Dark Truths

by A. J. Cross

  Watts’ patience was running thin. ‘Saw what?’

  ‘It.’

  ‘It?’

  She nodded. ‘I caught a first glimpse of it and then I went out through the side gate and stood watching.’

  Watts pictured the table in his office, stacked with files still unread, tips to check, actions to action, calls to … ‘Can you be more specific?’

  ‘Of course I can.’ She stood, gesturing them towards the room’s large rear window. They followed her. From it, they had an uninterrupted view of the field as it rose, Blackfoot Trail running along the top. She pointed. ‘It appeared from the direction of the trail car park. You’re familiar with that area?’ He nodded, mouth set. ‘It moved along the trail, then left it for the grassy slope which runs down to the back of this house. I can tell you, Detective Inspector, I was gripped.’

  ‘You said this was at around nine, Miss Banner.’

  She turned to him. ‘Nine-ten, possibly twenty past and I know what you’re thinking: that it was too dark for me to see it clearly. You’re wrong. As I said, it appeared and started moving. Drifting, would be a more accurate description. I would go so far as to say floating.’ She looked at both of them.

  Watts was well past having had enough. ‘Describe what this individual was wearing, please.’

  Banner eyed him. ‘Did I say it was a person? I couldn’t see any detail but what I can tell you is that it was covered in white.’ She waved both hands around herself, her voice dropping to a whisper. ‘A billowing drifting miasma.’ She looked from Judd to Watts and breathed. ‘It was apparitional. A spectre.’

  Watts closed his notebook. ‘Thanks very much for your time, Miss Banner. We appreciate—’

  ‘Oh, but I haven’t told you all of it. It was being chased.’

  ‘Chased?’

  ‘Yes. As it appeared from the right, I saw more movement. A man. At least, I think it was a man. He followed it on to the grass.’

  ‘And?’

  Banner shook her head. ‘That’s when I lost sight of it. Them.’

  ‘What do you make of that, Sarge?’ asked Judd, once they were outside. ‘Creepy or what?’

  Watts headed for the BMW. ‘I’m saving my energy for the tips still waiting for us.’

  An hour later, they had a selection of dispiritingly few tips of any use. Most had been provided by individuals who clearly wanted to help the investigation but had either not been at the trail on the day Zoe Roberts was murdered, or were but had seen nothing. Watts frowned at two in his hand. ‘These are from people reporting that they were in the area and saw a male with his arm in a sling. Each sighting is dated more than three weeks prior to the time frame we’re interested in.’ He looked across at Judd. ‘That’s the problem with appeals. People want to help, but they don’t have anything for the relevant time.’ He pointed to several tips he’d pushed away. ‘All appeals attract attention-seekers. One or two of these I recognize by name because they always respond to requests for information. That one’s from a woman who was in the area on the day of the Roberts murder and rang to complain because she was stopped from walking her dogs on the trail. No guesses who she was.’ He reached for one he’d separated from the others. ‘This is from a male caller who advised that we work to the theory that Zoe Roberts, and I quote: “got what she deserved”.’

  Judd stared up at him, aghast. ‘Have him done, Sarge! And the others, the time-wasters.’

  ‘He didn’t give any contact details and I’m not wasting investigative time giving any of the others more attention. Got anything remotely sensible?’

  Judd indicated a small pile of tip sheets. ‘Each of these reported being at the trail on the days prior to the murder, but it’s the same story as yours: none of them saw anything.’

  ‘Depending on how desperate we get, I might send somebody to check on all of them. That it?’

  She held up a tip sheet, eyes shining. ‘I saved this one for last. It’s from a caller who says he was at Blackfoot Trail on the day of the murder and saw a woman running.’

  ‘Name?’

  She narrowed her eyes at a printed box containing handwritten details, plus two exclamation marks added by the officer who took the call. ‘It looks like … I. Dunnette.’

  Reddening, she threw it on to the table. ‘Creep. How can people be like that? Make a joke of somebody’s tragedy and pain!’

  Gathering them together, Watts pushed them back inside the file. ‘Once I hear that the calls have slowed right down, I’ll keep one line open for another few days. We still might get something.’

  ‘Don’t forget Miss Banner.’

  ‘I’m still trying. It’s time we talked to Dr Chong.’

