It was warm work. He took off his coat, the night air turning his sweat-soaked shirt into a cold rag.
It took him an hour to cut away a large square of turf running up to the western corner, the grass often tangled with weeds, the sound of his breaths loud. Once he finished, he got on his knees, his gloves off, and started feeling the ground again.
He stopped.
There’d been a noise. There’d been a steady hum of cars in the distance, but this seemed different. Closer, slower.
He straightened and looked across the field behind him, and cursed again his lack of a torch. All he could see was a dark and empty field. He went back to running his hand over the ground, trying to ignore the feeling that he was being watched. It was his nerves playing tricks in the dark.
He was almost by the corner of the house when he felt it. A rustle of plastic, like the top of a knotted bag but thick. He got to his feet and went for his spade, excited now.
He was about to start digging when he heard the noise again. It was closer this time. Someone moving through the long grass.
‘Hello?’
His voice was timid.
There was no reply.
Thirty
‘If we’re concentrating on the ones who are missing,’ Jayne said, ‘we should look for patterns.’
‘What, not just focus on the fact that they’re missing?’
‘No. If we want to classify these cases as abductions leading to murders where the bodies haven’t been found, it means the killer is organised, every part planned and thought out, but thoughts create patterns.’ She shrugged. ‘I told you, I watch too much true crime, but isn’t that how it is? You’re either organised or disorganised. If we’re using this, we’ve got to show that someone could go for years without being caught, which means they’re organised, as disorganised people leave clues. And to get away with it for so long, you’ve got to hide the bodies, because there would be some forensic hit eventually.’
Dan stared at the papers and started to nod. ‘Damn, you’re right, and if we’re going to steer the attention away from Peter, we’ve got to find abductions that he couldn’t have been involved with.’
Jayne knelt down by the column of papers for those who had simply vanished and said, ‘What about her, Charlotte Crane?’ and she lifted a small bundle of clippings from the floor. ‘She went missing the same night Lizzie Barnsley disappeared into the darkness of the towpath. She was at a pub further along the canal from where Lizzie was found, the Hare and Hounds, and was certainly there after midnight. If we’re going to suggest that Lizzie was an abduction that didn’t go as planned, was the killer’s need for blood unsated, so he had to keep on going until he found someone he could abduct and do whatever he wanted to do with her?’
‘But could that person still be Peter?’ Dan chewed his lip as he thought about it, until he scurried across to his court papers. He rummaged through them before holding up a statement in triumph. ‘Here!’
‘What’s that?’
‘The centre of the prosecution case, that Peter sought treatment for a wound to his head that night, except he was in the hospital by one o’clock, waiting to be stitched. That means he can’t have had anything to do with both Charlotte’s disappearance and Lizzie’s murder, as he’d have to kill Lizzie, then get to where Charlotte was last seen, abduct her, take her to a place where she couldn’t be found, and then get to the hospital. He wouldn’t have had time.’
‘So, we look at Charlotte’s case to see whether we can link it with the other missing persons, and then somehow link it to Lizzie, make the killer one and the same, and show it couldn’t have been Peter?’
‘It’s the best we can do. It’s a stretch though, and we might have left it too late.’
Jayne looked at the pictures of Charlotte from the clippings. ‘One minute she’s celebrating the new year with friends, and the next she’s nowhere to be found. It fits with an abduction.’
‘But Murdoch’s going to be the police witness in court, and it’s so local and recent that she’ll know all about the case. She might give an answer that makes the whole collection look shaky.’
‘But Charlotte Crane’s the right sort of victim in terms of age and location. Like with the other ones, we should be looking at the victims first. We’ve ruled out men, and anyone under twenty or over forty.’ She ran her finger along the papers, picking up three sheets. ‘Start with these, because they’re the furthest back in time. Bill went back a long way.’
‘Yeah, he was desperate to find a pattern.’
‘Like us. Look at these. Two in Yorkshire along the same Leeds-Liverpool canal, and one here in Highford. One year between the first two, and then eighteen months before the next. Three women who went out and never came home. They’re all different though. Look, the first one, Annie Yates, she had a good job and was happily married, but she went out for a walk and never returned.’
She passed Dan the clippings, along with Bill’s typed summaries.
He read them and was filled with sadness. The publicity photo of Annie Yates showed how happy she’d been, hugging her husband, both wrapped in walking clothes. Just a woman forgotten by time, but to her family it would still be as raw as the day she left.
‘It’s so long ago – seventeen years,’ he said. ‘These pictures capture a moment, but no one knows what was going on in her life. It could even be her husband behind it all.’
‘I thought it didn’t matter whether it was true? You’re defending Peter Box. We’re just telling an alternative story. Isn’t that how it works?’
He held up the clippings. ‘Her family won’t be quite so forgiving.’
‘You’ll be okay with this one, then, because it doesn’t seem like anyone cared about her.’ She thrust the clippings towards him. ‘Sharon Coates. She worked as a prostitute. A bit old school, short skirt and handbag over her shoulder, hanging around the warehouses by the canals. She went missing a year after Annie, but there’s hardly any newspaper coverage for her. It’s as if the papers weren’t as bothered about her.’
