A paramedic unit pulled in alongside the surveyor’s van, and Rickman stepped back to let them check out Cook. Moments later, a man appeared at the end of the drive. Rickman recognised him as Ed Shepherd. His wife followed, brushing dead leaves from her coat.
Rickman caught Foster’s eye and jerked his chin towards the couple.
Foster followed his line of sight and uttered an oath. He hurled his protective clothing to the ground and made a move in their direction. Rickman manoeuvred himself in front of his friend. ‘Go easy,’ he said.
Foster barged past him. ‘You know what we found in there?’
Ed Shepherd paled.
‘That place has been a death trap for years,’ Foster said.
‘Which is why there are steel plates on the windows and door,’ Hilary said. She looked at them quizzically, as though she had not grasped fully the reason for their being there.
‘So how did he get down there with a babe in arms?’ Foster asked.
Hilary gasped and her hand flew to her mouth.
‘You found Mark?’ Ed Shepherd looked past them to the doorway of the coach house.
‘And Bryony, yeah.’
Shepherd groped for his wife’s hand and she grasped it firmly, as if bracing herself for the next blow.
‘Did Davis call you?’ Rickman asked. ‘Did you know he was coming here?’
Ed Shepherd’s lips began to form an answer, but it was his wife who spoke. ‘We would have contacted you if he’d called.’ Here was a glimpse of the steelier nature of the woman.
‘Can you explain, then,’ Rickman said, ‘how he turned up in the basement of your coach house?’
It hardly seemed possible, but Ed Shepherd paled further, his skin almost luminous white in the gloom under the tree canopy. He tried to speak, but his breath creaked in his chest.
His wife turned to him. ‘Ed!’
Shepherd waved her away, fishing in his trouser pocket and bringing out an inhaler. He took two sharp hits, then bent forward, his hands resting on his thighs as he fought to control his breathing. ‘Jesus, Hil — he was here,’ he gasped, a sick sheen of sweat emphasising his pallor. ‘Mark was here.’
He took one great inhalation and seemed to stop. In the awful silence that followed, Rickman said, ‘I’ll fetch one of the paramedics.’
‘No,’ Hilary said. ‘He’ll be fine.’
But the medics had already noticed Shepherd’s distress and hurried over. Within half a minute, they had him on oxygen in the ambulance.
Rickman and Foster followed it as it bumped over the tarmac with Ed Shepherd on board.
‘Shit,’ Foster said. ‘Shit . . . I’ve never seen him so bad.’
As the ambulance emerged onto the main drive, it had to squeeze past a Fiat Punto on its way to the big house.
The driver, a woman, rolled down her window and leaned out, her face anxious. ‘Is everything all right?’ she asked. ‘Hilary and Ed, are they . . . Has there been an accident?’
‘Mr Shepherd had an asthma attack,’ Rickman said. ‘We’re police officers. Are you family?’
Her eyes widened. ‘A friend,’ she said. At that moment, Hilary Shepherd emerged onto the drive, looking bewildered. ‘Hilary!’
‘Anna!’ Hilary hurried over to the passenger door of the Punto. ‘Can you take me to the hospital? It’s Ed — they wouldn’t let me go with him in the ambulance.’
A child suddenly set up a wail, and Rickman bent to check out the Punto’s interior. A two-year-old, fastened in the back seat, plucked ineffectually at its child restraints. The woman blushed, confused, looking in some consternation at the child, then back to Rickman.
‘And you are?’ he said.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ She leaned across the passenger seat and popped the lock to allow Hilary Shepherd into the car. ‘Shouldn’t you be chasing criminals?’
Rickman traced the scar tissue above his right eyebrow as they watched the Fiat Punto back up and then turn in the drive.
‘What d’you think?’ Foster asked.
Rickman made a careful note of the licence plate.
Chapter 21
The boy’s death gave him no pleasure. The light was poor and Davis struggled so violently he couldn’t take the care he needed to craft the work. Davis was stronger than he looked, but the habit of victimhood, his horror of pain, and concern for the infant child robbed him of the power of action. Davis feared that if he failed, his child would certainly perish, even though logic and the evidence of what had already been done to him and to Jasmine Elliott indicated that she would perish no matter how he tried to appease.
