Rutter's Reunion: Rutter Books, #2

RUTTER'S REUNION

The Second Rutter Book

DAVID WAINE

Turnspit Dog Publishing

Copyright © 2012 David Waine

All rights reserved

This is a work of fiction. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher. David Waine has asserted his moral rights

First published 2012

This edition published 2024

www.davidwaineauthor.com

To my wife, Helen, and our sons, Michael and Paul

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

RELAPSE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

CHAPTER 1

A HOODED FIGURE stepped into the full glare of the headlights, arms outstretched, his parka glittering in the teeming rain. A leer reflected from defiantly bared teeth. His glasses gleamed, two brilliant discs, in the oncoming beam. The driver slammed his foot on the brake and wrenched at the steering wheel, his wife grabbing his arm in panic. The car lurched, drenching the figure with spray, and slewed across the streaming road. The figure turned and watched as the vehicle smashed through the barrier, rolled completely over into a tree and burst into flames.

✲︎

Monday, February 9th, 1998

6.00 AM

THE VISION OF the overturned car engulfed in a fireball, and the awful realisation that the screams had finally ceased, faded from her mind. The clock radio at her bedside stirred into life. The newsreader's voice, subdued at that hour, commenced its daily catalogue of worldwide heartbreak.

Julie Rutter’s eyelids flickered open, staring at the ceiling as consciousness filtered back into her brain. Her flesh felt clammy, and her chest was heaving — both sure signs that she had dreamt again. Although the memory had dissipated, she could still sense the last lingering tendrils of remorse clinging to her heart. It always left her thus. Releasing the rumpled sheet from her clenched hands, she ran the right one down her face, smearing the beads of perspiration pricking on her brow. With a conscious effort, she steadied herself before craning her head sideways to check the time.

Hauling her body out of bed, she slid her feet into her mules, donned her bathrobe and crossed to the window.

It was still dark, for the year was young, but the street was dry and free from frost for once. At least she would not need to scrape her windscreen. She registered another voice on the radio informing her that the milder weather was a temporary lull. Snow would follow before the day was out. A couple of early cars passed beneath her window, their headlamps sending shafts of probing golden light into the early February mist.

She lived on a Victorian terrace. Its previous owners had abandoned it long since and moved upmarket to Chelsea or Hampstead. After they left, it was converted to flats for workers like her who could not afford the entire building.

Minutes later, the kettle hissed in the kitchen, as she prepared a bowl of cereal.

She lived alone and had done so since the age of eighteen. That car crash had orphaned her while she was elsewhere in the arms of a fleeting boyfriend. She had been unaware of the tragedy until the following morning. The grief had overwhelmed her at first, and then it taught her the transient nature of life, but the guilt crushed her. It still crushed her. That was when the dreams began.

She paused, spoon in hand, and wondered why that thought had fluttered through her mind on this, of all mornings. Stress, she reasoned. Then, with a further pang of guilt, she summoned her reserve of inner strength and banished it.

Her cereal eaten, she passed through to her bathroom and stared long into the mirror. Sad brown eyes stared back from a lacklustre complexion. They always looked sad after the dream, which meant they were sad most mornings. There were shadows beneath them and crows’ feet at the corners, not to mention a couple of worry lines on her brow. Her face was darker than average and framed within a disorganised mess of black hair. This, she kept short for practical reasons. Both would need waking up if she were to look anywhere near her best. She half-filled the washbasin with freezing water and plunged her face into it. The shock ran through her like ice. Scooping cold water up in her hands, she dashed a couple of splashes into her eyes before staring into the mirror again. That was better. They had regained some of their sparkle and her skin was toning up. Then, she indulged in a lengthy and very soapy shower before settling down in her front room with a mug of strong coffee.

✲

THE SAME NEWSREADER, reading the same bulletin, stirred Alex Lawson from his sleep. His eyes opened without flickering and he stared straight up at the plain white ceiling of his bedroom. Like Julie Rutter, deep personal sorrow was rooted in his heart, filling him with guilt.

Raising a hand from beneath the duvet, he rubbed the bristly roughness of his chin where it itched and frowned. Why do I do this? That thought passed through his mind every morning.

✲

THE ROOM AT the back of a small house near Franks Park was almost in darkness. It had once been the dining room, but the only nod to that now was a plastic bag containing the crusts of a few cheese sandwiches and a flask of coffee. These lay beneath a camp bed with a ruffled sleeping bag.

