by Anne Penketh
He squeezed her hand again. “Be discreet. Don’t get yourself into any trouble. Thanks, Melissa, you’re a star.” He meant it.
Chapter Twenty-one
Clayton came through the office carrying a bacon sandwich in one hand and a coffee in the other. He noticed Bullard sitting at his desk, busy typing.
Clayton took his time finishing the sandwich at his workstation, then licked the salt from his fingers. This would probably be the most satisfying moment of his day.
He wandered over to see Bullard. “How did you get on with the hairdressers then, Dave?”
“Sorry about last night, guv. The traffic. It was terrible on the ring road, so I went straight home from Hellesdon. Do you know it?”
Clayton shook his head. “You should know better than to ask me that. The only route I know without a GPS is how to get from the Golden Triangle to Holkham.”
“Well, Steele’s got a nice place. His salon or whatever you call it, that is. He told me he and Alex Parker were friends. Drinking buddies and all that.”
“So he might have known about Parker’s allergy?”
“I tried to find out about that indirectly, without giving too much away. Sounds like he was part of the group that went to the Nelson Arms after concerts. Anyway, he confirmed that Parker did indeed support Proctor after he fired Lauren Garner and Chris Mercer.”
“That’s good.” Clayton sat down beside him. “Did you ask him about the vote?”
“Ah. Yes. That’s the main thing I should have told you. Sorry.”
Clayton resisted the temptation to kick the wastepaper basket into the air. “And? What did he say?”
“Well, as you can imagine, he said that as far as he knew, the majority of the players voted against Proctor.”
“The majority? That’s a lot. Did he say why?”
“Yeah. He said Proctor was too critical, he tended to forget that he was paid to conduct while the rest of them paid to play. He mentioned that Lauren Garner was one of the players singled out by Proctor. But he said he seemed to have it in for the wind particularly. As a trumpeter, he sat just behind them.”
Clayton remembered what Proctor had said about standards.
“Did Steele say how many were on Proctor’s side?”
Bullard picked up his notebook to check. “He said only two or three.”
“Did you get their names?”
“I wrote down Parker and Kristina Manning, for obvious reasons,” said Bullard. “But I asked whether Steve Carter had supported Proctor and according to Steele, he didn’t.”
“Was he sure?”
“Yeah.”
“Hmm. That’s a pity,” said Clayton. He returned to his desk, put his feet up on it and closed his eyes to think. After a few minutes he recognised the muted fragrance of Julie’s perfume. He dropped his feet onto the floor and turned to find her standing behind him.
He gestured to the seat beside him.
“Shoot, Julie,” he said.
She flicked through her notebook. “I’ve spoken to the head at Magdalen School. She said that they got rid of Lauren because she was unreliable.”
“Unreliable? Is that a polite way of saying doing drugs?”
“Could be, but they didn’t put it in so many words. I asked them about the budget cuts to music lessons and they said it had nothing to do with that,” said Julie. “She must have done something very wrong though, because they let her go right at the beginning of the school year.”
“Not exactly what Braithwaite told us, is it?” said Clayton, making a note. “He blamed the budget cuts. So, let’s recap. We’re still waiting to hear back from the percussionist, right? We’ll get a swab from him. And we’re assuming that the young ones were all hanging out together.”
“Yes, boss. But I’ve been thinking about potential connections too. I can see that the Kristina Manning and Alex Parker killings seem to be linked to the row with Proctor. But what about the third victim, Steve Carter? We don’t know enough about him to say that it was even the same person that killed him. Do we?”
“You’re right.” Clayton sat up straight. “Bullard’s heard from Brian Steele, the vet who was at Kristina’s party, that Carter wasn’t one of the players who supported Proctor.”
“So that could be a red herring,” said Julie. She frowned. “Do you want me to double check with Carter’s wife? She might know more about the vote.”
“Yes. Go for it,” he said. “You’re right. We need more on him. There must be a link. Why don’t you have another word with the women you talked to who were Kristina’s friends? Sarah and Marie. They might have something on Carter. He was at the party, right?”
