The Assassin's Dog

by David George Clarke

  Half an hour later, at 6:45, he heard his phone ringing. He pounded up the stairs to where he’d left it in the bedroom. It might be Mo; she often rang at unreasonable hours, almost as if she were trying to catch him out.

  But it wasn’t Mo.

  “Morning, sarge,” he mumbled when he saw the name on the screen, angered at Jennifer Cotton calling so early.

  “Good morning, DC Brooke,” she replied. “Apologies for calling at the crack of dawn, but I seem to remember you saying that you’re normally up with the lark for your morning exercise.”

  “Yes, just got back,” he lied.

  “Good, so you’re obviously feeling better.”

  “I am, sarge, yes. Sorry about yesterday. It must have been something I ate. I’ve never felt so weird. I really wasn’t at the match.”

  “You can say that again. Anyway, we all have bad days. I thought I’d catch you before you head into work to give you a heads-up on how things were left last night. The DCS suggested I call both you and Barnes, although I don’t think we’ll be seeing Joe today given he was up half the night while his new son was coaxed into the world.”

  Gus grunted. Children held little appeal for him.

  For the next few minutes, Jennifer filled him in on progress.

  “So we’re not going back there?”

  “No point, although the boss is sending in another team today, just to be a hundred and ten percent sure. Every inch of the place has already been searched. It helped that a number of you knew it well from the operation there a few months ago. The site will almost definitely be released this afternoon, once the second search is over, after which the owners have promised they will secure the gates with a padlock and chain.

  “Most of the SCF team will spend their day searching through traffic cams from the nearby area, and once we have the info from the lab, we might be able to confine the search to a more definite radius. Hopefully this morning’s press release will throw up something as well, but to be honest, we’re clutching at straws at the moment.”

  “OK, sarge, thanks for that,” said Gus. “I’ll be in shortly, as soon as I’ve had a shower.”

  He closed the call, staring at the screen. Jennifer Cotton had unknowingly given him an idea. With the search of the factory over, it would now return to its previous obscurity; a decaying shell that no one was interested in redeveloping. It would probably remain unvisited for years, and even if the current owners did call in, they would hardly be conducting a detailed scrutiny of every last inch. What better place to dump Trisha McVie’s body than somewhere in the factory buildings, somewhere well hidden? It was a pity the chain across the gates was going to be padlocked, but it might be possible to cut the padlock with his bolt croppers and replace it with another. He had some suitable padlocks in his garage. The owners would just think there’d been a cock-up over the keys. And if that way in failed, there was always the break in the fence by the footpath which, as far as he knew, no one apart from him knew about. It would mean manhandling McVie’s body along the footpath from the nearest place he could drive the car, and it would have to be done in the dead of night, but none of that posed much of a problem.

  He picked up his cup of coffee and tilted it towards his phone.

  “Thanks, Detective Sergeant oh-so-super-smart-much-favoured-Jennifer-fucking-Cotton, I think you’ve given me a way out.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Almost three hours later, Cosimo Graziano Rosselli was sitting in his hotel room after breakfast scrolling through the TV channels for local news. He was impressed: so far, there had been no reports about the disappearance of Trisha McVie; the police must be keeping a tight lid on it.

  “It would not be like this at home, Goccia,” he said to the pug curled up on the bed next to him. “In Rome there are far too many police officers linked up with local journalists; someone would have tipped off the pack. A senior police officer victim of a kidnapping or murder? They would be baying for more while making up every possible scenario under the sun and selling them all as real. Giorgio will be stunned when I tell him.”

  Goccia continued to watch the screen without comment, hoping perhaps for the cartoons rather than a succession of boring humans droning on excitedly about nothing.

