by Jay Nadal
Sadness washed over Abby as she stood rooted to the spot, transfixed by the slain family. Craig occupied the middle chair, and his children sat either side of him. The children’s pyjamas were drenched in blood with more pooled on the floor around each chair. Their lowered heads spared Abby the view of their facial injuries. Craig’s face had been pulled back, as if staring at the ceiling, his blood glistened under the halogen spotlights.
Abby imagined the horror, despair and sheer torture that Amy must have felt as she witnessed her family being massacred. She must have witnessed abject terror in the eyes of her children, as they begged to be saved whilst she remained bound and gagged, powerless to do anything. Abby glanced around the room and thought about the screams of torture that must have echoed around these walls. The images of incessant pleading from parents and children alike sent an icy chill through her.
“What sick, twisted bastard would do something like this?” At the rhetorical question, Scott and the SOCOs exchanged a momentary glance which suggested that her thoughts echoed their sentiments.
Abby had seen enough. She turned and left. It would be a while before the SOCOs would grant them full access to the crime scene, and until then, she needed some air. She slowed as she walked past the various framed photos of the family pinned up in the hallway. Some reflected a family holiday, somewhere hot and sunny judging by their golden complexions, shorts and T-shirts. Others were individual photos of the children at various stages in their life, from babies to teens. Abby’s body stiffened as she reflected at the waste of such young lives.
She took large lungfuls of air to clear her head. Scott came out to join her.
“If Cara confirms the injuries as matching those of Janet, then we can assume it’s the same man.” Scott glanced up and down the road. The crowds were just as big as when they had arrived. He knew that the local press would be on scene soon.
“He’s just taken it up a notch. Why the children?”
Scott shook his head in frustration. He didn’t have an answer.
“Abby, once Raj and Helen have finished speaking to neighbours, I need them back at the office to find everything they can about this family. Who they are, what they did for jobs, where the kids went to school, banking records, phone records, if they have ever been in trouble? Everything. I want no stone unturned, understand? Find out if they have any connections to the Ashmans.”
“Understood, Guv.”
Within minutes of being back at the station, Scott made his way straight to Meadows’s office.
“Could this still be random?” Meadows asked as he paced behind his desk, aware of the media shit storm heading their way.
Scott raised one shoulder and shrugged. “If I’m honest, Sir, I doubt it. Still, we can’t rule it out. We have nothing to go on. No eyewitnesses, no DNA, no forensics in any shape or form, and no motive. I’m hoping we have better luck at this crime scene. Otherwise we are bouncing around in the dark.”
Meadows turned and stared out of his window lost in thought whilst Scott continued to update him.
“The team are looking at any connection. If it’s not random, then there has to be something linking the Ashmans and the Harps.”
“Dig deep, Scott. Deep. Find that link. If it’s random, then he’s going to great lengths to enjoy and savour every moment. But my hunch is that it’s planned. The killer’s mentally rehearsing everything that he will do down to the finest detail before executing his plan. Trust me on this one, Scott. The man has an agenda, and he sends out a very clear message. Those are the two things you need to focus on.”
The events of the morning and harrowing scene raced through his mind as he added the names of the new victims to the whiteboard. Part of him wanted to charge ahead with the investigation, kicking down doors, going heavy on McCormick, and ruffling a few feathers. But he also knew in doing so, not only would it not get him anywhere, but he could overlook the finer details which often blew cases wide apart.
Scott picked up a desk phone that rang. “Sir, we’ve just taken a call from the Munch coffee shop,” the desk sergeant said. “They said someone has left a package there addressed to you, and it’s relating to your current case.”
Scott thanked the desk sergeant and grabbed his jacket, arriving at the coffee shop within minutes. Confusion clouded the faces of those serving behind the counter. They hadn’t called the station, nor had any package been left.
Stepping out on to the pavement, he glanced up and down the road. Nothing appeared to be out of the ordinary. No suspicious men lurked about in doorways watching from a distance, no one flicked through a newspaper whilst perched up against a wall. Other than a few delivery drivers dropping off parcels, he couldn’t see anyone watching from a car.
He shook his head and made his way back to the office. Thoughts rushed through his mind. Perhaps McCormick was playing games with him. He’d only taken a few paces when his phone rang. Glancing down at the screen, it came up as an unknown number.
“Hello?”
Scott was expecting it to be a claims handling company looking to recover PPI compensation, or some bollocks like that.
“Detective Inspector Baker, I’m glad you answered.”
The calm and distorted voice made it harder to listen.
“Who is this?”
“Now that would be telling since it’s none of your business. I’ll make this short. You’re interfering with something that doesn’t concern you. This is a private matter. I suggest that you back off whilst you can.”
Scott kept the man talking, certain the call was connected to his case. “What do you want?”
“I already know what I want, Inspector. Do you? I’ll only warn you once. Stop sniffing in places you shouldn’t be. You’re smarter than I thought. I guess I must execute my plans quicker than I expected.”
“What plans? Involving who?” Scott thought about all the things that he was involved with at the moment, and the people he had spoken to. “I know who you’re working for.”