No table graced the room. Its place was taken up by a large, makeshift desk comprising of a flat cupboard door on three towers of empty beer crates, all liberated from a rubbish tip. On this desk were three computer monitors. Their respective tower units stood below. From them trailed a tangle of cabling to a heavy, stabilised multi-block by the wall. One of the monitors showed images from two security cameras, switching between them every few seconds. One view showed the area immediately outside the front door, and the other the almost empty lounge. Neither displayed anything of interest at present. A second monitor showed a scrolling list of letters and numbers.

A young man sat at the desk, his fingers racing over the keyboard, staring at the third monitor. He tapped in the security code that he had filched the night before. The image changed to show the unsmiling face of a young woman.

There you are, he muttered to himself, scanning it for any tell-tale blemishes. Finding none, he concluded, Haven’t changed much. The taut line of the jaw and general glossiness of her skin suggested robust health and excellent fitness. There was a piercing quality to the eyes that hinted at the presence of an astute mind.

The fingers raced again, summoning details.

"Surname: Rutter.

‘Given name(s): Julia Lauren.

‘Gender: Female.

‘Date of Birth: 27/09/1963.

‘Place of Birth: Hammersmith, London.

‘Current age: 34 years, 5 months.

‘Nationality: British.

‘Marital Status: Single.

‘Previous Marriages: None.

‘Family: None living. (He sniggered, I know.)

‘Known Associates: Marie Jeanette Burnett (née Kelly, 27, author, no convictions)

‘Joseph Peter Burnett (27, accountant, husband to the above, no convictions)

‘Sarah Alison Ferguson (aka Sally Ferguson, 36, TV presenter, no convictions)

‘Marcus Brendan Logan (74, hypnotherapist, no convictions)

‘Ronald Edward Abberline (61, former DCS, retired)

‘Current Address…"

He paused at this point. The address was north of the river and chosen to be convenient for work.

Lives alone in a flat, he told himself. Only known male associates either married or old enough to be her father. Workaholic? Lezzie? Both? Didn’t used to be a lezzie.

✲

EACH ROOM IN Julie Rutter’s new flat was the same nondescript magnolia as when she moved in a week before. The living room walls were now adorned with a handful of prints. She was very fond of the Impressionists, Monet and Renoir in particular. She would have loved to own an original, but her budget would never run to the millions they would command. A local art shop had framed them for her, and she kept the lighting subdued to make the deception less obvious. Of ornaments and flowers, there were none. She had no taste for the former and no time for the latter. Her flat had a rather lean look, which suited her. Her work and her friends were her life, and this place was more of a base than a home. That thought had given her momentary pause as she unpacked. Was that all that these few rooms in Hackney amounted to? What sort of woman did not possess the ability to turn a collection of featureless rooms into a home? It was comfortable enough but strictly low maintenance. A quick rush around with a duster and vacuum cleaner, plus a regular scrub of the bathroom and kitchen, was all she had time for, so she kept it simple.

By seven thirty she was dressed in a dark grey suit with a clean white blouse and no jewellery. Her ears had been pierced since her early teens — and sported earrings on occasion — but they carried sleepers most of the time. She wore trousers to work because they were more in keeping with the demands of the job. Even she liked to turn out in a dress and make-up for the right occasion, but the former was a liability when chasing a felon up a fire escape. For similar practical reasons, she avoided high heels: comely, but useless for running. At five feet seven, she was tall enough not to look too out of place among the men, and the sensible one-inch heels made her five feet eight. As for cosmetics — not for work.

Her new computer desk occupied a corner of her lounge, chosen because the phone socket was located there. Turning the machine on, she waited for the infernal thing to convince itself that it could do something before it would let her in.

Finally, it opened up and she delved into what was a relatively new experience for her: The Internet. She had dabbled a bit but had avoided becoming reliant on it. Even now, she felt reluctant. Her job required her brain to be sharp and she did not want to have to trust this soulless metal box full of microchips.

During the previous week, she had done some idle surfing on matters of interest, music and art in the main. That was to familiarise herself with the practice, but this was her first professional look. Once on the Metropolitan Police’s website, she entered the secure code combination that would admit her to the non-public areas. That gave her access to the Bow Road Server. There, she entered the password that had been issued to her the week before and logged in.

The screen cleared and her login appeared. All was as it should be. In front of her was her personal information. It irked her somewhat that they knew as much about her private life as they did, but she recognised the necessity of it. She understood that none but the most senior, and herself, had access. Nodding in satisfaction, she logged out again, disconnected from the Internet and turned her computer off.

At the same moment, the letterbox opened with a clatter as a delivery landed on the doormat.

