by A. J. Cross
‘No, I don’t, but I’ve got an idea who sent it. Stay here in case Will comes back.’
Searching names on parking spaces, seeing the one he was looking for, Watts slid the BMW into the space next to it. He didn’t have long to wait. A sports car arrived, parked next to him, its music system heavy on the bass. Its driver got out. Watts gave him a once-over and was out of his vehicle, holding up identification. ‘You! Just a minute.’
The man stopped, looked at him, turned and headed at a fast pace for the building some way ahead. Watts followed. Once inside, the man stopped, faced Watts, his arms folded. ‘What do you want?’
Watts walked closer, watching his eyes shift to two or three workers nearby, their attention fixed on screens. ‘I could have told you out there.’
The man looked at him. His eyes slid away. ‘For all I know, that ID could be fake.’
‘Detective Inspector Bernard Watts, SIO of the Zoe Roberts homicide investigation, Mr Clarke.’ He saw his eyes shift again. ‘Now that you know me, you can guess why I’m here.’
Clarke was on the move. ‘Can I?’
Watts followed. ‘It’s about your communication to police headquarters, Mr Clarke.’ Clarke reached a door, pushed it open, tried to close it. Watts stopped it with his big hand. ‘Any more of that, and you’ll find yourself in big trouble. More than you’ve already got.’
‘I don’t have one clue what you’re on about.’
‘Yes, you do. You had a visit from Dr Traynor two days ago.’
‘So?’
Watts pointed to the desktop nearby. ‘After he left, you word processed a very brief communication, to the effect that the individual we’re looking for is also responsible for murdering Dr Traynor’s wife. I’m betting it’s still on there somewhere for our technical officers to find.’ Clarke’s face flushed. Watts’ eyes moved over the desk Clarke was now standing behind. ‘What was really stupid was sticking it in an envelope printed with your company logo.’ Clarke looked as though he was about to pass out. Watts moved closer, stared down at him. ‘You haven’t seen the last of me for this.’
Clarke reached for the desk, steadied himself, his face drained. ‘You lot are good at throwing your weight about, but you can’t take a bloody joke. That criminologist really pissed me off, telling me what to do, making insinuations.’
Watts headed for the door, pointing at Clarke. ‘What pisses me off is people like you meddling, which is another word for perverting the course of justice. I’ll be in touch.’ Seeing shock on Clarke’s face, he turned and walked out, got into his car and headed for the main road. There was no logo on the envelope they’d received this morning. Clarke would probably realize it, once he’d had some recovery time, but it had put the frighteners on him, given him something to think about until he got him into headquarters as a person of interest. Now all he needed was evidence.
Watts came into his office, not surprised to find Traynor there. He’d already seen the Aston Martin. A couple of quick glances told him that Traynor’s face was shut tight. ‘All right, Will?’ Getting a brief nod, Watts watched him walk to the door and out.
A minute later it opened and Judd came in. ‘I’ve just seen Will. Is he OK?’
‘You know as much as me.’ Aware of being under scrutiny, he asked, ‘Something else on your mind?’
She sat opposite. ‘I’ve finished going through the files and found nothing.’ She was looking keyed-up. ‘But, I’ve got a theory about our case, Sarge. I haven’t got it all sorted but I think it’s about the victims’ ages.’
He looked at her. ‘Their ages.’
She nodded. ‘Just hear me out. Barlow and Rhodes were in their mid to late twenties when they were murdered. Roberts was thirty. They’re part of a group.’
Traynor came in, his hair damp. ‘What group is this?’
She looked up at him. ‘Our victims were all millennials. I got the idea after talking to Alec Prentiss. He’s a prime example.’
Watts gazed at her. ‘Harry Josephs, the manager of the wine shop, is around the same age. Is he one of these millennials?’
Her eyes moved from his. ‘Yes.’
‘How does their being millennials help us?’ asked Traynor.
