by Anne Penketh
He got up to go to the gents. Picking up his phone again, Luke gave him a thumbs up. He was still talking when Clayton returned to collect his jacket. He gave Martin a wave and left.
On the way back to his house in the dark of Unthank Road, he began to wonder if they’d cornered Braithwaite yet. He took out his phone to call Bligh, then put it back in his pocket. She’d have rung him if they had.
He conjured up an image of the inside of his fridge. Was it to be curry, or lasagne from the Co-op? He was about to go into the shop when, on impulse, he crossed the road and continued along his old street. Maybe Melissa would be home.
Passing the house where he and Claire had lived, he saw that the lights were on upstairs. Who was there now? A young family? There was certainly room — that’s why they’d bought the place when they’d moved from Lancashire. Melissa’s house was two doors further along, but the lights were out. What did he expect?
He turned round to go back to the Co-op but heard a car door slam. Someone called out his name, hesitantly. “Were you looking for me?” Melissa said.
“Oh. Yes, I was, actually.”
“Are you coming in? I was just at choir practice — the dress rehearsal as a matter of fact.” He’d forgotten all about it.
“Oh aye, the Cavalleria Rusticana. How did it go?”
“Pretty well.” She was standing next to him at the door, and he could smell the fragrance in her hair.
“How’s Fawcett’s?” he asked.
“‘The one to trust?’” She smiled, revealing those dimples. “Work’s fine. By the way, I was going to ring you. I couldn’t find out anything about the vote against Proctor. Not without looking too nosey.”
“Don’t worry about that.” He put his arm round her. “I’ve missed you, love.” She raised her face and kissed him hard on the lips.
Chapter Thirty
The following morning, Clayton was pulling into his usual parking space when he saw Bligh’s Range Rover nudge its way through the entrance.
Then he noticed the barrage of TV cameras outside the entrance to the nick. That was quick.
He strolled across to where Bligh had parked. She was just getting out of her car. “Morning, ma’am. What news from the manhunt?”
“Not so fast, Sam,” she said. “Do you happen to have any idea how the EDP stole a march on our announcement about Lauren Garner? I had a call from Radio Norfolk while I was on my way in.”
She gestured towards the crowd of journalists. He immediately recognised Luke Martin.
All round-eyed innocence, Clayton said, “No idea, ma’am. I also heard it on the radio just now.”
“Well, these leaks are annoying. Now I’m going to have to reassure people. With all these bodies, they’ll be panicking about a serial killer on the loose,” she said briskly. “It wouldn’t be so bad if I’d had more time to prepare for it.”
“What about Mercer?” he asked.
“I can’t see at this point that we’ve reasonable grounds to arrest him for anything other than drugs possession. But we can keep him in for a little longer while the search for Braithwaite goes on. The team were outside his cottage all night, but he never showed up. No sign of him at Easton’s either.”
“I’d like to go over to Cley to have a look round. Is that OK?”
“Be my guest,” she said. “I’ll handle this lot.”
“I won’t be too long,” he promised. “See you in a bit.”
He found an unmarked Vauxhall and revved the engine, thankful to be heading away from the crowd of reporters.
* * *
As Clayton neared the coast, the mist began to gather. He knew from experience that it would cover the marshes in minutes, enveloping everything in a thick, white blanket.
The mist might work in Braithwaite’s favour and bring him out from his hiding place. So why hadn’t he gone to the cottage? Wherever he was, he must be feeling safe.
The tower of St Nicholas’s church loomed up on his right, just before the road dropped towards Cley. He knew he’d pass the windmill on his left as he entered the village, but its sails were cloaked in mist.
Some minutes later, he realised he was lost. He’d taken a wrong turn after Cley and was heading south towards Wiveton instead of east towards Salthouse marshes. Should he ask the control room to patch him into the search team? It wouldn’t take him long to find the right lane. After all, he’d been to Mercer’s cottage before.
