Nick put on his purple latex forensic gloves and instantly inhaled the familiar waft of rubber from them. An old DS he worked with always moaned that he went home smelling like a giant condom, which made his wife suspicious that he was ‘going over the side’ – police slang for having an affair.
He went into the main bedroom and noticed that the bed was made neatly, a smart jumper folded on a chair and shoes lined up in a row. An expensive television had been mounted on the wall and a Bluetooth speaker stood nearby. Nick found the silence in the room unsettling. The sound of a car starting from outside broke the eeriness.
He walked over to the en suite bathroom, his shoes flattening the thick cream carpet as he went. The bathroom also revealed little. The air smelt of the remnants of shower gel and aftershave. No medications except some paracetamol. Nick thought about what a contrast it was to his medical supplies at home of Librium, diazepam, morphine and various other opiates. It was a supply that would have made Elvis proud, he thought, making a mental note that it might be time to ditch the lot. Nick had seen several alcoholics relapse after getting hooked on prescribed or over-the-counter medications. An addict is an addict, and if changing the way you feel was the goal, it didn’t matter what substance did the trick.
Out in the hallway, Harv had a few framed rugby shirts hanging on the wall. Small plaques gave details of when and where they had been won. At the peak of his promise, Harv had played a few times for the Wales U18s. That was why, while Jack went to the local secondary school, Harv had been shipped off to a Catholic boarding school, St Patrick’s, that offered rugby scholarships and high-quality coaching. St Patrick’s had a string of alumni that had played international rugby around the world. Harv didn’t quite make the grade, and Nick wondered whether when he had seen Harv drunk and angry in town, that was at the back of his mind. Harv was competitive to the point of arrogance, and not making the grade must have been difficult for him.
Nick passed another door, which he tried, but it was locked. He would ask Jack about that. Uniformed officers had taken some preliminary statements from neighbours in the apartment block and from colleagues at the internet support company where Harv worked. Nothing had cropped up yet that gave them a decent lead.
Entering the open-plan kitchen and dining area, Nick saw that Jack had made him a cup of tea, which he slid over the table as Nick sat down.
‘Thanks, Jack,’ Nick said as he drank the tea and wondered what Harv had done to provoke someone into murdering him. ‘What’s with the locked door?’
‘Oh yeah, sorry. It’s the single bedroom, but Harv turned it into a little study. I’ve got the key. He was a bit paranoid about break-ins.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll have a look in a minute.’ Nick looked at Jack’s face, which showed an expression of loss and disbelief. ‘How’s your mum doing?’
‘Not sure it’s really hit her yet, you know? And she’s starting to get forgetful recently. I was the crazy, wayward son. If anything horrible was going to happen, then it was going to happen to me. Harv was the sensible one. Head screwed on properly,’ Jack explained.
‘Except when it came to women,’ Nick said and then regretted saying something derogatory, however true it might.
‘Yeah, he put it about.’ Jack smiled. ‘Man slag. I think he was proud of that.’
Nick wanted to broach the findings of the post-mortem but knew he needed to be delicate. ‘When I saw Harv’s body, he had marks all across his back. They looked like scars.’ Nick left the statement hanging, seeing what Jack would say to this.
Jack shook his head and shrugged. ‘No. I never saw them. But now I think of it, I never saw Harv with his top off. Even when we went to the beach a couple of times.’
‘Your Dad wasn’t around when you were kids, was he?’
‘No. He did a runner just after Harv was born.’
‘I’m just trying to work out how he got the scarring. Nothing at home that you can think of?’ Nick asked.
‘No. You know Mum. She’s as soft as a brush. There wasn’t anyone else around.’
‘What about when Harv was boarding up at St Patrick’s?’ Nick asked, wondering if something had happened at the boarding school. His suspicions had been aroused when Jack mentioned that Harv had been looking up old school friends in his interview.
Jack thought for a moment. ‘I don’t know. He wasn’t happy there. He would cry when he had to go back after coming home for the weekend. When we asked him, he just said he got homesick. Mum took him out of there when he turned fifteen.’