‘I’ve met enough prostitutes through this job to know that there’s usually a very sad story behind what they do.’
‘What about the creeps who used her?’
‘They’re the guilty ones, and there isn’t always a sad story there.’ Dan smiled. ‘There was a purge on kerb crawlers in Highford a couple of years ago. The police used the data from the number-plate recognition cameras to identify vehicles that circled the red-light area, looking for when the same vehicle cropped up on the same street a few times in the same hour. They wrote to the registered owners, advising them of the law around soliciting and how their activities might be perceived.’
‘Sounds like a good idea.’
‘It was, and particularly as the owner wasn’t always the husband but sometimes the wife, or even the boss. You can bet that there were some interesting conversations at home.’
‘Cameras didn’t help with Sharon Coates, though,’ and she pointed at the clippings. ‘Just another prostitute forgotten by everyone.’
‘And the one after that, the Highford one?’
Jayne skimmed through the clippings. ‘More than fourteen years ago. A woman who set off for a night out and never came home.’
‘Let me have a look.’
Jayne passed him the clippings.
‘Claire Watkins. I remember her,’ Dan said. ‘There was a lot of press coverage. Even made the television specials. There’s still the occasional update and appeal, but I’ve never heard that they have a suspect.’
‘Her pile of clippings is the biggest. That must be why.’
Jayne continued rummaging through the papers as Dan read through the details of the three they already had, picking some out, shoving others to one side, until she had a pile she could put on the table. ‘Location might be important. The first three all disappeared near the canal that runs through Highford. Bill cast his net wider, looking for the numbers. Why don’t we concentrate
on locality, those who can be linked to Lizzie? It sounds less scattergun.’ She patted the pile. ‘Here we are. All the women from twenty through to forty. Bill’s son is excluded, so he won’t be pleased, but this is what we’ve got.’
‘How many?’
‘Twelve. Hang on, I’ll just put them in date order.’ Jayne moved the papers around as Dan grabbed more wine, until she stepped back. ‘There we are. All in order.’
Dan glanced over them as he passed Jayne a glass. ‘Thank you. I couldn’t do this without you.’
‘We’re a good team.’
He caught a look, a gleam in her eye, a quick widening of the pupils. Dan turned away.
They both stayed silent for a few moments before Jayne blushed and said, ‘You’re doing it again.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Making me wish I hadn’t come here.’
‘I haven’t done anything.’
‘That’s what I mean. We go a few weeks without any contact, but then you have a case and we’re here again, drinking wine at your place and me wanting more.’
He felt a flush creep up his cheeks.
They’d been here before, those long silences with Dan stopping himself from saying how he felt about her. They clicked. Even when they were lawyer and client, there was something between them that was hard to define. Their conversations during prison visits had turned to more than just the case, and she used to say that he was the only person who could make her laugh in there.
What he’d never told her was that he was nervous before every visit, his stomach rolling from the anticipation of seeing her but also dread at the thought of her case going wrong. He’d remained professional: he was her lawyer, nothing more. It could never be more; he’d forced himself to push different thoughts away.
But he couldn’t stop the spark of excitement he felt whenever she came round, or the desire whenever she looked at him a certain way.
‘Don’t you think I wish things were different?’
‘Those are just words, Dan Grant. You know how I feel about you, I’ve made it obvious enough times, but the last person I fell for ended up dead in my kitchen. I can’t go there again. I’m not a murderer, you proved that for me, but I still hold myself back.’
‘You were a client,’ he said. ‘That makes it different for me too.’
Her eyes closed momentarily, and when she opened them again, her gaze was different. More focused, her pupils like black stones. ‘I’m not a client anymore.’
He held her gaze and fought the urge to lean across to kiss her, wanting to feel her lips on his, to lose himself in her.
He looked away. ‘I know, but it still makes a difference.’
Jayne swirled the wine in her glass. ‘Okay, I get it.’ Her tone was flat. She put the glass on the table. ‘I’d better get going. It’s getting late, and you’ve got a big day in court tomorrow.’
‘Don’t be angry with me.’
She shook her head. ‘It’s not anger I’m feeling.’
‘What then?’
‘I don’t know. Disappointment, frustration perhaps?’ She grabbed her coat. ‘But it’s business as usual, I know that.’
‘Yes, just that.’
He didn’t look up as she went. There were no goodbyes. Just the slam of his door and then her footsteps on the stairs, as if she didn’t want to hang around for the lift.
He took her glass and poured away her wine. Part of him wanted to go after her, but the thought of the trial prevented him. If he intended to use any of this new material, he had to be ready. It could go very badly, and he had one evening to somehow stop that happening.
* * *
Pat carried on digging, his gloves cast to one side and his fingers clawing at the soil around the plastic bag, the exertion forcing his breath out in sharp rasps.
The plastic had hardened after all these years underground. The dirt got under Pat’s fingernails, even cracked one of them, but he wasn’t going to stop.
The sweat dripped from his forehead despite the cold. One of his fingers was bleeding, but after a few minutes he’d cleared away the soil. He took a deep breath and gave a sharp tug on the bag, falling backwards as it came free.