The GPS told him that the satellite signal had been lost. Now he couldn’t make out which side the sea was on. He saw headlights in the mist just before a car appeared on the mud-strewn lane. Should he flag it down? Instead, he drove onto the bank to let it pass. The lane snaked along and Clayton leaned over the steering wheel, gripping it hard and squinting into the fog. He couldn’t find a place to make a three-point turn. He made out a flintstone cottage on the right, but it had no garage and nowhere to turn a car. He wondered suddenly whether Braithwaite might have found shelter in an unoccupied cottage, a tourist rental maybe — not unlike the one he was looking at now.
He stopped the car beside a field, put on the warning lights and got out. After all, there was no harm in checking. He knocked on the door, but no one answered. He peered in through a window. The house seemed to be empty. Figuring that Braithwaite would have had to break in, he went round the back to check for signs of a door or window having been forced.
He heard the noise of a farm vehicle and ran back to the car just in time to see a tractor swerve round it. He got back in the car and carried on along the lane until he came upon a track into a field, where he attempted a three-point turn, his heart sinking as he felt the back tyres descend into the mud. Avoiding the temptation to put his foot down hard, he managed to get back onto the lane in a shower of dirt.
He contacted the control room to ask for help. The fog was getting thicker. Finally he got back on track, travelling at a snail’s pace. He knew Mercer’s place wasn’t far but he couldn’t afford to make another mistake. He turned into a lane, thinking that this one had to lead to the cottage. But where to leave the car? He didn’t want to tip Braithwaite off to his presence. As he approached the house, he discerned a figure in the mist. Could it be him?
It was one of Clayton’s colleagues. He wound down the window.
“Aw reet?” he asked. “Where’re you parked?”
“Along there, a bit away,” said the officer, pointing down the lane.
“How are you getting on?” Clayton asked. “Anything?”
“It’s tricky. Bit of fret doesn’t help either.”
“Braithwaite doesn’t have his phone, unless he’s using a burner, so we can’t trace him that way,” Clayton said.
“Right, sir. In any case, the signal round here is patchy. It depends if he’s got what he needs where he is.”
“I know. I was thinking he might have found an empty cottage. Even a barn.”
“Might have. But we’ll need the mist to clear before we can explore any further,” the officer said.
Clayton nodded and put the car into gear. “OK, I’ll be right back.”
He drove away slowly. He couldn’t see any parked cars, so he kept going until he reached a clump of trees shrouded in mist. He got out of the car to see whether the ground was dry enough to risk parking there. Just as he was about to get in again, he heard a twig snap.
He squinted into the mist. What had caused the noise? Was it an animal? Could it be his quarry? He could just about make out a figure moving away from him onto the marsh. His heart quickened.
“Braithwaite!” he called out. “It’s over. We’ve got Lauren!”
His voice echoed in the silence. The figure stopped for a moment and then picked up speed, breaking cover before disappearing into the murk again.
Clayton gave chase, sensing rather than seeing the man ahead. Damn this mist! There was no wind to disperse the damp shroud that clung to his face. He plunged into a reed bed, which slowed him down.
He stopped a
gain to listen. Was that the sound of reeds rustling? A shape crossed his path about two yards in front of him, making him jump.
“Braithwaite!” he shouted. He could almost smell the man. He was close enough now to catch him with one last spurt. Braithwaite’s dark shape rose up in front of him. Clayton raised a foot as he’d been taught in kickboxing, hoping to knock him to the ground, but the younger man twisted away, causing Clayton to lose his balance. He reached out to grasp Braithwaite’s arm as he fell, but all he caught was a sleeve. Braithwaite shook off the jacket and raced into the reeds.
“Come back!” Clayton shouted into the thick, white blanket. Panting, he got to his feet, dropped the jacket and set off in pursuit. But which direction had Braithwaite taken? The mist seemed to be thickening by the minute. Clayton crashed ahead, running blindly now.