‘And he didn’t say anything more about it?’
‘No. In fact, he never talked about it. It was as if he had never been there.’
Nick nodded. The immediate response could be to make assumptions given the terrible abuse that some children were victim to in a few of Britain’s boarding schools. However, Nick knew it was a knee-jerk reaction with no evidence to back it up.
‘Shall I show you the study?’ Jack asked.
Nick nodded and got up to follow Jack, who unlocked the door and opened it. The office was as Nick had expected. Neat, ordered and tidy. There was a large desk over by the window with an expensive-looking computer monitor. There were more framed rugby shirts and other sporting memorabilia on the walls.
Nick went over to the desk and looked back at Jack. ‘Don’t touch anything, please, Jack.’
Shuffling through a neat pile of paperwork, Nick came across a school brochure for St Patrick’s Catholic boarding school for 1995 to 1996. He quickly skimmed through it, looking to see if had been marked or written on. There was nothing. He then spotted a recent letter from the headteacher of St Patrick’s, Mr Owen Bates.
Dear Mr Pearson,
Thank you for your enquiry and I am so glad that you enjoyed your time here at St Patrick’s. Thank you also for your kind comments about the staff.
Unfortunately, we do not have any information about the current employment or whereabouts of any previous members of staff for you to contact them and express your gratitude.
Kind regards,
Owen Bates
Nick thought that Harv’s request was ominous, especially as Jack had told him that he wasn’t happy at the school. Nick put down the letter and continued to search the desk. ‘Would you or your mum remember any of the teachers that taught Harv?’
‘I’m not sure. Mum might. Why?’
Nick found a business card propped up by the computer monitor and read it. James Ferguson, Director, Vinci Printing Solutions. ‘Does the name James Ferguson mean anything to you?’
‘No. Why all this interest in Harv’s time at St Patrick’s?’
‘I dunno. At the moment, Harv’s life seems to be pretty normal. No money worries. Good job. He’s divorced but he gets to see his kids. Nothing on social media so far. The one thing that’s out of the ordinary is his sudden interest in his time at St Patrick’s.’
AS SOON AS RUTH ARRIVED, she was guided through the smart offices and laboratories of Abel UK Forensics. It was a private company that North Wales Police used for all of their forensic science services. Already covering everything from DNA, toxicology, ballistics, they had just moved into digital forensic investigation.
Before Ruth went any further into the laboratory, she was given a forensic suit, mask and blue latex gloves. Crime investigation had come a long way since when she joined in the early 1990s. It was no exaggeration to say that detectives would be smoking, drinking coffee and even eating as they stepped over bodies and stomped around crime scenes with no regard to forensics or DNA.
As Ruth entered, the temperature dropped significantly. The scientists were dealing with the remains from number four Abbey Terrace in Pentredwr and it needed to be cold to stop putrefaction. The laboratory was equipped with microscopes, test tubes and large machines that Ruth had no idea what they did but gave her, and her colleagues, incredible results.
Ruth spotted the wiry eyebrows of Professor Roy White, the senior forensic consultant, betwe
en his surgical hat and mask as he approached her. She had worked with him once before and found him to be a consummate professional but with the sense of humour of the cadavers that he spent his days with.
‘DI Hunter, isn’t it?’ White enquired, clearing his throat.
‘Yes. Have you got anything for us yet?’ Ruth asked as she began to feel the chill of the laboratory. Why aren’t the lab coats padded?
‘We’ve got the SOCO swabs back from the pipes from the four houses that feed into that sewer. Only one of them has any human DNA in it, and that’s from number four,’ White explained.
‘And that’s the house where the blocked sewer was found,’ Ruth said thinking out loud. It immediately made her wonder about Andy Gates, the owner.
White nodded. ‘Three different DNA within these remains. And they seem to be the DNA of three adult men. They’ve been dead for one to two weeks, but it’s hard to be more precise than that.’
Three? That was seriously disturbing. Three murders? Why were human remains in the sewage? Bodies were notoriously hard to dispose of but flushing away a corpse bit by bit seemed haphazard at best.