  Finally, at 9:30, a local news report for the East Midlands came on. It led with an appeal from Nottingham City and County Serious Crime Formation who were urgently seeking information on the whereabouts of Patricia Claire McVie, also known as Trisha or Trish McVie, a thirty-nine-year-old detective superintendent of police last seen at the Watford Gap services on the M1 between 19:35 and 19:51 on Tuesday evening. Detective Superintendent McVie was alone and driving a red 5-door VW Golf which traffic cameras recorded leaving the M1 at junction twenty-four at 21:16 and heading in the direction of Nottingham. From there, she could have followed the new dual carriageway directly towards Nottingham or she could have branched off and taken the older road through the village of Rappington. It was thought that her vehicle might have broken down or had a puncture, or that she might have stopped to help another motorist. Anyone who saw a red Golf by the side of the road in the area mentioned at or around nine thirty on Tuesday evening, either alone or with another vehicle, was urged to contact the police on the number given on the screen. The image switched from a stock library shot of a red VW Golf to a head-and-shoulders shot of Trisha McVie as the announcer gave a description of her height, hair colouring and build.

  Rosselli stood and walked closer to the television screen.

  “There she is, Goccia,” he said, his eyes carefully scrutinising Trisha McVie’s features. “My research was accurate, which of course we knew. Perhaps I should call the number and tell them to look in Mr Brooke’s garage. But that would hardly help my cause. Letting Mr Brooke continue with his plans promises to be far more productive.”

  He felt in a trouser pocket and retrieved the earring he’d taken from Trisha’s body the previous evening and held it up. “Well, well, principessa, look at that. I have one of the earrings shown in the photograph. She must have worn them regularly. It might prove very useful as our plan develops. We’d better keep it in a secure place, somewhere better than a hotel safe whose lock can be opened in seconds.”

  He walked over to a small rigid suitcase on a chair by the window. A heavy-duty tungsten-steel chain ran through its substantial metal handle and around a water pipe serving a radiator, preventing the possibility of casual theft by any of the hotel staff. He whirled the six wheels of a combination dial to their correct position and turned a high-security key in a central lock. After popping open the case, he slipped the earring into a pouch in the lining of the lid.

  “Allora, my little beauty,” he said, rubbing Goccia’s head. “Now we must be patient while we wait for our Detective Brooke to make his next move. I suspect it will be sooner rather than later; he won’t want to keep the superintendent’s body in his garage for long, will he?”

  Goccia looked up at him expectantly.

  Rosselli smiled. “You are right, tesoro, it’s time I took you for a walk.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Detective Sergeant Neil Bottomley sat back in his office chair, his arms folded over his large belly, a deep frown furrowing his normally crease-free forehead.

  “No wrinkles on a balloon, lad,” was his normal retort to anyone who mentioned the absence of lines on his ageing face.

  But today the lines were clearly visible; there would be no such retort. Neil was unhappy that his long and devoted service as a detective was about to end with the disappearance of a senior officer before she’d even had a chance to start work. His jaw worked as he ruminated over the run of disasters that had blighted the SCF more or less since its inception: Rob McPherson, murdered by his own boss, the insane Olivia Freneton. Mike Hurst, also killed by Freneton. Then there were Freneton’s attempts on the lives of Derek Thyme and Jennifer Cotton, together with her two attempts on his own life, the second one also involving his wife. />
  And even though Freneton was dead, the bad luck had continued. Hugh Gregson had dropped dead from a heart attack, and now there was this. And while Trisha McVie’s disappearance wasn’t yet classified as a crime, all Neil Bottomley’s intuition was telling him she was also dead. He didn’t know how or why, but the more he thought about it, the more he was convinced, and it didn’t sit comfortably with him.

  He mused over the evidence accumulated so far. They had McVie’s car, her belongings, her cards, money and warrant card. Nothing appeared to have been stolen. And following the TV appeal for witnesses, they now had a little more.