Jasmine . . . breathe it softly. Her skin was the same creamy white, her nature as climbing and ambitious as the flower that was her namesake. When he touched her bare flesh for the first time, it was cold — shock, the drugs, her nakedness. A good sign, tacit acceptance of what he was about to do: she would not bleed too heavily when he cut her.
He had coveted that perfect, unblemished skin since the day he first saw her — three years ago? More? Then, she had been a child with the attitude of a streetwise teenager and the self-reliance of a mature woman. Her boldness, her refusal to be coerced, the arrogant superiority that kept her apart, always a notch above the others, always just beyond his reach, had both maddened and captivated him.
Being no career addict, Jasmine hadn’t stayed long within his sphere, and he had thought her lost to him — which added a piquancy to his final possession of her. He had discovered at a young age that both pleasure and revenge are the more satisfying when deferred, and Jasmine’s death had elements of both. Jasmine had understood this, and had known her fate as soon as she’d opened the door to him.
Davis, lacking her intelligence, had been childish in his assessment of the threat. Like the abused child he had been, he’d entertained the hope that if he did as he was told, he would be rewarded. Life should have taught him to see the lie in that line of reasoning — but fear, like a circular argument, brought Davis back to the starting place, his death and the death of his child made a certainty by his own unwillingness to act.
Chapter 22
Jeff Rickman skim-read his notes while a make-up artist dabbed at his forehead with a sponge and the sound technician made a final adjustment to the radio mike attached to his lapel. An ambitious producer on the evening news programme had seen the potential for national coverage of the deaths and the schedule had been cleared, with local news and travel consigned to the late-night slot in order to free up the necessary airtime. It meant Rickman travelling to Manchester — a one-hour trip each way — returning to Liverpool for the debrief, a press conference and two more post-mortems, but he was more than grateful for the opportunity.
They had three bodies and only Mark Davis as a likely suspect. Maitland’s solicitor was unshakeable — he claimed to have spent the entire night with his client, that Maitland had stayed overnight and remained with him the next morning, discussing investment contracts. He had backed up Maitland’s story word for fictional word, so unless Scientific Support turned up something new, they were in an investigative cul-de-sac.
The presenter was Quentin Knight. Smaller in the flesh than he appeared on television, he was sharply dressed in a dark grey suit, white shirt and grey silk tie. His dark hair looked freshly trimmed and gleamed under the studio lights. He was in conversation with a woman who wore a head mike and a battery pack clipped to her waist. At the call — ‘Forty-five seconds!’ — Knight finished his conversation and gathered his facial features into an expression of concern.
The presenter moved to his mark at the front of the studio, while Rickman was directed to a desk, complete with computer monitor and a dummy phone. Cameras pivoted and rolled forward as if by some choreographed arrangement.
Knight pressed the earpiece into his ear, shrugged his shoulders and then tilted his head down and to the side in a gesture that was at once serious and challenging. ‘In a change to our advertised programme, North West Newsbrief in
vestigates the brutal murder of a teenage mother on Merseyside. The nationwide search for little Bryony Elliott was brought to a tragic end this afternoon, with the discovery of two bodies — an adult and a baby — in an outbuilding of Black Wood Children’s Home in Liverpool. The adult has been positively identified as Mark Davis, Bryony’s father. The body of the infant has yet to be formally identified, but police have stepped down the search for the missing baby.
‘Bryony was snatched from her home after her seventeen-year-old mother, Jasmine Elliott, was raped and brutally murdered.’
The presenter spoke to camera as if he was addressing the one viewer in all the millions watching who could help them. ‘We’d like your help in finding out exactly what happened in this tragic series of incidents. Detective Chief Inspector Jeff Rickman is the officer in charge of this investigation.’ He turned and Rickman’s heart rate picked up a notch. ‘Chief Inspector, can you give us an update on this disturbing and shocking chain of events?’
