‘It looks in better nick than I thought,’ said Peterson. The chimney stack had collapsed, but the roof looked intact. Most of the windows were broken, but again, the frames remained.
A small unmarked mini bus appeared driving slowly through the gap in the two support vans, and came to a halt. They recognised the tall blond man who climbed out from the drivers side. It was Nils Åkerman, one of the Crime Scene Managers they had worked with before. He spoke perfect English with only a hint of a Swedish accent. His sense of humour could be dark, and even if Erika didn’t always get his jokes, his eyes always shone kindly.
‘I feel like this is a real long shot, Nils,’ said Erika as they all shook hands. ‘Thanks you for coming.’
‘The odds might just be in our favour today,’ he said. ‘My team are raring to go.’ Erika showed them where they could get close to the house in their car, adding, ‘They should be finished up clearing the area soon, so you can get into the front door.’
‘I’ll go in, and we’ll have a good look, and then you can suit up and join us,’ said Nils. He went back to the mini bus and set off again, navigating over the rough ground to get closer to the cottage.
‘Have we had any luck from the utility companies?’ asked Erika.
‘It’s been effectively off the grid for years,’ said Peterson. ‘It does have a water supply, and the person I spoke to at Thames water thinks that it could have had a septic tank. It’s not part of the sewage network,’ said Peterson.
‘Ok. We need to find that septic tank, and then…’
‘Someone is going to have to shovel through the shit,’ said Moss. ‘I dread to think what a thousand gallons of shit looks like after twenty-six years.’
‘It doesn’t work like that,’ said DI Crawford appearing behind them. ‘Any waste will be long gone.’
‘It’s what’s left behind that I’ll be interested in,’ said Erika. ‘You seem to know the most about septic tanks. Can I put you in charge of tracking it down?’
‘Yes, Boss,’ said Crawford. He went off, looking rather sour. Moss suppressed a grin.
31
As DI Crawford tramped through the undergrowth surrounding the cottage and beyond looking for the location of the septic tank, he reflected on his life. He was an okay copper. He’d worked hard, too hard at times, but he’d never reached the heights he’d aspired to, or felt he deserved. He’d dreamed of reaching the rank of Superintendent, or Chief Superintendent, but his dreams had fallen short and he was still a Detective Inspector at forty-seven.
He’d just come off a case where he had to take orders from a Superintendent fifteen years his junior, and it made his blood boil.
He got on well with his colleagues, but he often used enthusiasm to mask laziness. He did just enough work to get by, to get the job done, and he spent the rest of his time appearing busy. He was also involved in selling drugs seized from the street back to the very people it had been seized from. Not much, and he was always careful to make just enough money on the side for a few luxuries. He hated being the kind of guy no one took seriously, but sometimes it had its advantages.
He’d been involved for a time with DCI Amanda Baker, back when she was hot, he hastened to tell himself. It was she who introduced him to having that extra stream of income, selling on the side, and they had worked together for a time. Then she had been thrown off the case and disgraced, and their relationship fizzled out. She was always there though, like a thorn in his side, calling in favours and threatening to shop him in. He’d helped her out of several parking fines, and once altered the results of a DUI which would have resulted in her losing her licence.
This, however was serious. She was asking too many questions about this investigation…
His phone rang in his pocket and he pulled it out. He saw that he had moved quite far from the location of the cottage and was now on smoother rocky ground. The phone showed it was the woman herself, Amanda Baker.
‘I need your login and password for HOLMES,’ she said. There was no hello, or how are you? Or any kind of deference in her tone. She still spoke to him like she did when she was his boss.
‘I’m at work,’ he hissed, and I’ve told you I will help with passing on any info, but you will leave a digital stamp if you log into MY account.’
‘Crawford, don’t piss me about. You’ve got far more to lose, and anyway, I’d be accessing the case your working on. Stuff you have access to.’
‘What do you need it for?’