“You do? You probably feel a degree of pity for those left behind. Feeling alone. Sad for the things they’ve lost. Pathetic, isn’t it?”
“Who are you talking about?”
“I think you know already. You and I have a lot in common. We both seek the truth. You might not understand that yet, but you will.”
“Listen, I don’t know who you are, but you’re talking in riddles. If you’ve got something to say, I suggest you come to the station. I’m sure we can accommodate you.”
A lengthy silence hung between them. “That won’t be necessary. By the way, you looked tired. I see there’s a window seat free in the café behind you. You should get something to eat.”
The line went dead. Scott spun in a full circle, his eyes tracking from building to building, from person to person, side streets, and cars. His heart raced, his breath coming short and sharp. He was being watched.
Who the hell was watching him?
23
Scott walked up and down the street several times. He looked into every single doorway, glanced into every car. Every few minutes he looked over his shoulder just to see if anyone followed him. Frustration bubbled inside him, the unfamiliar feeling of fear creeping up on him again.
His thoughts turned to Quinn and the covert team, and that they had his back. When he considered those words, the most logical conclusion he could reach was that a member of Quinn’s team was trailing him. That being the case, he felt safe. He just wished he knew how they were doing it. If whoever had called him jumped out and tried to attack him now, would Quinn’s team stop the threat?
Every person in the street became a suspect. For the caller to know he was still outside Munch, suggested that he had a clear line of sight. A myriad of thoughts spun through Scott’s mind like a washing machine on spin cycle. He tried recalling the conversation, the exact words, and the implications as he walked back to the station.
Scott wrote as much of the conversation as he could and saved the fi
le to his hard drive. Nothing stood out in the man’s delivery or his choice of words. It had to be the work of McCormick. He’d be the only one who cared that Scott and his team were sniffing around. He couldn’t be certain that the man on the phone was the killer because he hadn’t referred to any of the murders, nor had he alluded to having committed them. Most psychopaths are closet narcissists, enthused by their own sense of grandeur.
He’s a clever bastard.
“Are you okay, Guv?” Abby asked, as she popped her head around the corner.
After the tense phone call, Scott jumped a little. “Yes. Sorry. Erm, I was just deep in thought.”
“Penny for them?”
He waved away her question. “It’s nothing. I was just trying to join the dots between the Harps and the Ashmans.”
“Any joy?”
“Not yet, Abby, but I’m working on it.”
“Oh, I checked with the hospital, Ashman’s been released. Do you want me to visit him at home instead?”
“No, it’s fine. I’ll do it instead.”
“We’ve been looking into the backgrounds of the family. Amy was a nurse at Whitefields, a specialist cancer care unit in Worthing. Her husband Craig, owned his own small media advertising agency. Neither have past convictions, or even a parking ticket. A typical clean-living, hard-working family.
“We are looking at their immediate family now, but not having much joy contacting the next of kin. Craig’s parents live in Sarasota, Florida, so they’re five hours behind. Amy’s parents aren’t answering their phone. We’ll try again in an hour, since maybe they’re out. I’ll visit the Whitefields tomorrow.”
Abby watched as Scott’s eyes remained fixed on the wall in front of him. “Guv, is everything okay? You seem a little distracted.”
He wanted to tell Abby about the call, but prior to hanging up, the caller had stressed that the conversation needed to remain private.
“Seriously, I’m fine. You know what it’s like when we get a new case, and we have little to go on. It stresses me out.”
Scott politely declined Abby’s offer of help as he crunched through his thoughts. Scott needed to follow his hunches, and the first, was to visit Samuel Ashman.
Ashman answered the door looking worse for wear. He hadn’t shaved in days, his stubble long, grey and untidy. His hair fared no better and was in dire need of a wash. He stood across the doorway, wearing nothing more than a T-shirt and Y-fronts. He looked dazed and tired.
“Mr Ashman, I thought I’d pop by to see if there’s anything you needed?”
Ashman shook his head, his face long, drawn and saggy. He invited Scott in, and led him through to the office, choosing to avoid the through lounge. The small office contained a desk to one side, and two armchairs opposite with dozens of magazines, newspapers and books littering the desk and floor. A stale, musty smell hung in the air as if the windows hadn’t been opened in some time. The curtains were closed, and a small desk lamp provided the only illumination.
Ashman sat down in one armchair offering Scott the other. A small table close to Ashman had the remains of half a slice of bread, what appeared to be several empty beer cans, and half a bottle of Bushmills.
“Would you join me?” Ashman offered, pointing towards the Bushmills.
Scott declined. “Too early for me, Samuel.”
Ashman waved his glass in front of him. “You can’t beat a fine glass of Irish whiskey.”
“Samuel, I’m concerned about you staying here on your own. Do you have friends that you can stay with instead?”
“This is my home, Inspector. I have nowhere else to go. This is where we…where we used to live.” Ashman faltered, his eyes dark, lost and empty.
“I know. But after what’s happened here, I think this isn’t the best place for you to be. Besides, we’re still investigating your case, and my main concern has to be your safety.”
Ashman took a large gulp of whiskey. “Basically, you’re saying you haven’t got a fucking clue who did it, and because of that, you can’t guarantee my safety. Is that it? Or are you more worried about your reputation and that of the force?”