There were two items. One was the package she was expecting, the other a greetings card with a Bournemouth postmark. Opening the card first, she saw that it was from her former boss, now retired. It read Good luck with the new job. Ron and Sarah Abberline.

She took both items through to her lounge and set the card on the mantelpiece, where it joined others from Marie, Sally and Marcus. Only then did she turn her attention to the package. The address label read J. L. Rutter because she never mentioned her rank away from work. Tearing it open, a rare smile lit up her face as the book emerged from its cardboard wrapping. Marie and Jack ― Chained in Time by Marie Burnett, published that morning.

Settling back on her sofa, she skimmed through the foreword. She, Marcus Logan, Sally Ferguson and Ronald Abberline listed prominently among those Marie had thanked for their help. Her closest friend’s published works occupied pride of place in her bookcase and had been read several times apiece. They may have been written for children, but they were still Marie’s work and she loved them all. It was one way of keeping in touch. Her friend’s lengthy absence from London, not to mention her own subsequent one, meant that they had to maintain their relationship by post. They had corresponded at least weekly for years. They had met a few times over that period, and both she and Sally were maids of honour at Marie’s wedding. Only now that they all lived again in the capital, could they renew their friendship in full.

Unlike Marie’s other works, Chained in Time was autobiographical and written for adults. It dealt with matters far darker than a child should ever experience. Rutter did not expect it to be a comfortable read. It would bring back raw memories of a decade before when a twentieth-century Jack the Ripper had hunted her friend. The title had been coined by Marcus Logan, following one of his sessions with her. She knew that Marie was still haunted by those same memories. She worried about the emotional price that she must have paid when committing them to print. There again, would not Marcus have maintained that it would be better to face her demons than to keep them buried?

Checking the clock, she reminded herself to set up her video recorder to catch the interview as well. She wished she could watch it live, but it would make her late for work. That was something the new Detective Chief Inspector Julie Rutter could not allow on her first day back at Bow Road.

✲

A GRUBBY, BLUE Ford Mondeo made its slow progress down a nondescript street adjoining Franks Park in south-east London. The trees began where the terraces left off. Some of the buildings wore a down-at-heel look. Many were pebble-dashed with streaks of grime beneath their windows, and lawn spaces that had long been paved over for parking.

The car rolled to a halt outside an unimpressive house with a peeling front door and dirty Venetian blinds at the window. They were closed.

Like the vehicle, the driver was somewhat shabby. His suit was old and crumpled with a lightening of hue at the elbows where the cloth had worn thin. This was a deliberate illusion, for he did not wish to attract undue attention to himself. Therefore, his shabbiness was limited. He wanted to look like someone who could not afford much. That also explained why his car was five years old with a deliberately scruffy appearance. Only a close inspection of the tyres would reveal that it was well-maintained. He checked the text message on his phone to make sure that he had the right house.

Bruno Trazzi was a tall, lean man with black, greasy hair. He had a pinched appearance that made him look older than his thirty-two years and a malignant air that never quite left him.

He walked with a stooped, stealthy gait, checking around continuously to convince himself that nobody had noticed him. He paused and scowled, for he had seen a net curtain twitch in a neighbour’s window.

Keep your nose out, he muttered, passing through the gap where a gate may once have hung. His eyes fell on a small security camera fixed above the door, its lens staring at him. He checked about again. The net curtain was still, the hidden watcher having withdrawn. Sniffing, he pressed the bell.

Go in, Mr Trazzi, came a disembodied, crackling, voice from a small speaker screwed to the door frame. First door on the left. The voice was well-spoken.

Trazzi scowled at the device, but the lock emitted a click and the door swung open to his touch. Entering, he discovered that first door on the left was his only option. The passageway terminated right next to it with a makeshift blank wall. There were cheap, black carpet tiles on the floor and the walls had been given a single coat of whitewash, haphazardly applied.

This had better be worth it, he muttered.

Passing through, he entered what must have once been the living room. It felt quite spacious, mostly because it was almost empty. It had a large window, covered by those blinds that he had noticed from the outside. The walls were roughly whitewashed here as well, and the floor was covered with the same cheap tiles.

Furnishings were limited to a single plastic chair facing a portable television set on a small stand opposite the window. The set was displaying the breakfast news programme, but the sound was turned off. No bulb dangled from the light fitting in the ceiling. The blinds prevented much of the weak February morning light from penetrating, leaving the room in semi-gloom. Another small security camera was fixed to the wall above the set and trained on the chair.

Sit down, said the disembodied voice.