  They took the stairs down to the PM Suite. Igor let them inside. It looked deserted. ‘Where is she?’

  The door swung open and Chong appeared behind them. ‘Here, picking up evidence of tetchiness. If it’s the Roberts’ PM results you’re after, it’s almost finished.’ They followed her to her desk, waited as she tapped computer keys, pointed at the screen. ‘Here’s what I can confirm. Roberts was a healthy, thirty-year-old female in excellent physical shape. Death was due to six deep stab wounds to the chest. Removal of head was post-mortem, which you already know.’ She looked up at him. ‘I found zero indication of sexual assault.’

  He wanted to ask if she was sure but he knew from experience that she didn’t respond well to that kind of question. Pointless, anyway. She was thorough.

  ‘There is something I’d like you to look at, but’ – she looked at Judd – ‘before I get the photograph on to the screen, it’s very graphic. Are you OK with that?’

  Judd gave a quick nod. Chong tapped computer keys. The high resolution, full-colour image of Zoe Roberts’ body lying on one of the suite’s steel examination tables filled the screen. Chong clicked on it, homed in on the frontal aspect of what remained of the neck. Judd and Watts gave involuntary winces as the cursor moved.

  ‘See? The head was excised very close to the jawline … but, look at this on the frontal aspect of the neck.’ The cursor moved in a small circular motion. ‘See?’ Watts leant towards the screen, following the cursor. ‘That long, narrow mark is a bruise. My hypothesis is that at some stage Roberts’ killer had his arm around her neck, her back to him, possibly to render her compliant whilst he delivered the stab wounds, possibly to limit staining to his own clothes, although that’s conjecture.’ They watched the cursor track the length of the bruise.

  ‘Any ideas as to what caused it?’ asked Watts.

  ‘I’m hypothesizing a right-handed killer with his left arm against her throat as he stabbed her.’ The cursor jiggled. ‘I suspect that mark was left by something similar to a metal bracelet or watchband.’ She looked up at him. ‘It’s unfortunate that it’s only a bruise. If the skin had been scratched, we might have got DNA.’ The silence in the suite was broken only by the quiet, regular thrum of the large, compartmented refrigerator unit where Zoe Roberts’ remains were now lying.

  Weary, despite it being barely late afternoon, Watts turned away. Chong looked up at him. ‘You’ll want to know what else I have.’ She went to a nearby microscope. They followed. ‘I collected several fibres from the back of her vest. Take a look.’

  Watts did, seeing a pattern of wavy lines with an odd glow. ‘What are they?’ he asked, standing back for Judd.

  ‘I’m not sure, but Adam has found similar ones inside her car.’ Chong carefully removed the glass slide. ‘I’ll send this plus the vest to forensics. See what they make of them.’

  ‘Could those fibres be from her killer?’

  ‘All’s possible. For now, it’s a wait-and-see.’ She returned to the computer, changed the screen. ‘I found something else. Take a look at these.’ They did, at four dark, short lengths of something. ‘They’re cut sections of hair,’ she said.

  Watts looked up at her. ‘Not hers?’

  ‘No. They’re brown head hairs. Roberts’ own hair was expertly processed blon
de. I’ll send them to the lab for DNA testing.’

  Watts frowned at them. ‘There’s no roots.’

  ‘They’ll still be subject to all of the processing available, because’ – she pointed – ‘these three here were stuck to her vest by blood. This one was inside one of the chest wounds. Pushed there by the knife.’ She looked up at him. ‘Don’t look at me like you’re starving and I’m holding the only burger in town. I can’t tell you any more until they’ve been examined. I’ll be requesting expert analysis.’

  ‘Judd has a question for you about Roberts.’

  Chong gave her an encouraging look.

  ‘I was just wondering,’ said Judd, ‘if you could say anything about the condition of Roberts’ hands and fingernails?’

  ‘Well-kempt and undamaged from my initial examination at the scene. After I’ve done a second and final check of the body, my remaining task is to remove the bags from them and examine them fully. If I find anything of interest, DI Watts will be the first to know.’

  He and Judd left the PM Suite and headed upstairs, picking up voices drifting down from the squad room on the first floor. ‘What do you think about what Dr Chong told us, Sarge?’