“I’ll try to find out,” she said.
Chapter Twenty-two
Clayton recognised Dr Fiona Blackhurst by her profile. She was seated right at the front of the incident room listening to Bligh, who was gesturing at the board behind her. The latest victims’ photos stared out at them, as though in silent reproach.
Her nickname always made him think of a French cancan dancer. It made him smile, because the image this presented couldn’t be further from the austere mien of the Home Office pathologist. For a start, it was rare for Fifi to be seen in any item of clothing but her lab coat.
“Morning, everybody,” said Bligh, after they’d all taken their places. “I’ve asked Dr Blackhurst to brief us about the body, which we presume to be that of Lauren Garner, that was found in a freezer at Mark Braithwaite’s house. Dr Blackhurst?”
Fifi moved to the front of the desk, tall and straight in a dark trouser suit. “It’s extremely unusual to have to perform an autopsy on a frozen corpse, and I have to warn you that the process is going to take time, possibly as long as a week or more.”
“The young woman’s body has been perfectly preserved in the freezer. But we can’t just defrost her like a chicken.” Someone tittered. Fiona sought out the offender with her eyes and glared.
“What we are doing is a controlled defrosting in stages. If we just left the body to defrost, the outer parts would begin decomposing while the inner organs were still frozen. Doing it in stages means that the refrigeration unit must be kept at a steady temperature. Once the body is defrosted, we should be able to conduct our tests and, we hope, determine the cause of death. We should be able to estimate the time of death, although the fact that the body was frozen will complicate this further. So I’m here to ask you to be patient, because we will be taking all the time that we need.”
“Thank you, Dr Blackhurst. Any questions?”
Nobody spoke.
“And on the DNA front? Maybe you could bring us all up to speed,” said Bligh.
“As you are aware,” Fiona began, “we have a partial fingerprint from the trumpet of Alex Parker. However, we do not yet have a match and we will have to wait, for the reasons I have just explained, to analyse Lauren Garner’s body — assuming that it is her, of course.”
“And could you update us on the DNA from Kristina Manning’s cello?” Bligh asked.
“Yes. We collected some trace evidence from a hair sample found on the instrument. Unfortunately, we do not have the hair root which would have allowed DNA profiling. However, the hair shaft that we analysed did contain peroxide dye.”
Could Kristina’s killer be a woman? While Bligh thanked the pathologist, Clayton ran through the timeline again in his mind. Could Lauren have killed both Parker and Kristina?
“Excuse me, Dr Blackhurst,” he said, raising a hand as she prepared to leave the room. “Can you detect the killer’s gender from the hair sample?”
“No, I’m afraid not,” she replied. “We’d need the follicle for that.”
“And the same goes for drug use, does it?” he asked.
“Quite,” she replied. Bligh waited until Fiona had gone before she continued.
“Right,” she said, adjusting her specs. “In the light of what Dr Blackhurst has just said, I don’t think it’s yet in the public interest to broadcast this
information about the frozen corpse. For a start it would mean tipping Braithwaite off to the discovery, and causing unhelpful speculation at a time when we’re unable to provide any answers. We have therefore decided to hold off for the moment.”
She paused. Clayton looked over his shoulder and caught Julie’s eye. She grinned. They both knew that Bligh liked to keep the media in the dark for as long as she could.
“In the meantime, though, it’s possible that Braithwaite may return to the house. We have a watch on it. Now, what other leads are we following, DI Clayton?”
“We’re trying to get to the bottom of the dynamics within the orchestra. There was a vote by the players to oust Mike Proctor, the former conductor, and it’s possible that those who sided with him are being targeted. Kristina Manning and Alex Parker both supported him. However, Steve Carter was on the other side, so we’re in the realm of hypothesis here.”
“And have you spoken to the administrator?”