The sound came from behind the television. Looking closer, Trazzi made out the rectangle of an embedded loudspeaker with its mesh grille painted white to match the walls.

Who are you, he cried, and why d’you bring me here at this godforsaken hour?

Take a seat, came the calm reply.

The man did as he was told, relieved to find that the chair did not trigger a booby trap.

Allow me to tell you a little about yourself, went on the voice. Your name is Bruno Claudio Trazzi. You are the only son of an Italian father and an English mother. You were born August the 14th 1965 in Walthamstow. Your father fled back to Brindisi the moment that he laid eyes on you and did not return. Unsurprisingly. Despite your name and appearance, you have never been to Italy and cannot speak the language. Your mother was a decent soul, who tried her best for you, but she was out of her depth and could not prevent you from degenerating into what you are today. She died from cancer when you were nineteen. You have since gravitated to your natural habitat of the East End's seedier quarters to pursue your criminal career. The authorities have convicted you of only one of your many offences, and for that, you served six months in Pentonville Prison four years ago.

Trazzi sprang to his feet in indignation. How d'you know this? he cried.

The voice was unperturbed. There is nothing about you that I do not know, Mr Trazzi. Everything is on file somewhere. Without waiting for his guest to respond, the voice continued, Beside the chair, you will find a briefcase containing various items. The first one I want you to examine is a manila folder.

Unnerved at his hidden host's calm tone, Trazzi extracted the folder and opened it. The first page contained his picture staring back at him, full face and profile. It was his mugshot from the police files.

As you will have surmised by now, this is a copy of the file that the police have on you. Inside you will discover how much they know. For example, they are aware that you are a drug dealer and a pimp, and they also suspect that you accept commissions to kill people. Three to date. The net is closing.

A nervous Trazzi thumbed through the loose pages of the file. It was as if his whole life was flickering before him. All three hits were there, complete with the pictures of the sprawled, bloodstained bodies — a man, a woman and a child. Even he had felt disturbed at dispatching the nine-year-old daughter of his client’s arch-enemy. But the lure of the cash had proved stronger.

You can't prove any of this! he cried, more in hope than conviction.

I assure you that I can. All they need is a tiny snippet of evidence to tie the bits and pieces together, came the soft reply, and that is in my possession.

Bruno Trazzi blanched. What evidence? he cried.

A soft chuckle reached his ears. Did you know that the elder brother of the little girl is doing life in Wakefield? Maximum security, of course, and for a very good reason. I understand that he is a particularly violent and cruel man, with a predilection for the more forceful applications of sodomy. When not in a state of arousal, I am told that he enjoys snapping fingers with his bare hands. Would you care to share a cell with him? A previous cellmate managed to lose his tongue during the night once. Careless, don’t you think? Beads of sweat broke out on the visitor's brow as he cast around in rising panic. Now examine the rest of the case's contents, if you please.

Bringing himself back under control with difficulty, Trazzi reached down into the case again. He extracted a weighty resealable plastic envelope next. Then he started with a glance back at the television set. Beneath the envelope was a gun with a silencer nestling at its side.

His breathing coming fast now, he checked around to reassure himself that he was still alone in the room. Then he snatched the weapon and sprang to his feet, training it on the television.

Oh, bravo, Mr Trazzi, came the unperturbed reply, you would shoot a cheap television set. The weapon contains but a single bullet. A nonplussed Trazzi blinked twice before ejecting the clip and verifying that he had been told the truth. Please fit the silencer first, so as not to alarm the neighbours. Do not think that you can harm me. I am not even in the same building.

Where are you, then? shouted Trazzi.

The voice ignored the question. Return to your seat, I have something else to show you.

Now sweating and his scalp itching, Trazzi realised that there was little that he could do. He lowered the gun and did as he was told.

That's better, continued the voice. Now, engage the safety catch, put the gun and silencer in your pocket and place the file on the floor. You will leave it there when you go.

Distrust written on his ugly face, Trazzi obeyed him. His eyes were still fixed on the television screen even though he knew that his tormentor was not to be found there.

Very good, came the voice, now, if you would examine the large plastic envelope.

He broke the seal and gasped. It was full of money, wad after wad of twenty-pound notes.

The notes are used and, therefore, untraceable, went on the distant voice. The sum is ten thousand pounds and I am giving it to you. He paused for a moment for his words to sink in. You may depart now if you wish, but leave the gun behind if you do. Although I am elsewhere, you are observed, and my colleague has specialist skills.

Trazzi gulped. Ten grand? he asked. For what?