  ‘I know what you think. That undamaged fingernails equals Zoe Roberts knew her killer.’ He looked in the direction of Reception, saw PC Sharma waving to him. Diverting to the desk, he took from her the weighty ten-year-old investigation file labelled in large black print: ANNETTE BARLOW. ‘Thanks, Rita. Back with us, again?’

  She grinned. ‘Can’t keep away, Sarge. I’ll be doing some liaison work on your case.’

  ‘Glad to hear it.’

  They headed for the ground floor room they’d been inside earlier. ‘Who’s she?’ asked Judd.

  ‘Rita Sharma. Just back from maternity leave and carrying a bit of extra timber which suits her.’ He caught Judd’s eye-roll. ‘Her real name’s Rit, but here, she’s Rita. She’s sound. You could learn a lot from her.’ He pushed open the door. ‘From tomorrow, I’ll be doing early morning briefings in the squad room to the whole team which includes you, after which I’ll be working down here.’ He glanced around. ‘In my office.’ It still felt like a home of sorts and right now it was ideal. The investigation team, including Judd, would be one floor up and he’d be down here in peace and quiet, getting to grips with the case.

  Judd was looking around it, her face animated. ‘This is great, Sarge. I’ll bring my computer down here.’ She pointed across the room. ‘And when we really get started, we can use Big Boy on the wall.’ He watched her head to the door. ‘Back in a minute.’

  Tight-lipped, he decided he’d have a word with her when she came back. Opening the Barlow file, his eyes slid over sheet after sheet of inquiries which ten years ago had yielded nothing. The door opened. Judd was back, holding a hefty-looking plastic box. He pushed half of the sheets across to her. ‘We’ll start getting together a list of details for Annette Barlow’s family members, employers, work colleagues, friends—’

  ‘You want a victimology.’

  ‘What I want is a link between Barlow and Zoe Roberts and I don’t care how tenuous it is, but before we make a start, I need to sort out something with you about this room—’ Hearing a sharp click, he looked up. Judd was holding an open lunchbox towards him. He looked at white bread sandwiches, crisps, two muffins, one chocolate, the other something else, each wrapped in clingfilm, two tangerines and two small cartons of juice; part of his mind wondered how Judd managed to chomp her way through this lot every day and look the way she did. He knew the answer. Youth. ‘What’s on the sandwiches?’

  ‘One’s cheddar and pickle. The other’s ham and mustard.’ She shook the box at him. ‘Go on, Sarge.’ He took the cheddar. She took the other, bit into it, chewed, swallowed. ‘What did you want to sort out, Sarge?’

  ‘I was just thinking that investigations like this involve long days. That’s not a problem for your family, is it?’

  ‘No, Sarge.’

  Six p.m.

  Judd sat back, stretched, then pushed a short list across the table towards him. ‘That’s all the key details I’ve found on Annette Barlow from what I’ve read. Given what we know about the kind of work Roberts did and where she lived, even indirect contact between her and Barlow looks very unlikely to me.’

  Watts reached for the neat list, looked at it. His search of the available information had told him much the same: no discernible link between the two women. ‘Once we get more information on Barlow it might help.’ He glanced at Judd. She was a nuisance a lot of the time, but she’d kept up well today. He dropped her list on to his own. ‘It’s early days, but if we don’t find any link between the two victims, this case will be worked on the basis that both homicides were the work of an opportunistic sex type who didn’t know either of them.’ Hearing his own words, he frowned.

  ‘What’s up, Sarge?’

  He wasn’t about to get into what was bothering him but why would anybody kill two women a decade apart then spend time decapitating them? He checked his watch, looked up at Judd. There were shadows under her eyes. ‘It’s late. We’ll pack it in now but be here at nine in the morning. Zoe Roberts’ family is expecting us at eleven.’ He gave her a second look. ‘Your nose has caught the sun. We’ll be out there again tomorrow, so best put something on it when you get home.’ He caught the dismissive look. ‘Your mom or dad will probably tell you the same.’ She headed for the bin, dropping empty drinks cartons and peel into it, snapped closed the lunchbox, pushed it into her bag. He watched her head for the door. ‘Oh, and say thanks to whoever puts your lunches together.’

  She raised a hand, thumb up. The door closed on her.