‘I have a hunch. I’m not going to tell you what, but when I do get to the bottom of it, I will let you have it exclusively, and you can take all the glory… maybe you’ll finally get that promotion,’ she added with a mocking phlegmy laugh.
‘Amanda.’
‘Crawford, give me the fucking log in, I’m not pissing about anymore…’
He looked back at the officers milling around the cottage, most of the area had been cleared and there was only the whine of one strimmer, clearing a path to the final window. He gripped the phone, turned his back on it all, and with a heavy heart he gave her his login details.
32
Two hours after forensics went inside the cottage, Nils called Erika, Moss and Peterson over. They suited up outside, pulling on the blue all-in-one paper suits over their clothes, and then the face masks. Nils met them where a long sheet of plastic began a few meters from the front door.
The door opened straight onto the living room, where the floor was littered in broken glass. At first Erika thought was a black and white patterned floor.
‘It’s bird shit,’ said Nils. ‘We’ve scraped a little away at the edges and it’s parquet floor underneath.
‘Looks quite good. Some people pay a fortune to get a floor like that,’ said Moss.
Above them were rotting beams inlaid in a crumbling plaster ceiling. A sagging lump in the centre of the room was covered in more bird droppings, old newspapers, and broken glass and this was the remains of a sofa. Two of the CSI’s worked intently where they had stripped away a layer of bird droppings from the thinning cushions and were attempting to take samples. Erika realised that any forensic evidence had most probably been obliterated by the birds. In a corner next to the broken window was a table covered in some old mugs, and the remnants of where someone had tried to light a fire. There were two other places where a fire had been lit; one against the back wall, and one by the front door. Black scorch marks streaked up the wall, and around them were the remnants of drug paraphernalia, slivers of blackened foil, a syringe and bent tea spoons.
‘What about upstairs?’ asked Moss glancing at the sagging ceiling.
‘No one has been up there yet. The staircase has collapsed and we’re not sure how safe it is until we’ve done a structural check.’
‘You don’t want anyone falling through,’ said Peterson.
‘Although, there would be a team, ready to photograph their dead bodies…’ said Nils.
He moved off toward the kitchen, as Moss muttered, ‘Tumbleweed.’
The kitchen was old and just as filthy and caked in bird droppings as the living room. A low counter ran the length of one wall with its doors missing, exposing empty cupboards, save for a couple of old dusty saucepans and another blackened scorch patch. The matching unit of three cupboards had been attached to the wall above the counter, but fallen off and lay in pieces in the middle of the room. The rawl plugs still hung out of the holes in the wall. The light fitting was gone, just a few wires hung from a hole in the ceiling, and there was an exposed beam crossing the length of the room.
‘This could be where Robert Jennings hung himself,’ said Erika.
‘It’s not,’ said Nils. He took them to a tall doorway in one corner of the room, the door lay rotting on the floor in front. A strong lamp had been clipped to the doorframe, illuminating a cramped filthy staircase leading down into darkness. The few stairs they could see were covered in piles of a hard brown substance, and mixed with bird droppings and rubbish.
/> Nils stepped trough and pointed up with a gloved hand. There was a loop of frayed decaying rope attached to a beam at the top of the stairs. A CSI was up on a ladder, gently scraping away at the piece of rope.
‘This could be from a hanging,’ said Nils. ‘We’re checking to see what we can get. If you mind where you walk, keep to the outside of each step,’ said Nils as they followed him through the doorway and down the creaking stairs.
The cellar was small and cramped and made Erika feel panicky. The walls were a dark brown and clogged in the corners with cobwebs. It had an uneven earth floor and a low ceiling. From above they heard creaks as Nils’s team moved across the floor. Bright halogen lights had been set up in opposite corners, and two of the CSI’s were on their knees looking intently at where they had dug out some small sections of the soil floor.
‘It’s bloody warm,’ said Moss.
