THE MURDERER'S SON a gripping crime thriller full of twists

by Joy Ellis

  ‘Lovely,’ grumbled Max. ‘Not just a bleeding nutter and a poor dead woman, now we have to contend with an enemy within.’

  ‘A possible enemy within, Max. We don’t know, but it’s a warning to be careful.’ He drew in a breath. ‘Now, have we got Kinder’s computer from the attic yet?’

  ‘Already with the techies, sir.’ Max grinned. ‘And I’ve made sure that Orac is dealing with it personally.’

  ‘That’s not her real name, is it? Please tell me it’s not!’ Jackman conjured up a picture of the tall, broad-shouldered IT chief with her white-blonde hair cut in a scary Mohican, and the oddest eyes he had ever seen. ‘And what is it with those eyes?’

  Max gave him a tolerant smile. ‘The name? Well, you obviously don’t like cult sci-fi, do you, sir? And the eyes — oh yeah!’ His smile became mischievous. ‘I’m reliably told they are mirror lenses. Makes the irises look like metal, like polished silver.’

  Jackman was totally bemused. He wanted to ask why, but decided to protect his street-cred and instead gave a slightly bored shrug. ‘Well, I knew they were contact lenses, of course. It was just that the name didn’t seem to mean anything.’

  ‘Orac was the supercomputer in Blake’s 7.’ Max looked at him hopefully, but since there was no response, continued. ‘1978 British sci-fi TV program. Orac was terse, short-tempered, talked down to humans, and its inventor gave it a massive ego. Starting to ring any bells?’

  ‘I’ve never heard of it, but the description sounds vaguely familiar.’

  ‘On the plus side, Orac was extremely valuable, could access limitless, critical information and could hack into any and every strategic master command computer.’

  ‘Ah, well, now I do see the connection.’

  ‘Good, because she’d like to see you later today. She reckons it’s a basic system and she’ll have stripped out anything interesting by close of play.’

  ‘Wonderful. Can’t wait.’ In truth, Jackman found those eyes so fascinating and distracting that in any conversation with the IT Amazon, he was immediately on the back foot. There were very few people who could make him feel inadequate, but Orac was one of them, and she did it with bells on! Maybe he’d send Marie to pick up whatever info she’d sucked out of the unfortunate machine.

  He looked at the clock. ‘Right, Charlie, I’d like you to organise some uniforms and go visit that place where Kinder has an office. It’s in the Fendyke Endeavour business park, a foliage importing company called Emerald Exotix. It’s owned by a friend of Kinder’s called Mark Dunand. Pick up anything relevant, stuff he’s working on, contact details, and there should be another computer there, we’ll need that too. Kinder will be back with us in an hour or so, so I’d like you all to collate what we’ve already got on him. Gather up everything we have, and the sergeant and I will go over it before we resume our interviews. The main thing we are looking for is a connection, no matter how tenuous, to link him to Alison Fleet. Quick as you can, guys. Like it or not, we’re back on borrowed time.’

  Jackman returned to his office, closed the door and for a moment relished the silence that enveloped him. The old building had afforded him a much grander office than his position as humble DI warranted, but all the rooms were big with high ceilings and long casement windows. It was how he had furnished it that made the difference.

  Jackman liked to dress well, favouring well-cut suits, but his office was something else altogether. It might have belonged to Dickensian times. It was more like some elderly professor’s library than the working domain of a modern young detective inspector.

  One whole wall was shelved from floor to ceiling, and every inch was occupied by books. He had replaced the cheap metal-legged veneered desk provided by the constabulary with one of solid oak that he had picked up at a house-clearance auction. With its maroon leather inlaid surface, it suited the room perfectly. A green shaded banker’s lamp sat on one corner of the desk, and instead of the usual official police passing out parade, the only framed picture was that of a powerful grey Anglo-Arabian event horse.

  Jackman absentmindedly reached out and touched the photograph. ‘Hello, my friend,’ he whispered. This was his one true passion, apart from the police force. As a young man his precious Glory had carried him to win an assortment of cups, trophies and rosettes for eventing. When Glory had died, he had been inconsolable for months, and he still got a lump in his throat when he saw the video footage his mother had taken of the two of them in action.