Rickman focused his reply on the presenter, as he had been instructed. ‘Don’t be tempted to divide your attention between the presenter and the camera,’ the research assistant had told him. ‘You’ll only look shifty.’
‘Jasmine Elliott was seventeen years old,’ he began. The screen lit up on the computer monitor to Rickman’s right. It showed the narrow terrace where Jasmine had lived, a police officer standing guard at the front door, the ‘SOLD’ sign in the little strip of garden behind the low brick wall that fronted the house.
Rickman talked over the footage, describing the discovery of Jasmine’s body the day before, Bryony’s abduction and the sightings of Mark all over the city in the hours that followed, finishing with the discovery of the bodies in the basement of the coach house.
On the second clip, an officer stood at the barrier tape near Jasmine’s house accepting bouquets and wreaths from a small crowd of people waiting on the other side. The camera zoomed in on a row of bouquets lined up against the redbrick wall.
‘“God keep her safe”,’ Knight said, reading from the close-up of one of the cards. ‘The local community really have taken Bryony to their hearts, haven’t they?’
‘Bryony was just a few weeks old,’ Rickman said. The camera cut to a still of Bryony asleep in her cot. ‘I think every decent person must feel for her.’
‘Mark Davis is a suspect, isn’t he?’ Knight said.
‘Davis and Jasmine were separated,’ Rickman said, ‘and Davis was believed to have been pestering her.’
‘He was seen driving away from Jasmine’s house mid-morning on Wednesday.’ The presenter wasn’t trying to lead him, merely to ask the questions that would be uppermost in the minds of the public.
‘Yes.’
‘And this was shortly before Bryony’s mother was found murdered.’
Neat touch — call it the murder of a mother, you’ll always get a better response. ‘We’re keeping an open mind,’ Rickman said. ‘But someone out there might have seen or heard something. We’d like to know where Mark Davis was between eleven fifty a.m. on Wednesday and two thirty this afternoon, when the bodies were found.’
Two images appeared on a split screen — Mark’s car and a picture of Mark Davis himself, looking gaunt and much older than his twenty years.
‘Did you see this car?’ Knight asked, addressing his one in a million again. ‘Do you recognise Mark Davis? Are you a friend — did he contact you in those crucial missing hours before the discovery of the bodies? Call the emergency line and let us know — in confidence.’
The next shot was of the entrance to Black Wood, and a CSI van leaving the premises. ‘Mark Davis and the as-yet-unidentified baby were found in a derelict building in the grounds of this children’s home. Did you see Davis arrive?’
He addressed Rickman. ‘Why is it taking so long to identify the baby?’
‘Mr Davis was identified from fingerprint records, we have to wait for DNA results in order to positively identify the infant found at the scene.’
‘Do we know how they died?’
‘Post-mortems will be carried out later this evening,’ Rickman said.
‘And you’re keen to talk to anyone who might have information about these two deaths,’ Knight said. ‘And the murder of Jasmine Elliott.’
‘Naturally,’ Rickman was grateful for the prompt. It was hot as a blast furnace under the lights, and the constant movement of cameras and the shadowy figures beyond them were distracting. ‘Any information about Mark and Jasmine, their friends or associates could be crucial. Between ten p.m. on Tuesday and eleven fifty a.m. on Wednesday, Jasmine Elliott was subjected to a violent sexual assault and murdered,’ he went on. ‘You might have seen someone acting suspiciously outside the house. Perhaps you saw Jasmine’s boyfriend arrive or leave. The time he arrived is vital to our investigation.
‘Mark’s Davis’s car was found abandoned in Quarry Street, about half a mile from Black Wood Children’s Home. He may have taken a short cut through the grounds of St Francis Xavier School — perhaps you saw him. He was carrying Bryony, who was wrapped in a lemon-yellow blanket.’
The image of the entrance of Black Wood was replaced with one of Mark Davis’s red Ford Focus, and Knight repeated the licence plate number for the viewers.