‘As we approach winter the soil releases stored heat,’ said Nils. As with the upstairs, there were several small scorched areas where fires had been lit, small piles of burnt foil and wood. The soil floor was a light brown and the soil was compact. Dotted around were several large blackened areas.
‘These areas of the soil are saturated,’ said Nils. He took an evidence bag which was full of soil and handed it to Erika. She put her nose to it and even behind her mask she knew what it was.
‘That’s petrol,’ she said handing it to Peterson. A look passed between the three of them. ‘You think he had a generator down here?’
‘Could be, but the junkies have been lighting fires too, could be lighter fluid,’ said Nils. Peterson passed the bag of soil to Moss.
‘I think I’ve got something here,’ said one of the CSI’s his voice muffled by his face mask. He turned to them with a small hard object held in a pair of tweezers, ‘It was embedded in the soil here.’
Nils was ready with a small plastic bag, and he held it out as it was dropped in. He held the bag up to the light and they all craned to look at the contents
It was a small tooth. There was a moments silence and Erika looked over at Moss and Peterson.
‘When we recovered Jessica Collins remains, one of her front teeth was missing… I want this fast tracked with toxicology,’ she said trying to keep her voice even.
Nils nodded. They looked around the dank cellar and shuddered at the thought of being trapped down there.
‘If we can match that tooth to Jessica’s skeleton, then we’re close to solving this,’ said Erika.
33
At 7.30pm it was dark and cold, and the team had been down by Hayes Quarry for over thirteen hours. After finding the tooth, they had come back up and joined in the search with DI Crawford for the septic tank. The area around the house was overgrown and over the years soil and all kinds of rubbish had been dumped there, on top of which trees and years of vegetation had grown.
Officers had been to Rosemary Hooley’s house three times to ask if her brother had used a petrol generator whilst he was squatting in the cottage, but there was no one in. The house was dark. Erika decided they should call it a day, and made a call to her team back at the station to contact Thames Water and see if they could get the location of the tank.
After the CSI’s had left, taking with them the tooth they’d found in the cellar, Erika felt they were so close and yet so far. The tooth could be a major breakthrough; it also could be from one of the junkies and squatters who had been in the house over the last twenty-six years.
Erika’s phone rang again, the withheld number, as they rode back in the police van to Bromley. She sat in the back with Moss, Peterson, John, DI Crawford and two other CID officers whose names she had forgotten. She was exhausted and rested her head against the window, listening as Moss and Peterson were talking with John about going for a drink after work.
‘Bromley is not full of townies,’ cried John.
‘Come on! Bromley ticks every townie box,’ said Moss.
‘How?’
‘Okay, off the top of my head. You’ve got a theatre in the town that’s hosting panto this year?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you usually have an ex-soap star or reality TV star headlining?’
‘Yes,’ said John sheepishly.
‘Does it have a large shopping centre with a maze like car park and a whimsical name?’ asked Peterson.
‘Yes, The Glades.’
‘And what’s this pub called everyone is going to?’ asked Moss.
John paused and with a grin said, ‘It’s called Shenanigans at O’hannigans.’
‘I knew it!’ said Moss. ‘Totally townie.’
‘And does Shenanigans at O’hannigans have a special dress code on a weekend for the guys?’ asked Peterson.
John rolled his eyes, ’Guys have to wear shirts black trousers and shoes, no trainers… Okay it’s a bit townie.’
‘Don’t you worry kiddo,’ said Moss. ‘We’re only teasing.’
‘But do you fancy coming for a drink at Shenans?’ said John. Erika realised he was talking to her.
‘Yeah. I think we could all do with a drink. Does it do a good curry?’ she replied, thinking of her empty flat at home, and the case files lying on her coffee table, taunting her.
‘Boss you’re actually going to come out for a drink?’ asked Moss turning to her surprised.
‘Yes. Is that odd?’
‘You’ve never come for a drink before,’ said Peterson.
‘I haven’t? Well, maybe it’s about time I did.’
‘There’s a four ninety-nine menu at Shenans, they do a good Indian,’ said John.