  At his home, in the tiny village of Cartoft, the walls were covered in photographs from his childhood, and in almost every one was an animal of some kind, mainly his beloved horses. Maybe it was a good thing that he had never married, for there would be no room for wedding photos. He smiled ruefully, because his mother would have disagreed. Strongly. Every letter she sent him — proper letters written with a fountain pen — she reminded him of his eligible bachelor status and how he should rectify that situation as soon as possible.

  Marriage was most definitely not on Jackman’s list of priorities. He liked things the way they were. He had a lovely home and, fortunately, a local couple to look after it while he spent long hours at work. Mill Corner had been a working windmill in the early nineteenth century. Now, although the sails were gone along with the “onion” cap, the tower still stood, and the attached buildings had been converted into a very comfortable house. He planned to use the outbuildings for stables, and when he finally retired he would once again have equine company.

  A knock on the door broke into his reverie.

  ‘The superintendent wants to see you, sir. She said to say that it’s urgent.’

  Jackman thanked the civilian, let out an exasperated sigh, and followed her out. A second summons into the super’s domain so soon after the first could only mean trouble.

  * * *

  ‘Rowan. Come in and sit down.’

  His heart sank. This was real trouble. Ruth Crooke using his first name was always a bad sign. She wasn’t alone in her lair. Standing ramrod straight and wearing a face like a granite memorial, was Detective Chief Superintendent Wilson North.

  ‘We’ve got a problem. I’m doing my best to keep it under wraps for the time being, but . . .’ She drew in air and glanced anxiously across to the chief.

  ‘Another woman’s body has been found.’

  ‘What?’ Jackman was honestly shocked. ‘Where?’ A mass of contradictory thoughts gathered in his brain. Another murdered woman. Given that he was in custody, Daniel Kinder couldn’t possibly be responsible.

  He tried to keep his voice level. ‘I’m assuming that we suspect murder, ma’am?’

  ‘Yes, unless the victim managed to slit her own throat, after caving in the back of her skull.’

  Jackman was pole-axed. He didn’t need this right now, not with Kinder’s imminent return and the time restraints on the interviews. ‘You said her throat had been cut? Would that be in the same manner as Alison Fleet?’

  ‘It seems that way, but we need you and the forensics team to get in there and take a look.’

  ‘Well, at least we know it can’t be Daniel Kinder.’

  ‘Don’t be so sure, Detective Inspector.’ The chief’s words hung like a guillotine blade over Jackman’s head. ‘We need the pathologist for the full facts, but it appears that she’s been dead for a while.’

  ‘A while?’ Jackman gave a quick thought to the humid, warm weather and could almost smell the crime scene from where he stood.

  ‘A while.’

  As there was obviously going to be no way around this, Jackman decided he’d better get his head in order. ‘Right, well, do we know who she is? Was she found in her own home?’

  ‘The officer who discovered her could see nothing to help with identification without compromising the integrity of the scene. And she was found dumped in a derelict building that is awaiting demolition.’ Ruth Crooke raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s how we’ve managed to keep everything quiet.’ She paused. ‘So far.’

&
nbsp; ‘Okay, where is she?’

  ‘On the road into Bracken Holme village, a mile or so before Frampton Shore. There’s an old public house about half a mile out on the old London road. Been boarded up for months. Lost all its trade when the main dual carriage way was built. The wrecker’s ball was due in next week.’

  Jackman stood up. ‘I’ll take DC Cohen with me. That will leave DS Evans and DC Button free to begin the interviews with Kinder. Has the pathologist been notified?’

  ‘He’s en route from a court case in Lincoln. He’ll meet you there. Now go!’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Jackman stared at what was left of the Drover’s Arms. It had obviously never been picturesque. A bog-standard farm workers’ pub, the sort that had no problem with its patrons wearing Wellington boots, even if half the farmyard was still clinging to the soles.

  They had been instructed to drive round to an area of hard-standing at the back of the derelict building. There were two police cars already there, discreetly parked behind an old store and invisible from the road. For once it seemed that the instruction to proceed “softly-softly” had been closely adhered to.