The remarks stung. Ashman was spitting anger, and Scott was in the firing line of the man’s rage.
Scott leant forward in his chair and rested his elbows on his knees. “It’s not like that at all. I’m determined to find out who committed this crime. And that’s part of the reason I’m here. I thought you should be the first to know that there’s been another incident.”
Scott kept the details brief, but told Ashman about the Harp family. If Scott had expected a reaction, little came back from Ashman. He bowed his head, deep in reflection.
“The poor cow. I feel sorry for her.” Ashman drained the last of his whiskey before reaching for the bottle. Scott thought the booze wasn’t a great idea, but with very little else to look forward to, and with what he had experienced in recent days, how could he tell the man to stop drinking?
“Exactly the same?”
Scott nodded. “Craig Harp had his own media advertising agency dealing with small businesses. Amy worked at Whitefields, the cancer unit. I know it’s a long shot, but do you know either of them? Have you ever come across them? Spoken to them? Have they ever contacted you?”
Ashman shook his head. “No. Can’t say I have. I talk to many people, so perhaps I have spoken to them. But nothing springs to mind.” He kept his voice dry and gravelly.
Scott pressed harder, willing Ashman to give him some connection. Ashman continued to deny ever knowing the name as he emptied his glass in one tortured gulp.
“Samuel, I’m not comfortable with you being here. Let me arrange some alternative accommodation for you. Somewhere where you will be looked after, or at least somewhere which is a little more comfortable.”
“Inspector, I’m not a fucking geriatric that needs his adult nappy changed. This is where I belong. In my home. This is where we belonged.” Sadness spread across the man’s face. His lips tightened and his chin wobbled.
Scott would arrange for another officer to pop by with pictures of the Harp family, as a picture jogged the memory far better than just a name. Ashman agreed, but added that it was a pointless exercise.
Whether or not Ashman liked it, he would arrange for uniformed officers to pop by once or twice a day just to make sure he was okay.
A thought flashed through his mind as Scott made his way back to the office. He swerved in the traffic and pulled up. Rubbing his forehead, he tried to piece together random thoughts that sprang up. Something didn’t add up. The anonymous call bothered Scott. He couldn’t be certain what about it disturbed him. Perhaps it was something the caller had insinuated.
Resigned, he set off again, calling Abby en route. A sense of urgency in his tone concerned Abby after she confirmed that there had been no further update on his request. Scott grabbed the address from her, and told Abby to meet him there.
24
Scott weaved in and out of the traffic, the narrow streets of Brighton slowing down his progress. He hit the steering wheel several times, cursing both the build-up of traffic, and the conclusions forming in his mind.
The realisation hit him slowly which pissed him off. These odious crimes weren’t about the victims. They were about the survivors. He thought back to the anonymous call, and how the man had referred to people left behind. Maybe he was referring to Samuel and Amy.
Scott pulled up outside the address on a quiet, residential street. The classic tree-lined, and middle-class neighbourhood. Abby paced around on the pavement, whilst Mike leant up against the car, his hands stuffed in his pockets as if waiting for a bus.
“Did you try the door?”
“No, Guv. I thought I’d wait until you got here. I’ve tried the landline and its ringing inside. Their mobiles aren’t working. All calls go straight to voicemail.”
“Do you think something’s happened to them?” Mike asked.
“I’m hoping not. But I’ve got this gut fee
ling after a conversation I had with someone.” Scott rang the doorbell several times, peering through the frosted glass for any sign of movement. He followed this with several loud thumps on the door, before looking through the letter box. The place seemed clean and tidy, with no evidence of a disturbance. Scott planted his nose inside the opening and smelt the air. “Mike, kick the door in.”
Mike took a few steps back, and shoulder-charged the door. It caved in with very little resistance. Splinters of wood flew off in all directions.
“Hello, it’s the police!” Scott shouted. Silence surrounded them. He shouted again. “Mike, you check upstairs, and Abby you come with me.”
“What are we looking for, Guv?” Mike asked as his heavy footsteps thundered up the stairs.
“Amy’s parents.”
Scott and Abby made their way through the ground floor. They found a large living room behind the first door on the left, neat and tidy, with framed photos of the family taking pride of place on the mantelpiece.
After Scott saw pictures of an elderly couple, he presumed they were Mr and Mrs Evans, Amy’s parents. Further along there were larger family portraits, one of Amy and Craig cuddling the twins. They couldn’t have been older than a few months. A fresh smell of lavender filled the room.
To the right of the hallway, a doorway led to the dining room that turned off left into the open-plan kitchen. An ornate glass fruit bowl laden with apples, bananas and oranges took pride of place in the centre of a dark mahogany dining table. Scott imagined many happy occasions around the table as the family came together.
They walked through to the kitchen, designed to be clean, functional and cosy. The white units and black speckled worktops appeared spotless.
“I can’t see anything out of place,” said Abby as she tried the handle on the back door, finding it locked. She glanced through the rear windows. The small garden was laid to lawn with a shrubbery border surrounding it on three sides. Nothing appeared to be out of place.