His foot caught in a clump of grass, throwing him forward like a human cannonball. With a loud splash, he landed among some ducks. Startled, the birds disappeared, quacking, into the mist.
He lay in the pond, winded, while the cold water crept up his trousers and soaked his jacket. He was also aware of a searing pain in his left shoulder. Breathing heavily, he struggled to his feet and scrabbled in his jacket pocket for his phone, so as to alert the team. It was dead.
Chapter Thirty-one
Clayton took a long, warm shower and examined his wounds in the bathroom mirror.
His left thigh was purple, with patches of red. Gingerly, he felt his left shoulder with his right arm. It was sore. Did that mean it was broken? He studied his face in the mirror. How was he going to explain this? Oh, I fell over. No, he got away. What a failure.
He went into the bedroom and searched for a change of clothes in a pile on the chair. He dressed, using his good arm. Then he went downstairs to the living room and practised walking without a limp for a few minutes. The leg began to loosen up.
I’m going to be the laughing stock of the office.
It had taken him half an hour to stumble back to Mercer’s cottage. From there, a colleague had driven him back to his car. Grateful for the information about Braithwaite, nobody had seemed to notice that he was soaking wet.
They must be killing themselves.
“It’s only a matter of time before we get him,” one of them had said. How could he have let Braithwaite go? Just his luck — the mist was beginning to clear by the time he got back to the car.
He went downstairs and picked up a spare jacket, taking his water-damaged phone from his wet one. He’d have to ask Kevin whether it could be salvaged.
He wanted to see Melissa. She’d cheer him up. But he remembered that she’d gone to London to visit her daughter. And in any case, he didn’t have a spare phone. What a complete idiot!
Slamming the front door behind him, he made his way to the Vauxhall and lowered himself gingerly into the driver’s seat, straightening out his bruised leg as best he could. He used his right hand to put the car in gear, noticing that the pain was centred somewhere above the elbow. He was approaching the nick, steering with one hand, when he heard a voice on the car radio announce that Braithwaite had been found in a barn not far from Mercer’s cottage.
Yess! He sat up straight and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, triumphant at the news. After all, it was thanks to him that Braithwaite had been located, wasn’t it?
He no longer felt the pain in his limbs. In his mind, he was already interrogating Braithwaite and Mercer. But was the flute player still in custody?
The two of them must hold the key to what had happened to Kristina Manning, Alex Parker, Mike Proctor and Steve Carter. But what about Lauren? Was she an embittered killer or a fragile victim?
* * *
Clayton brushed past the small groups of reporters still stationed in the car park. A couple of them were doing a stand-up in front of their TV cameras. There was no sign of Luke Martin.
Bligh’s door was ajar. She swivelled round at his knock. “Just the person I was looking for.”
“Sorry,” he began. “My phone—”
She cut him off. “Never mind, Sam. You’ve heard about Braithwaite?”
He nodded.
“Well done. They said you helped them locate him.”
“What about Mercer?” he asked.
“He was in court this morning. The magistrate remanded him in custody of course, so he’s still with us. Braithwaite should be here soon.”
“Good,” said Clayton. He could feel the adrenalin restoring his strength.
“But I wanted to let you know that forensics have some results from Lauren Garner’s body,” she said.
“Oh?”
“Please sit down, Sam. You look as though you need to.”
He pulled up a chair and, as gently as he could, eased himself onto it, trying not to wince.
“Fiona tells me her stomach contained a lethal cocktail of drugs — essentially MDMA and a synthetic opioid. That’s ecstasy and probably tramadol for the likes of us.”
“Right,” he said. No surprises there.
“Also, there are no signs of violence, although Fiona did note some light bruising on the arms and legs. Her assumption is that Lauren was carried roughly down to the cellar after she died.”
“So the bruising would be from when she was shoved into the freezer?” Clayton asked.
“Precisely.” Bligh adjusted her glasses. “We also have the results back from the fingerprint. Lauren’s is a match for the print on Alex Parker’s trumpet.”