‘Davis might have abandoned the car some distance away to disguise this destination,’ Rickman said. ‘We’d like to speak to anyone who saw Davis leave the car or walk the half mile to Black Wood Children’s Home.’
‘Did you see anything that might help police?’ Knight demanded to know — as a duty — from every viewer. ‘Jasmine Elliott had a difficult childhood and adolescence. She found herself in a downward spiral, addicted to heroin and cocaine. But she enrolled in a drugs programme when she realised she was pregnant, and never looked back. Jasmine was a devoted and loving mother to her little girl. Her life was cut short by a horrifying and brutal act.’
He stopped for a moment, giving the listeners time to reflect, then switched his attention to Rickman.
‘But Jasmine was a former addict, and her ex-boyfriend was possibly dealing in drugs, so it’s likely that people with information might be involved in criminal activities. Do they have anything to fear in coming forward?’
‘If they weren’t directly involved in the murders, they have nothing to fear,’ Rickman said. This assurance had to be convincing, and he abandoned the agreed script in the heat of the moment. ‘Jasmine was alone in the world, a young woman bravely trying to put right her past mistakes. She was horrifically assaulted and murdered while her baby daughter, Bryony, slept in the house.’ He paused. ‘We need to know the truth of what happened so that justice can be done.’
The presenter left another silence, which served to underline the imperative. ‘There’s a reward,’ he said after a few seconds.
Rickman nodded. ‘The Liverpool Echo has put up five thousand pounds and Crimestoppers is matching that amount.’
‘So, a ten-thousand-pound reward . . .’ Knight looked straight into the camera lens. ‘That’s a substantial amount for just picking up the phone. Now, if you’re watching, and you’re wondering whether to come forward with information, just take a look at this.’
Video footage played of Jasmine with Bryony in her arms — Jasmine, her defences down, staring at her baby in wonder and love, eyes brimming with tears as she says, ‘I’m never gonna let nothing bad happen to her’ — and Rickman knew that the millions watching would be more deeply moved by this intimate moment of tenderness between mother and child than by the descriptions of their deaths.
* * *
Rob Maitland had done his bit in the interests of law enforcement. His law, his methods of enforcement. But the crew of heavyweights he’d sent over to Birkenhead only seemed to inflame the situation. Attacks on his street-corner touts had escalated — beatings, mostly, but it was only a matter of time before someone ended up dead. Not that he objected to this in principle. His objection lay in the certainty that even one deat
h would bring a heavier police presence onto the streets — and that was bad for business. So he had sent for someone who would have the insider knowledge he needed.
‘Have the city’s finest been attending to the threat to my business?’
‘Oh, yes, Mr Maitland.’
‘Is that it?’ Does this prick think his reassurance will be sufficient?
The man standing on the other side of the desk shifted his weight from one foot to the other and looked at him in confusion.
Maitland prompted with an irritable, ‘And?’
He was new — a civilian, average height, soft-looking, lacking the bulk of Maitland’s enforcers and bodyguards.
‘I — I don’t know what you mean.’ He sounded like a bewildered child.
‘What’s your name — Ellis, is it?’
The man nodded.
‘Ellis. Pretend you’re chatting on one of your online group-wank forums — tell me more than I ever needed to know.’
Ellis flushed and paled in quick succession. ‘Kyle Nealy was arrested this morning for the machete attack — he still had blood on his trainers.’
Maitland nodded. This was more like it. ‘And his brother?’
‘Word’s out on Darren — soon as he’s in custody, you’re in the clear.’
‘Am I?’ Maitland had wide-set eyes and a steady gaze that could take in a man entirely and always seemed to find him lacking. ‘In the clear, that is?’
Ellis straightened, sensing that he had made an assertion too far, but willing to back up his assumptions with data. ‘They’ve got nothing, Mr Maitland. You’re not on the video footage of the drugs bust, and the alibi Mr Yates gave you is so rock solid, you could practically build a house on it.’
DON'T SCREAM an absolutely gripping killer thriller with a huge twist (Detective Jeff Rickman Book 3) Page 15