“Yes, ma’am. It was an informal vote and she says she doesn’t know anything about it. She says she was surprised when Proctor decided to resign. We’re going back to Chris Mercer with a search warrant. He is the flautist who was fired by Proctor. He’s friends with Braithwaite and may be harbouring him.”
“Good,” said Bligh. She wrapped up the meeting.
Clayton gathered up Bullard and Julie.
“Anyone fancy a coffee from downstairs?” he asked.
“You mean you want a bacon sarnie,” said Julie.
“Well, I wouldn’t say no to a buttie,” said Clayton. The three of them took the stairs down.
“Don’t you think we’re lucky not to be working in the States?” Julie commented as they went.
“Why?” asked Clayton.
“Because over there, if you get fired you go back to the office with a semi-automatic and take out all your workmates,” she said.
“Well, who knows if this lot aren’t planning something like that here?” said Clayton. “Except that this is England. More passive-aggressive.”
* * *
Late in the afternoon, Julie appeared at Clayton’s workstation.
“Guv, Sarah Cooper just rang me. You remember, Kristina Manning’s friend who does music therapy at the hospital?”
“Yes, yes,” he said.
“Well, she said that after Steve Carter died, she’d been thinking about him. You know, and his connection to Lauren. Anyway, Sarah says that Steve was a bit of a womaniser.”
“And?”
“It seems he gate-crashed the party. Sarah didn’t think Kristina invited him.”
“Do you think he might have been the person the neighbours heard shouting the next morning?” Clayton asked.
“It’s possible, I suppose,” said Julie. “According to Sarah, he had a crush on Kristina. Not only that, but Lauren told Sarah that he’d tried it on with her too!”
“No kidding?” Clayton sprang up from his chair just as his phone rang. He picked it up, annoyed at the interruption. After a terse, “OK,” he flung the receiver back in its cradle.
“It’s Romano, asking for me. He’s downstairs with a complaint,” he told Julie. “Just give me a mo to sort him out.”
The conductor was waiting in reception, visibly agitated.
“I wish to report a hate crime,” he said loudly. He took off his sunglasses and glared at Clayton.
Clayton ushered him into an interview room. Romano took out two envelopes from his cashmere coat pocket and flung them onto the table.
“Read that,” he said. The envelopes both had printed labels and had presumably been sent by the same person. They were stickered with second-class stamps and the Norwich postmark. Clayton opened the first and carefully took out the sheet of paper from inside.
It contained a warning spelled out in capital letters, seemingly cut from a newspaper, instructing the ‘PAEDO’ to leave town ‘OR ELSE.’
“When did you receive these letters, Mr Romano?”
“Since two weeks,” he said. “I am vai-ry upset. They are arriving at my flat and I don’t know how this person found out where I live. Please read the second one.”
Clayton pulled out another sheet of paper threatening that the other residents in Romano’s building would be told about the ‘PAEDO’ living on the top floor.
“This is an outrage, a scandal!” said Romano. “Never in my life have I received something like this!”
“Do you have any idea who might be behind these letters?”
“Absolutely not!”
“I mean, do you think it might be someone in the orchestra?” asked Clayton. Jesus! This orchestra is crazier than a sack of ferrets.
“How should I know? You are the investigator, Inspector. I wish you to investigate this.”
“Yes, yes,” said Clayton, gathering up the letters. He’d put Mandy, one of the team DCs, on the case. Who knows, there might be a connection to the NFO murders.
“Come straight back to us if you receive anything else,” he said. “Try not to worry, Mr Romano.”
* * *
It had been a while since Clayton had seen Luke Martin, and he was looking forward to their pint at the Alex.
The journalist was waiting for him at their corner table, away from the cold air that blew in every time the door opened. He looked up expectantly when he saw Clayton, who gestured to him from the bar.
“Another?” he mouthed, ordering a pint of CHB Best for himself. Martin nodded and raised his half-empty glass.
“How’s tricks then?” Clayton asked, setting their beers down carefully to avoid spilling the foam.
“Not so bad, thanks,” said Martin. “You making any headway on the NFO murders?”