  A woman constable hurried towards them, stopped, and beckoned them over to an open door in the rear of the dilapidated public house.

  ‘She’s through here, sir.’

  Jackman heard the unsteadiness in her voice, and although the woman displayed no outward shock, he knew that she was shaken to the core. ‘You found her?’ he asked gently.

  The WPC nodded. ‘Had a shout about some kids carrying a petrol can on the handlebars of a bike. A local saw them sneaking around the buildings here, and my partner and I came to check it out.’ She shook her head. ‘I wish that’s all it had been, just a couple of kids messing about.’

  Jackman looked around. Faded plastic flowers still hung limply from a mildewed hanging basket on a rusted wire chain. Advertisements for real ale, torn and almost unreadable, clung to the walls. Rubbish littered the entrance, and even from the outside there was a smell of damp and rotting vegetable matter.

  ‘I don’t think it ever had any Michelin stars, guv,’ muttered Max, kicking at an orange net bag filled with festering blackened carrots.

  ‘Probably not,’ agreed Jackman.

  ‘Even in its heyday it was the kind of pub where you wiped your feet on the way out,’ added the WPC dourly. ‘I’ve been to that many disturbances here over the years, I was glad to see it go. Thought that was the end of it.’ She pulled a face. ‘But here we are again.’ She stepped inside. ‘Take care, there’s junk and filth everywhere.’

  Not wrong there, thought Jackman as he sidestepped a pile of dog mess.

  At the end of a long, narrow hallway they saw another uniformed figure.

  ‘Sorry, sir, but I had to come up for air. The smell down there is something else.’ The young officer was a pasty shade of yellow, and Jackman felt certain that he had recently been reacquainted with his lunch.

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘In the beer cellar, sir. I’ll show you.’

  ‘Just tell us. No need to get another lungful if you don’t need to.’

  The policeman smiled gratefully. ‘Go down the steps and turn left, sir. The barrel room is straight ahead and the victim is on the floor behind a stack of plastic crates.’

  Jackman nodded to Max, and they began their descent of the steep stone stairs.

  ‘Beer cellars are usually cold,’ said Max hopefully. ‘Maybe it won’t be that bad.’

  Jackman was a few steps ahead, and already the unmistakable stench was in his nostrils. ‘Sorry to tell you this, my little Cockney friend, but you are very wrong.’

  Max gagged as it hit him. ‘So I am. Oh bugger! How I hate that smell!’

  ‘I’d be very worried about you if you didn’t.’

  The cellar was far from cool. It was clammy and airless. Before they left, the owners had thrown everything of no value into the basement, and shut the door on it. Jackman saw broken chairs, tables and pictures. Stained cushions, filthy tea-towels and cardboard boxes littered the floor. All the barrels had been removed, no doubt by the brewery, but from the ceiling hung the lines and the “splines” that had carried the beer up to the bar. And then he saw the stack of blue plastic crates. They formed a welcome barrier between them and what they had come to see, but Jackman knew that he didn’t have the time to hesitate.

  ‘Okay, let’s see what we’ve got.’

  Together they approached the wall of crates, and tentatively looked round.

  Jackman switched his brain to work mode, shut off his emotions, and simply logged what he saw.

  Caucasian, fair hair, age difficult to determine, but from the rags that clung to her body, rags that had once been fashionable clothes, Jackman estimated the woman to be around twenty-five. She lay on her side, allowing him a view of the massive head injury, the torn throat and the shattered teeth. Sadly these weren’t her only injuries. It took some doing to maintain work mode, but with an extra effort, he continued to make mental notes. The knife that had sliced into her throat had also inflicted dozens of other lacerations, and as he’d seen before with Alison Fleet, her clothing had been cut through, showing stripes of flesh beneath. He thought back to Alison and saw again her lightly tanned skin beneath the fine material of her blouse and skirt. Here there was only dark, putrid, decaying matter. Her feet were bare, the blackened toes nibbled by rodents, and Jackman didn’t need a pathologist to tell him that this poor soul had been dead for a number of weeks. And that, he thought vaguely, puts Daniel Kinder squarely back in the frame.