White continued with the tone of someone delivering a university lecture. ‘As for any useful forensic evidence, that would have been washed away in the drains. Of course, nothing that we find will be any use to you given the amount of contamination. We’re running the DNA against the National DNA Database but at the moment we’ve not found a match. But we do have one partial fingerprint from a fingertip which we’re looking at right now.’
‘I don’t suppose there’s any chance of finding cause of death?’ Ruth asked.
‘Not really. What we’ve got mainly is fibrous and soft tissue, and some muscle. A few fingers and toes. Internal organs. No bones of any magnitude. It’s like some horrible human jigsaw.’ White shook his head. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it before.’
Ruth was surprised by Professor White expressing any form of emotion. ‘So DNA will be the only way to identify who the victims are?’
‘At the moment. Usually, we could use dental records, tattoos or scars if we didn’t have DNA.’
A diminutive forensic scientist came over to White. ‘Professor, I think we have a database match to the partial fingerprint.’
Ruth followed White over to a large computer monitor where White interpreted the data. ‘The print belongs to a Stefan Olsen. According to the details on the PNC, he is aged thirty-six. He was arrested six months ago for assault but got a suspended sentence.’
Ruth knew exactly who Stefan Olsen was. And he was no longer a missing person. He was a murder victim.
CHAPTER 8
It was lunchtime when Nick pulled up outside Fiona Pearson’s house, which lay at the end of a neat cul-de-sac of new builds. He had heard his phone buzzing with texts as he drove so took it out to have a look.
It was Amanda:
Hi Nick. Sorry to contact you like this. Feeling a bit wobbly. I haven’t had a drink since I last saw you. I could do with a chat. Some advice from a friendly face who knows what I’m going through. I know you’re busy, so no worries if not. Amanda xx
Nick took a moment. Was he meant to be meeting a very attractive, struggling alcoholic to give her advice? Shouldn’t he pass this on to one of the women he knew in the fellowship? But then a voice from somewhere else told him that he was helping Amanda. The fact they knew each other meant that she felt comfortable enough to reach out to him and ask for help. That was a big step for an alcoholic. And if he simply passed her number on to a woman in AA she didn’t know, she might feel abandoned and disappear.
What he should do is run the dilemma past Bill, his sponsor. He shouldn’t trust his thinking or decision-making. He should get someone with good sobriety, wisdom and perspective to help him make decisions. But he knew that Bill would tell him what he didn’t want to hear.
Bollocks to that! Nick ignored what his conscious was telling him and began to text:
Hi Amanda. Sorry to hear that you’re struggling. It’s brilliant that you’ve not had a drink. Let’s meet after work. There’s a café in town – Marmalade. About 7 p.m. any good? Nick xx
He sent it. It was done now. And if he could help Amanda stop drinking then where was the harm in that?
Striding up the neat stone path, Nick reached the door and rang the bell. He didn’t think that he had seen Fiona since she married Harv, and that must have been ten years ago. Or was there a christening? Nick’s memory of events during less sober times in life was hazy, to say the least.
The door opened and Fiona looked at Nick. Her face was dusted with freckles and her red hair fell in ringlets onto her shoulders. She was attractive but she had that look that Nick had seen so many times in his line of work. The fatigue and emotion of tragedy took its toll on everyone.
‘Nick ...’ Fiona blinked and Nick wasn’t sure if she was going to cry.
She ushered him in and they went into the immaculate kitchen full of touches of shabby chic – there were homemade Christmas decorations across the window made from holly. That was Fiona. Too cool for school. Fiona made him coffee, and they made some awkward small talk before Nick asked her how she was.
‘Doesn’t feel real. You know what I mean?’ Fiona said sadly and looking for Nick to confirm that was how he felt.
Nick felt conflicted. He was there in both a personal and professional capacity. They were two very different mindsets. ‘Yeah. Harv was larger than life. Even with all that I’ve seen, I can’t see why anyone would want to ... harm him.’
Fiona sipped her coffee. ‘You’ve not found anything?’