* * *
For the first time in years, Erika went for a drink. They commandeered a large booth in Shenanigans at O’hannigans, up on the top level, which looked down at the huge interior of the bar. The music was loud and just after eight thirty it was heaving with people who’d only popped in for a drink after work, but were well on the way to staying till closing. Erika bought drinks for all her team and along with Moss ordered a Tikka Masala,
‘We’ve been freezing our arses off all day, I needed two of those,’ said Moss sopping up the last of the browny yellow sauce from the sliver dish with a piece of Nan bread.
‘Celia’s not going to think so when you get in bed with her tonight,’ said Peterson. ‘You’ve had two curries, and two pints of lager.’
‘The portions are tiny. What have you had to eat, anyway? The cod and chorizo platter…’
‘Yeah, I’d like to live to see my retirement,’ said Peterson.
‘Piss off, what do you want? It’s my round,’ said Moss getting up.
‘Look at the arse print you’ve left on the cushion. That arse print predicts you’ll be dead at fifty,’ said Peterson.
‘Who do you think you are, Jackie Stallone?’ said Moss shuffling past them out of the booth and moving over to the bar.
‘Why does she think you’re Jackie Stallone?’ asked Erika finishing her lager. She felt light and relaxed. It was a feeling she hadn’t had for so long. Peterson went on to explain that years ago Jackie Stallone had been on TV, and said that she could predict people’s futures from looking at their arses.
‘Imagine if that were true? What kind of future would she predict from my arse!’ laughed Erika.
‘I’m sure it’s great,’ said Peterson. He looked embarrassed, ‘I meant that your future looks great, I’m sure. Not that your arse isn’t great… Not that I’ve been looking.’
There was an awkward silence as Moss came back with a round of drinks. She took them off the tray and placed them on the table. John came over.
‘Peterson, do you want to double up with me and Crawford and play air hockey?’
‘Yeah, sure,’ he said. He took his drink and gave Erika an awkward smile.
‘This isn’t bad, for a townie bar,’ said Moss taking a gulp of her lager.
‘It has to be the cottage at the quarry,’ said Erika tracing a pattern in the condensation of her glass. ‘Whoever grabbed her had so
little time, and there was a window where she could have been kept in the cellar. She could have been buried there first.’
‘And forensics are going to excavate it,’ said Moss. ‘We have to be patient.’
‘I want to talk to Crawford properly tomorrow. The problem when you don’t take people seriously is that you don’t notice them. He was on the original case, and I sort of let it slide.’
‘Don’t beat yourself up, Boss.’
‘If that tooth doesn’t come back as belonging to Jessica, I’m fucked. Even if it does, I have to prove she was killed by a man with no prior violent behaviour, who died twenty-six years ago.’
‘If it was him, think what you’ll be saving the prison service,’ said Moss. They sat and drank their lager in silence for a moment.
‘Sorry, Boss. Wasn’t funny.’
‘That’s okay. We should be trying to unwind for a couple of hours. I’m not much fun.’
‘You’re never much fun, Boss. It’s what I like about you. There’s no pressure to have fun. I can be miserable around you. In fact, you have saved me from getting a hell of a lot of wrinkles. I look three years younger from lack of smiling.’
Erika laughed.
‘Dammit, here come the wrinkles,’ added Moss with a smile. Her phone began to ring and she pulled it out saying, ‘This is Celia, will you excuse me.’
Erika nodded, and squeezed out of the booth and went to the bathroom, locking herself in one of the cubicles. Sitting on the closed lid of the toilet she took a deep breath. She felt guilty that she was out having fun, when Jessica Collins killer was still out there on the loose. Guilty that she had lost her grip of the investigation. She also felt guilty that Peterson had been flirting with her… Was that flirting? Or was he just being funny? And did she hope that he was flirting?
‘You need to get a grip,’ she said to herself out loud.
Dark Water: A gripping serial killer thriller Page 14