For nothing. There was a long pause while the grubby man pulled the bundles of notes out of the envelope and began to count them. It's all there, I assure you, went on the voice. You are up to your eyebrows in illicit debt. Should you default on a payment, your so-called friends will come calling long before the police have a chance to pick up the pieces. And pieces is what we are talking about, isn’t it?

Trazzi began to shake.

Even that money will not keep them off your back for long.

What do you want of me? he gasped.

There was a long pause during which his trembling grew, if anything, worse. Finally, the voice spoke again. If you check the pocket of the briefcase you will find a passport and an envelope. Trazzi found it and checked. The picture was the same as his genuine passport photo, which meant that it resembled him vaguely at best. Inside the envelope there is an airline ticket for Buenos Aires, leaving tomorrow night from Heathrow. There is also an envelope, which you will open now.

Trazzi found the passport with its enclosed ticket and envelope. He tore open the latter and extracted a single slip of paper containing a brief message typed on a computer. There was a key there as well. It's a list of numbers and an address in Argentina! he announced.

The address is that of a branch of the Banco de la Nacion in Buenos Aires, went on the voice. The list of figures is the number of a safety deposit box held at that branch. I have supplied you with a return ticket because that is what Argentine entry regulations stipulate. I would advise you not to come back, though. We do not have an extradition treaty with Argentina, so you will be safe from the British authorities unless you choose to enter our embassy. That would be unwise. In the box, you will discover bonds for a further five hundred thousand pounds, negotiable in any currency. The exchange rate makes them worth at least four times as much over there as they are here. That should enable you to disappear forever. It should still leave enough for an unhealthy supply of Latina whores and drugs to speed you into a thoroughly deserved early grave.

Trazzi was beginning to calm down. Right, say I accept your offer. What do you want me to do?

There was a pause so protracted that he began to wonder if the link had been broken, but the voice did speak again. Remember that piece of evidence in my possession. Unless you comply with my instructions to the letter, you will not be on that flight.

Trazzi gulped. All right, all right, he answered.

There is a task that I require you to perform at midnight precisely. I am aware that you have guns and I know where you keep them, but you will leave them all behind. You will carry only the weapon I have supplied. This point is critical. Remember that you will be observed, so do not attempt to dupe me. Trazzi nodded, but the voice continued without pause. I will give you ten minutes from that moment to complete the job and get out, whereupon I will text instructions to you. These will be to drive to a nearby rendezvous point, where you will return the gun to me and I will hand over the key to the safety deposit box.

There’s a key already in here, blurted out Trazzi.

You will use that key to open a door here in London, came the unhurried reply. I will furnish you with the address in a moment. It is a large block and I will give you precise instructions as to how you will enter and leave. The weapon has been modified. If you attempt to replace the clip with another one, it will jam. It is capable of one shot only.

All right, all right, he gasped, who do I hit?

✲

IN A TELEVISION studio on the South Bank, an affable presenter adjusted his tie while the make-up girl flicked a stray hair from his forehead. At the same time, his co-presenter dashed a hairbrush through her locks and checked her make-up in a hand mirror. The floor manager, all jeans, hair and headset, counted them in over the closing seconds of the commercial break. Their guest sat at the far end of the curved bench seat on which they were all positioned. Other technicians checked and tested the clip-on mikes and battery packs secured to their waistbands.

The floor manager's verbal count ended at, Five, as the introductory music rolled. The remaining digits were indicated by upraised fingers, the final one pointing straight at the man to cue him in.

At once the familiar face filled the screen, but without its usual smile. The programme was moving away from its traditional frivolity to deal with a more serious topic. Welcome back, he said soberly. "Ten years ago, London was rocked by a series of murders that mimicked the notorious killings of Jack the Ripper a century earlier. The victims had nothing in common with the originals, other than having similar names, and nothing in common with each other at all. The murderer, Nicholas Trent, was a thirty-year-old civil servant. He had no previous history of mental illness, no criminal record — not even a parking ticket.

'Why, then, did this quiet and inoffensive man embark on a killing spree so shocking that it gripped the nation for three months in 1988?"

The director switched cameras to the co-presenter, her face equally solemn. "Nicholas Trent took his own life when the attack on his intended final victim, Marie Jeanette Kelly, failed. The murders sparked several investigations. Notable among these was the best-selling Nicholas Trent — the Mind of a Psychopath, by Dr Tony Goldman, published last year."

The camera switched back to the man, who was holding up a copy of the same book that had been delivered to Julie Rutter. "Today sees the publication of a new book, Marie and Jack ― Chained in Time, by