  He looked at another list she’d made, the one listing the data Traynor had demanded. Traynor was still on the treadmill he’d built for himself following his wife’s murder, a tragedy however you looked at it, but right now Watts had his own problems. He gathered the papers together. Earlier, he’d phoned the Oxford police and been told that the three-homicide case of which Claire Traynor was a part was ‘the subject of periodic review’. Watts knew what that meant. Inactive. Putting the Barlow file inside the filing cabinet, he switched off the lights.

  Minutes later, he passed the road which would take him home, heading instead for the motorway. In fading light, the WORKS UNIT ONLY sign came into view. Leaving the motorway, he drove up the narrow approach road, came to a stop and switched off his engine. The buildings behind the chain-link fence looked the same as they had the previous night, with one exception. Both were now in complete darkness. He got out, listened. Other than the sound of traffic from the motorway, nothing. Nobody here. He headed towards the chain-link fence, veered left, followed the land sloping steeply upwards. It took him a couple of minutes to reach the top. He looked down at the compound, then towards the incline from where Annette Barlow’s skull had been recovered. Beyond it lay Blackfoot Trail curving its way past tall trees to the car park where Zoe Roberts had died. From here to that compound was walkable. Had Roberts’ killer parked his vehicle down there? He took out his phone, tapped out a text to Adam, head of forensics.

  Letting himself into his house half an hour later, Watts quietly placed his keys on the hall table and headed for the kitchen. Switching on the kettle, he leant against one of the cabinets, arms folded, watching the cat stand in its basket, arch, then pad towards him. ‘Don’t bother, lad. I’m out of energy and not feeling that sociable.’ He watched it circle his ankles, put its front paws against one of his legs, giving him a yellow stare. Sighing, he leant down, rubbed the soft fur between its ears, picking up quiet movement on the stairs. He dropped a teabag into a mug as the kitchen door opened. ‘Sorry. I should have phoned to say I’d be late,’ he said to the small, slender woman in yellow pyjamas standing there. ‘Hope you didn’t wait up.’

  ‘I did, but it’s OK. Would you like something to eat?’ She came to him, put her hands against his chest. He covered them with his, looked down at her face, think
ing how he never tired of looking at it. No one they knew was aware of their relationship. That’s how it was. How it would stay.

  ‘No, thanks. I’ll have a quick shower then come to bed.’

  A ping from his phone dragged Watts from sleep, its clock telling him it was three a.m. Chong sat up. ‘What’s that?’

  He read it. ‘A text. From William Traynor. He’s ready to work with us, starting tomorrow morning. Make that today. He’s coming into headquarters.’

  ‘Why is he telling you at this hour?’

  Watts stared into darkness. ‘Because he marches to his own beat. Which about sums up his problem. And probably mine, now.’ Another text announced itself. ‘From Adam. I told him earlier that the steep hill from the compound to the high ground is walkable. He’s confirmed he’ll have officers examine it all.’

  Chong fell back on to her pillows. ‘Is anybody on this case sleeping?’

  SEVEN

  Wednesday 17 August. Eight thirty a.m.

  Watts set the mug down on the big worktable. ‘Your lead didn’t pan out?’

  ‘No.’

  Watts took the chair opposite, giving Traynor a quick once-over. He looked wasted, like he hadn’t slept in days. Watts’ eyes went from the shadowed, unshaven face to the clothes. The same ones he’d had on the previous day, the linen shirt badly creased, marked around the collar. Traynor was here but Watts was seeing nothing which said he was fully functioning. He recalled Traynor’s upbeat, driven demeanour at his house, wondering where the balanced Traynor was. Maybe there wasn’t one. Watts had informed Brophy of the meeting he and Traynor had had and stated to Brophy that collaboration between them was not an option. Brophy’s line was typical: they had to deal with him carefully. Having started the process of asking Traynor to join the investigation, it was possible to Brophy’s way of thinking that Traynor might lodge a complaint with the chief constable about a change of plan. They needed to tread sensitively. So here Watts was, facing Traynor, still under pressure to accept him into his investigative team. But there was one thing on which he was immovable and Brophy knew it. If he got so much as a whiff of alcohol, Traynor was history. More seconds ticked by. He watched Traynor lift the mug, sip, set it down, his face shut off.