The bag was small, just a thick shopping bag, knotted at one end. He turned the bag in his hand, resisting the urge to rip it open, knowing that he didn’t want to spoil any forensic traces left on whatever was inside.
It felt like a tool, with a handle and a long thin blade, except it didn’t feel sharp. It was solid enough to be made of metal, and his mind went to his own shed at home.
It was a bradawl, he was sure of it. He remembered the pathologist’s report, that Rosie had been stabbed multiple times with a thin, sharp object.
He grinned in triumph, wanted to jump and shout, but he restrained himself. The murder weapon. He had it, dug up exactly where Sean Martin said he had hidden it. If Sean’s DNA was on the handle and Rosie’s blood was on the blade, he could face a retrial. The thought gave Pat a new surge of energy. He had a new goal now: to be in court when Sean Martin stood trial.
He pulled a bag of his own from his pocket and put one bag in the other, before letting out a long sigh. All he had to do now was get the bradawl to someone who could do the right tests on it. He could try the police, but he thought of Dan first. This could be the first step in proving Sean Martin’s guilt. What he couldn’t work out was how that would help Dan in Peter Box’s trial.
Pat was about to stand up when there was another noise. Like before, it was the sound of movement, but closer, like someone brushing against one of the rocks embedded into the ground. A rustle of clothes, the squeak of feet on the wild grass.
‘Hello?’
Still no reply.
He picked up the bag and put it inside his coat before standing up.
‘Is anyone there?’
He moved away from the cottage, nervous of the deep darkness. If someone was going to rush him, he didn’t want the shock of a hard landing. He might have more of a chance in the open field. His mouth was dry.
He kept the canal to his back as he moved away from the old cottage, the field in front of him. His eyes strained but everything was in shadow.
He saw it and jolted, clasping his chest. A figure, standing still, just a faint silhouette between Pat and the cottage.
Pat started to run, reaching in his pocket for his car keys. His car was a hundred metres away, but it was uneven ground, dotted by thick tufts. His lungs hurt as he ran, but he had to keep going. His legs ached sooner than he’d hoped. There were footsteps behind him, moving quicker than he could.
He tried not to panic but the gate by his car didn’t seem to be getting any nearer. His heartbeat was loud in his head, along with the steady thump of his feet and the rustle of the bag in his coat.
He grimaced at the ache in his chest. He couldn’t make it any further. The person behind him was getting closer.
He stumbled and went to his knees. The chasing footsteps slowed down.
He toppled forward, the grass moist and cool under his head. He sucked in air, his chest rising and falling as he gasped.
The figure got closer. Pat tried to focus but everything seemed distant. He closed his eyes for a moment and let the night sounds take over. The rustle of grass under his head. The whoosh of distant traffic. The rattle of his breaths.
The footsteps got closer and stopped.
Pat coughed, shaking his chest, a rattle in his lungs. It wasn’t supposed to end like this. Cold and undignified, in a field.
He opened his eyes. There was someone holding a long-handled axe, the blade glinting in the glow of the half-moon.
There was no hesitation. No final splutter of rage from whoever was there. Instead, the axe was raised without a word being said, poised in mid-air for a second, and then there was a grunt as it swung downwards.
Pat screamed as he thought of Eileen, alone at home, wondering where he was.
The axe seemed to be moving slowly but he knew it was
an illusion. He thought he saw moisture flicking from the blade as it made its downward arc, the blade getting brighter. He couldn’t move, didn’t want to move. He knew it was over.
He saw Eileen as the blade hit. Warm, loving, gentle. He saw her in their house, looking out of the window, looking for him, and he was with her, rushing across the countryside as the axe kept moving.
He thought he saw her crying as his head was pushed into the ground, and then the world faded to black.
Thirty-one
The morning had come too quickly for Dan. He had been up until well after two, trying to sort the bundle of notes and clippings into those he could use and those he couldn’t.
He’d whittled the list down to nine victims, although he had gone off-script. He and Jayne had decided that they were going to focus on those who were missing, but Dan had decided to include Rosie in the list, just to keep alive the link with Sean Martin. He knew what he had to do when he got to court, and it would make him unpopular, but it was the only way he could think of to make it work. His eyes felt heavy and his breath sour from lack of sleep.
He’d arranged to meet Bill and Jayne in a greasy spoon in Highford’s shopping district. He’d wondered whether Jayne would refuse to meet him, after the way they had ended the night before, but she’d agreed with a tired grunt. He got there first, cradling a large white mug on a chipped and scarred table, the sugar in a pouring jar and the street outside lost through the fogged-up windows. There were some builders in the cafe, wearing hi-vis vests over dusty ex-army gear, and it would fill later with those wanting a cheap and warm way to spend an hour, but Dan enjoyed it here. Unpretentious.
The bell over the door tinkled and Bill and Jayne came in, Bill holding the door open for her. Dan raised his hand to let them know he was there.
They made their way through the tables, the builders stopping their chatter to watch Jayne. One of them nodded to his friend, a wolf-whistle in his mind.
‘Morning,’ Dan said. ‘Just coffee or are we eating?’
‘I could murder a bacon sandwich,’ Bill said. ‘Anyone else?’
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