  Within an hour of the previous morning’s appeal, two men living in the Rappington area had called to say they had been driving towards Rappington from the M1 motorway on Tuesday evening during the storm. They both said they had seen two cars stopped on a tight bend a mile or so before Rappington, one of them red, the other … they weren’t sure. Something dark. According to one of the witnesses, one of the cars might have been jacked up; the red one, he thought. But as to the drivers of the two cars, neither witness could say anything; one hadn’t even seen them. It had been pelting with rain; it was pitch dark apart from the headlights and both men were more concerned with safely negotiating the bend than paying attention to details at the roadside. The witnesses had now been interviewed and their formal statements taken, but the only extra information that had been coaxed out of their memories was that at least one of the cars had its hazard lights flashing.

  The witnesses’ cars had now been identified on the traffic camera footage at junction twenty-four and the timings correlated. One car left the motorway exactly five minutes after Trisha McVie’s red Golf, the other after eight minutes and twenty-five seconds. It all fitted together. They knew from forensics that Trisha McVie must have had a puncture; now it appeared that someone had stopped to help her. Was that person significant? It had to be assumed he or she was, but with the barest of information about the person’s car — it was probably a black or dark-blue saloon or small hatchback, but the make, model, size and condition were unknown — they would have to hope there would be more witnesses.

  DCI Len Crawford had earlier sent Jennifer Cotton and Doug Coulson to the location on the Rappington road where the witnesses had seen the two cars. Two vehicle accident experts from Forefront Forensics were waiting for them.

  “We’ve found a good tyre print in the mud beyond the road,” explained Colin Maitland, the more senior of the pair. “I’ve sent an image of it back to the lab and they’ve already confirmed that it matches the make of tyres on the red Golf. We’ll be confirming later that it’s actually from the Golf. There’s also a mark that’s consistent with the base of a jack. I’ve taken a soil sample for comparison with the mud I remember was on the base of the jack in the Golf.”

  “So this is pretty definitely the spot where Detective Superintendent McVie stopped,” said Jennifer, her eyes roaming the area as she tried to get a feel for it. “Any indication of tyre marks from the other car?”

  Maitland shook his head. “Nothing. He must have stopped on the road. But there’s more to explain why Superintendent McVie stopped in the first place. You’ll remember from our preliminary report that the nearside rear wheel on the Golf appeared to be the spare, that it had been changed and the onboard wheel and tyre both had fresh damage, the tyre pretty much shredded. Well, there’s a gouge mark in the road surface here,” — he pointed to the road near where they were standing — “together with deposits of rubber. It looks as if the tyre either punctured or was extremely under-inflated. She must have hit the brakes hard as she approached the bend, causing the vehicle to dip towards the flat or nearly flat tyre. At that point, the wheel rim would have come into contact with the road and there’s a good chance she would have lost control of the vehicle.”

  Jennifer pointed at the large oak tree beyond the corner.

  “Could’ve driven straight into that,” she said. “Pity she didn’t, really. The whole incident might have played out rather differently.”

  “Maybe,” agreed Maitland. “I’d say the gouging here is consistent with what I’ve just explained. We’ll be comparing residues on the edge of the wheel with the debris on the road surface, of course, to confirm this gouge is from the Golf’s wheel.”

  Doug Coulson was walking farther along the road looking for anything else that might have been missed when Jennifer called out to him.

  “Doug, didn’t the witnesses say that one of the reasons they couldn’t say much about the other car was because its headlights were aimed towards them, lighting the Golf to help whoever was changing the wheel?”

  “That’s right, sarge. They said all they could see were the lights, which stopped them getting a look at the car itself.”

  Jennifer nodded and pointed ahead of her.

  “Wouldn’t that indicate the other car was stopped here on the left side of the road, the side heading away from Nottingham and towards the motorway? The super’s car was here, pointing towards the tree,” — she paused and moved near to the corner where the gouge marks were — “which means the other car was here, its lights aimed at the side of the Golf.”

  “Meaning it’s likely the other car had originally been travelling towards the motorway,” said Coulson.