  Max had said nothing, and when Jackman turned to see if he was alright, he saw the young detective carefully making notes in his book. He looked up when he realised that he was being watched, and asked, ‘Is it the same killer, do you think, guv?’

  Jackman stepped away from the body. ‘In my opinion, yes. We’ll have to wait and see whether the pathologist agrees.’

  ‘But not for long,’ added Max in a whisper. ‘Speak of the devil, sir.’

  Jackman turned around and saw another figure carefully making his way down the steps and carrying a bulky bag.

  ‘I hope you two are protecting my evidence?’

  Jackman forced a smile. Try as he might, he had found it impossible to warm to the man. Dr Arthur Jacobs had a strangeness about him that Jackman could not fathom. In his experience most pathologists were odd. Some were extremely unsettling, and a few downright scary, but Jacobs possessed a detached stony coldness that matched some of the occupants of his mortuary. If Jackman had been asked for one word to sum the man up, he would have answered, spiritless.

  ‘We’ve touched nothing, Dr Jacobs. And neither shall we.’ He fought to maintain the smile. ‘But I’m going to ask two questions of you, if I may?’ He paused for a split second and as the pathologist opened his mouth to speak, he added, ‘Oh, and don’t worry, neither refer to the dreaded time of death.’

  Jacobs allowed his bushy grey eyebrows to settle and said, ‘Good job too.’

  ‘I need to know if there is any identification on her, and as you also dealt with the body of Alison Fleet, sir, I’m anxious to find out if we are dealing with another victim of the same murderer.’

  ‘That shouldn’t be too difficult to ascertain, although I’m saying nothing official, understand?’

  ‘Perfectly.’

  He and Max waited patiently while the man moved carefully behind the screen of plastic crates. They heard several grunts and murmured words as the man worked, then after what seemed an eternity Jacobs stood up and looked at them grimly.

  ‘First, there is nothing on her to help you identify her, and don’t bank on help from dental records either. Our killer has pretty well decimated her jaw and teeth. And in answer to your second question, in truth I can’t be certain, but there are several similarities to the previous death, and probably too many to ignore.’ He drew in a long breath, seemingly immune to the terrible smell of death that hung in every cor
ner of the cellar, and said, ‘I suspect that my findings will show the killer to be the same person who murdered the Fleet woman.’ His thick eyebrows drew together. ‘But until you receive my preliminary report, assume nothing. Is that clear?’

  ‘Crystal, thank you. I look forward to reading it,’ Jackman replied icily, and tilted his head towards the stairs. ‘Come, Max. We’ve got a lot of work to do.’ He thanked the man again and hurried up the stairs, wondering whether he was escaping the crime scene or the pathologist.

  ‘You don’t like him, do you, boss?’ Max looked at him shrewdly as they stepped into blessed fresh air.

  ‘He’s good at his job, and that’s what matters,’ answered Jackman.

  Max sniffed. ‘Fair enough, but if I snuff it unexpected-like, ship me over the county boundary. I don’t like the thought of being on one of his dissecting tables.’

  ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t mean he’s a perv! He’s . . . well, he’s . . .’ Max screwed up his face, trying to find the right words. ‘I get the idea that he does his post-mortems with about as much compassion and consideration as he’d fillet a fish. He’s a cold one, that’s all.’

  ‘Glacial,’ agreed Jackman. ‘But maybe that’s how he copes. He’s one of the few men we work with that I know absolutely nothing about.’

  ‘No one does. And it’s not for want of trying. Me and Charlie thought we’d do a little background research, but other than a string of letters after his name, we found naff all.’

  Oddly enough, my father doesn’t know of him either, thought Jackman. And that really was odd. His father had an address book of friends, family, colleagues, business associates, and assorted ancillary rank and file with almost as many entries as the Yellow Pages. Hugo Jackman was a past master at “collecting” people, because you never knew when one of them might come in handy.

  ‘What did you make of that poor woman, sir?’ said Max suddenly. ‘Apart from being cut to ribbons, that is.’