Clayton wiped a thin line of froth from his lips. Doesn’t beat about the bush, does he? Typical journalist. “Still plugging away. You?”
“We might have something on the violinist,” Martin said. Clayton remembered what Julie had mentioned that afternoon.
“Come on then, what’ve you got?”
“We hear he was a bit of a lothario,” Martin said.
“Oh, that,” said Clayton, relieved. “Common knowledge, isn’t it?”
“So you know about him raping Lauren Garner then?”
Clayton put down his glass so hard that the ale sloshed over the rim and washed across the table. “Who the hell told you that?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” said Martin. Bastard. He’s loving this. He knew Martin wouldn’t betray his source.
“And are you reporting this?”
“We’re working on getting another source. Can’t really go with one person, especially as they want to remain anonymous. He used a date rape drug apparently.”
“Really? Oh, shit. The poor guy’s family. Does his wife know?”
“It’s awkward, isn’t it?” said Martin.
“That doesn’t usually stop you guys,” Clayton said. “As in ‘hello, Mrs Carter, could we have a photo of your dead husband, and by the way did you know he was a rapist?’”
“Hey, that’s unfair,” said Martin. “I just told you something that you can check out for yourselves.”
“We will, don’t worry,” said Clayton, his teeth clamped together.
“But what about Lauren herself?” Martin went on. “Seems she’s gone underground. Not been seen for weeks is what I heard.”
You can say that again. Now how much longer can we keep this quiet? He could feel the vultures circling. Once word got out that she’d been found in a freezer, they’d have the national press on their doorstep. The second death had already triggered a minor feeding frenzy, sparked by the rumour that orchestra players were being killed with their own instruments. God only knew where that had leaked from. The police’s “no comment” had only fuelled the speculation.
Clayton stared into his drink for a while, then changed the subject before Martin had a chance to grill him further. “So, did you watch the match last Saturday?”
“I presume you’re not
talking about the Canaries,” said Martin.
Clayton grinned. “No. The other City,” he said. “We’re on a roll now. Pep’s the man!”
He swigged his last drop of ale and checked his watch.
“I’d better go,” he said. “Luckily there’s no match this weekend. I’ve got a concert ticket.”
“What, the NFO?”
“Yeah. What’s left of them,” said Clayton, twisting his scarf round his neck. He needed to leave before he said any more.
Chapter Twenty-three
Clayton was walking past the square tower of the Catholic cathedral when his phone vibrated. It was Bligh.
“Braithwaite’s just been spotted entering his house off Bethel Street. They’re going in,” she said.
“I’m on my way, ma’am. I’m only five minutes away myself.”
“Great,” she said. “Let me know if you need help.”
The Bethel Street police station was close to Braithwaite’s house. But Clayton doubted whether they’d be able to spare anyone at that time of night.
He broke into a run towards Braithwaite’s street. When he reached the house, he could see that the front door was ajar, and the lights were on inside.
He pushed the door open but saw nobody. Was he too late? He ran upstairs to double check, then opened the door to the cellar. All was dark down there. He switched on the light and descended a couple of steps to check. Going into the kitchen, he noticed that the back door was swinging on its hinges. He could hear a dog yapping in the neighbouring back yard.
He made out the shape of a man standing by the back wall. He turned round when he heard Clayton approach.
“DI Clayton? Your man escaped over the wall and ran off that way,” he said, pointing. “Jim’s gone after him. DC Bridges.”
“Is he on foot?” said Clayton, turning back.
“Didn’t see a car, but you never know. And he might have had someone waiting for him,” he said. “Sorry, guv.”
“Which way did Jim go?” he asked.
“Towards Grapes Hill.”
“I’ll take Willow Lane and Burridgegate then,” said Clayton. He picked up speed running down the hill past St Giles’s church, illuminated in the darkness. He pushed through a group of Freemasons leaving a meeting nearby, causing them to scatter like pigeons. He reached the narrow pavements of Burridgegate and looked in both directions. The street was deserted.