  “Precisely,” said Jennifer. “He’d come from Nottingham. And if for whatever reason the super decided to follow him after the wheel was changed, she would have had to turn her car around to do it.”

  Jennifer called the DCI immediately with the new information, but Crawford pointed out that it didn’t prove McVie’s car had driven off with the other car back towards the motorway.

  “Doesn’t make a lot of sense, Cotton. Why would she do that?”

  “I don’t know, guv. Maybe the driver of the other car lives in the area and offered her the opportunity to dry out. They would have been soaked to the skin, after all.”

  “Possibly, Cotton, but she wasn’t exactly far from where she was going. I don’t see why she’d turn round and head off in the opposite direction.”

  Jennifer wanted to tell Crawford to start thinking laterally, but she knew she couldn’t. Instead she quietly ground her teeth. As far as she was concerned, they had an important new lead and here was Crawford pouring cold water on it.

  The DCI had, however, passed on Jennifer’s thoughts to Neil Bottomley and it was this scenario he was now considering.

  His eyes wandered around the office where several detectives and civilian staff were concentrating on their monitors. When they fell on Gus Brooke, they stopped, something nagging in his head. Then he remembered.

  “Brooke,” he called.

  “Sarge?” said Gus, alarmed by the unusually stern note in Bottomley’s voice.

  “Don’t you live somewhere in the Rappington area?”

  Gus had been waiting for someone to remember this and was ready with his story.

  “I do, sarge, yes. About a mile and a half beyond the village.”

  “You mean on the M1 side of the village?”

  “Yes, sarge.”

  “Don’t suppose you saw anything odd on the road on Tuesday night?”

  “Unfortunately not, sarge, especially since I left the office around nine and normally I would have been passing through the village about the time the witnesses say the Golf was there.”

  “Normally?”

  “Yes, I normally go that way home since it’s quicker, but the weather was so dreadful on Tuesday night I decided to avoid the sharp bends on either side of Rappington where I might’ve ended up in a ditch. Instead, I took the new road, doubling back to the cottage from where the Rappington road meets it closer to the M1.”

  “Hmm,” grunted Bottomley. “And you didn’t see anything?”

  “No, sarge, nothing.”

  Gus Brooke knew he was taking a risk. Another witness might come forward and claim he saw his car in or near Rappington, or worse, next to the red Golf on the bend. But he thought that un
likely. He could only remember two cars passing while he was changing the wheel. On both occasions his back was to them while he concentrated on what he was doing and the heavy rain would have blurred everything for the drivers. Added to that, he knew there were no traffic cameras on the Rappington road or at either end of it.

  Reassured, he took a silent but confident deep breath. There would be nothing to contradict his story.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  As soon as she closed the door to her apartment after arriving home on Friday evening with Derek, Jennifer turned to him and burst into tears.

  Saying nothing, Derek wrapped his strong arms around her, stroking her hair as she sobbed into his shoulder.

  “I don’t know if I can carry on with this, Derek, putting on a façade of professionalism when my heart is breaking. I know the worst has happened, I can feel it. There’s no other explanation. She’s dead, Derek. Everything points to it. I know it, I don’t understand it and I hate it.”

  “Yeah, Jen, I know,” whispered Derek. He had felt the same ever since the reports from the witnesses seeing Trisha’s car on the Rappington road on Tuesday evening had arrived.

  “I just don’t get it. It all seems so calculated. Dumping the car where it could have gone undetected for months. What kind of person would do that?”

  Jennifer straightened. Her emotions were in tatters but her brain was still working. “That’s a good point. It was calculated, but they messed up.”

  “Messed up?”

  “Yes, whoever drove the car into the factory site was under stress, wanting to dump it and run, get away with their accomplice before they were spotted. I think the thought process was that the car wouldn’t be found, which would have been true if it had been hidden more carefully, in one of the loading bays, for example, where it wouldn’t have been visible from the air. If they’d done that, we’d have almost nothing to go on except a few useless sightings on traffic cameras.”