simply because they were both gay, and his annoyance had been half the fun for her. But lately, she’d had the feeling that her predictions were, excusing the expression, bearing fruit. Dave must have known she was hinting not so subtly at Joe with her Love’s young dream crack earlier. And he hadn’t exactly denied it, had he? Had he known that Joe would be at the scene tonight? Of course. Memorises duty shifts at the start of every bloody day. She watched as he acknowledged Joe with the briefest of nods. Well, what had she expected? A full-on snog, before they went on to deal with the murder at hand? Still, there was something, wasn’t there? A softening? The hint of a smile? And I thought gay guys were supposed to be flamboyant. Dave Lyon’s about as flamboyant as a brick.

Evening Constable Jones, she said out loud. Professionalism, Summerskill.

Inspector. Sergeant. Joe gave them both his customary cheery smile. If there was any more warmth in it for Dave, Claire couldn’t see it. This is Miss Haines. She’s been put through the wringer a bit tonight.

So I hear. Hello, Miss Haines. How are you feeling?

All right I suppose. I kept telling this one there was no need to be making such a fuss. It’s a bump, that’s all.

Claire was going to suggest that PC Jones was more concerned about the psychological effects of discovering a brutally murdered man than the physical knocks she might have suffered, but a closer look at the woman in front of her made her change her mind. Karen Haines had one of those faces that could have belonged to anyone from thirty to sixty, with not a scrap of makeup used to persuade an onlooker one way or the other. A solid-looking woman, if one was being generous, she was still in the acid-yellow cleaner’s jacket the Centre provided, though she had a coat over her shoulders. Claire guessed that Joe had put it there and insisted she keep it on to stay warm in case of shock. She saw no sign of shock. If anything, Karen Haines looked annoyed at having to sit and answer questions, and practically glowered up at them.

Could you tell us, please, what happened? Claire asked, sitting down on one of the chairs she and Dave had brought over. I know you’ll already have told the constable, but if you could go through what happened with us again now, it really would be very helpful.

The cleaner looked unconvinced but, with obvious reluctance, began. I was doing my rounds. Cleaning. I heard a noise in the office. I went to see what it was, and there was a man in there with Mr. Whyte. It looked like they were fighting. He pushed his way past me, knocked me to the floor, and was gone. Next thing I knew, Mr. Grover was picking me up.

Claire nodded and tried to look as if she really was grateful for every word the woman had spoken. Inside, she was fuming. Haines was one of those supremely unhelpful witnesses, the kind who described everyone as normal or average. She leaned back and let Dave take over.

Mrs. Haines, he began, pencil, as yet unused, poised over his notebook.

Miss.

Sorry. Miss Haines. When did you start work tonight?

Eight o’clock.

That’s a late start, isn’t it?

Suppose. It’s the time we always start. Up until then there can be all sorts still in here, getting in the way.

Ah. Of course. You say ‘we’. Was there anyone else working with you tonight?

Haines snorted. "Should have been. Veronica Whatsername.