‘No. Nothing yet.’ Nick took a moment. ‘That’s why I wanted to talk to you.’
‘Me?’ Fiona bristled a little.
‘I know you’re not together. But from what Jack said, you see each other a lot, even if it’s just to sort out stuff with the kids,’ Nick explained.
‘Yeah. We do. But there’s nothing I can think of.’
‘As far as I can see, Harv’s life was all right. Good job, nice place to live, no financial worries. From what I know, he saw a lot of the kids and he was a good dad,’ Nick said, thinking out loud.
‘Yeah, he might have been a total prick to me but he was a good dad.’ Fiona realised what she had said, ‘Oh God. I didn’t mean to say that.’
Nick looked at her. ‘We all know what Harv was like. We can’t pretend he was a saint. But he didn’t deserve what happened to him, so I need to find the person who attacked him. You’re sure there was nothing out of the ordinary? Anything, no matter how small?’
Fiona nodded and then something occurred to her. ‘A couple of drunken phone calls in recent weeks. He hadn’t done that for quite a long time.’
‘What did he say?’ Nick asked. Perhaps Harv wasn’t quite as happy at it might appear.
‘In the first one, he just kept babbling what a horrible person he was. His words were “Why am I so fucked up?”’ Fiona said as she pushed her hair away from her face.
‘Do you know what he meant by that?’
‘Not really. He apologised for cheating on me. He said he hated himself, but he was hammered so I just thought he was babbling.’
‘You said there were a couple of phone calls?’ Nick’s instinct was that if there had been something troubling Harv, it might give them a clue as to who had attacked him.
‘The last one he was banging on about his school days.’
Nick’s ear pricked up. ‘School days? What was he saying?’
‘Yeah. You know what people are like when they’re drunk. He kept repeating himself.’
‘Any details? The smallest thing could help us.’
‘Something about St Patrick’s. He wasn’t making any sense. Sorry,’ Fiona said.
‘Okay. Thanks,’ Nick said as he put away his notebook.
Ten minutes later, Nick thanked Fiona for the coffee and left. Something about Harv’s quest to go back into his past niggled at him.
THE TECH COMP
ANY THAT built and hosted U’veGotMale.com was based in a unit in an industrial estate off the A465 bypass. Sian had spent ten minutes talking to the company’s owner, Jonathan Cheung, establishing that it was a one-man band that created websites, addresses, and hosted them for various companies based in North Wales. However, U’veGotMale was actually Cheung’s own creation. He built and ran the website, allowing him access to all the data stored on it. Sian wasn’t sure if that was ethical, let alone legal.
The room, with its large glass windows and new carpets, was a mess of monitors, computers and wires. It also smelt of stale coffee and body odour.
Sian’s phone rang. It was Ruth. Social call or work, she didn’t know.
‘Sian? Are you at that internet company yet?’
‘Yes, boss.’ It was business and Sian slipped back into old habits.
‘Stefan Olsen’s DNA was in the remains we found at Pentredwr, which means someone murdered him. And the last person he was seen with was a man we think used U’veGotMale to meet Stefan on a blind date.’
‘And that person could be our killer?’ Sian thought out loud. It was a solid lead.
‘Yeah. There’s the DNA of three men in that sewer,’ Ruth told her.
Even though Sian knew that SOCO suspected multiple bodies, it was still alarming to hear that three victims had been confirmed. ‘Christ! Maybe there’s a link with the website?’
‘You read my mind. Get a list of clients for the website and crosscheck it with any missing men in the area aged eighteen to fifty. Check Stefan Olsen’s chatroom and see who he had arranged to meet that night and if we can get an IP address.’
‘Boss,’ Sian said, then hung up and turned to Cheung who was shoving jelly babies into his mouth. He offered her the packet. ‘No thanks. Mr Cheung, how many members do you have at U’veGotMale?’
‘Dunno. Two hundred and fifty maybe,’ Cheung said, blinking behind John Lennon glasses. He was slight, with the remnants of acne and a mole the size of a chocolate button to the left of his nose.
The Dee Valley Killings Page 6