“Good,” said Clayton.
“And there’s another thing. Her skin was covered in some sort of glitter.”
Clayton smiled broadly. “Unicorn slime.”
Bligh looked at him as though he’d lost his marbles.
“She liked unicorns,” he added.
“Ah. Thank you. Anyway, let’s hope these two cooperate. At least we’ve got Mercer here, but we’d better make sure that we’ve got enough evidence on the other charges so that I can email the CPS.”
He nodded.
“What worries me is that we have a timeline but no narrative,” she said. “What were they thinking?”
“Yes, ma’am. I agree. Now we know it was drugs that killed Lauren, what are you thinking? That they were having some kind of private rave and she OD’d?”
“That’s what it looks like to me,” she answered. He stood up to go.
“Sam, are you OK?” she asked. She was staring at his left arm, which he was holding in front of him with his other hand. “Do you need to get checked out?”
“I’ll be fine, ma’am,” he said. “I must have pulled a muscle. I dropped my phone in a pond out on the marsh, so I’m going to see if Kev can sort me out.”
* * *
Clayton went to his workstation to prepare for the interviews. He walked through the detective suite feeling acutely self-conscious. He presumed they all knew about him coming a cropper in Cley. News travels fast around here.
Bullard was the first to stop by his desk.
“You heard about Braithwaite, boss?” he asked.
At the sound of his voice, Clayton swivelled round on his chair to get a look at his face. Was he laughing? “Yes. I’ve just come from Bligh’s office. He’ll be here in a bit. What’ve you got?”
“I caught up with two of the four UEA students who stayed at Braithwaite’s place in September and October,” Bullard said.
“You saw them separately or together?”
“Separately. They gave us witness statements.”
“Great. Well, shoot.”
“One of them confirmed that there was some heavy drug-taking going on at the house.” Bullard took out his notebook and began flipping through the pages.
“Here we are. He told me about the last time he’d seen Lauren. Apparently, Braithwaite and Mercer were there with her.”
Clayton nodded. “Did he mention Jake Easton? Easton also talked about a drug-taking session when he saw Lauren in October. And he as good as confirmed that Mercer supplied th
e drugs.”
Bullard returned to his notebook and shook his head. “Easton didn’t seem to have been there on this occasion, no.”
“OK. Maybe that was another night then. Go on,” said Clayton.
“Right. Well, there was this student and another guy from UEA. They put on some dance music and popped a few pills. He was very cagey about the drugs. The two of them crashed out in the early hours. He says they never heard the others go to bed.”
Clayton looked at him. “And?”
“And the next day, Lauren was gone,” Bullard said.
“What do you mean, gone?”
Bullard shrugged. “They never saw her again.”
“Didn’t they think that was a bit weird?”
“Didn’t seem to, no,” Bullard said. “Maybe they just thought her and Braithwaite had split up. The other guy I spoke to wasn’t there that night. He came back with his mate even later and said he presumed everyone was asleep. Two of the students slept in the back room on those mattresses, and the other two in the front room.”
Clayton cast his mind back to the house. “And how long ago was this?”
“They said early October.”
“OK, that fits. Thanks, Dave. Very useful.”
Bullard was still studying his notebook.
“Oh, boss, there was something else, actually. Jason, the one who was there dancing that evening, said that a few days earlier he overheard them — Mark and Lauren — talking about someone called Steve. Lauren was very upset.”
“Steve Carter?” Clayton asked.
“That’s what I thought. But he didn’t know the last name. He said the pair of them seemed to be plotting something. Lots of whispering in corners, that sort of thing. They’d stop talking when he came in. It might be nothing of course . . .”
“No, it’s very interesting,” said Clayton. “They already had their hit list before she died. I’m going down to talk to the custody officer.”
Chapter Thirty-two
Clayton looked at his watch. He didn’t have much time before Braithwaite was due to arrive.
He went over to see Julie.