‘Whoever killed them hates them as a group. He considers them to be immature, entitled, demanding, cocky and snow-flaky – you know, from the snowflake generation. Actually, they infuriate him. He wants to punish them. He’s older, of course. We’re not far wrong about newspapers being involved in this case, but not because the victims were individually featured. Millennials as a group get loads of press coverage.’ She looked at her two colleagues. ‘Just so you know, I’m no millennial: too young, no money and I’m no snowflake.’
Watts gave Traynor a quick glance. ‘Since when has anybody killed four people because he hates them on the basis of their age? This “millennials” business is just a label. Something for newspaper columnists to gab about. I can think of any number of people working in this building who are in that age bracket and they’re nothing like your description.’
Judd turned to him. ‘That’s another part of my theory. Their killer didn’t know them personally. He saw them somewhere, made a judgement about them because of what he thought they were …’ She paused. ‘All three fit my theory on the basis of appearance plus age.’
‘Broughton doesn’t.’
She looked exasperated. ‘I know. I’m still working on it.’ She saw Traynor reach for his backpack. ‘You’re not taking me seriously, either of you.’
He looked at her. ‘There might be something in what you’re saying. This case is about time. It’s about the now and the past.’ To Watts, he continued, ‘I’m going to the scene.’
Watts went with him to the door, looked him in the eye, his voice low. ‘Paul Clarke sent that anonymous communication.’
Traynor stared at him. ‘How do you know?’
‘I went to see him.’
‘He admitted it?’
‘He said it was a joke. He’s a jealous, resentful git who’s decided he hates you because of who you are, what you do and what you’ve got. Now I want you to say to my face that that rubbish he sent here is exactly that.’
Traynor didn’t reply.
‘Don’t turn this investigation into a personal mission, Will. That kind of thinking will do you no good and you know it.’ He watched Traynor walk away then went back to the table. It was time for more plain speaking.
‘Judd?’
‘Sarge?’
‘Tell me about Harry Josephs.’
She stared at him. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Yes, you do.’
She stared at him in disbelief. ‘Dr Chong told you?’
‘She did.’
‘She had no right to do that!’
‘She had every right. As SIO, if there’s a safeguarding issue I have to know about it.’ He waited.
Her mouth trembled. ‘Just get it over with: I’m finished here and with the force. Go on, say it!’
When he first got to know her, she was an irritant, still was at times, but he knew more about her now and not just her background. She was hard-working, keen and bright and she believed in the job. He’d do whatever it took to give her the best chance of a career in it. ‘You know better than that. Or, you should do. What Josephs did was harassment at the least.’
She stared at the table between them. ‘I won’t make a complaint.’
‘I can’t make you do that.’ He thought back to his own contact with Josephs. If Judd did make a complaint, Josephs would in all likelihood deny it and drag in Watts’ own actions against him to support his case. Bring it on, he thought. I’m as good as finished here.
Judd looked up at him. ‘I walked into that situation, Sarge. I won’t make it an issue. I want to keep my job. I must. I want to be part of this team. Finish this case. I wouldn’t be able to do any of that if I had proceedings hanging over me.’
He left the table, walked to the windows,
reached a hand outside. The heat within the room and the temperature outside felt the same. He looked up at relentless blue sky. ‘I’ll support you, whatever you decide, as long as it’s what you want.’
‘It is.’
He came back, reached for what he’d planned to hand out at a briefing the previous day, left the office and went up to the squad room. There were four officers there. By the look of them, they hadn’t long returned from the scene. ‘I’ve got a job for you, lads. A last push.’ He held up one of the A4s. ‘This is a list of every single thing I want you to find out about our four victims from the people who knew them, no matter who they are. You might not get much from Annette Barlow’s father but give it all you’ve got with him and everybody else you speak to. I want you out there, talking to them, asking questions, following up every name they mention.’
One of the officers gave him a tired look. ‘Are we looking for anything in particular, Sarge?’
‘Details. The schools they went to. The areas where they grew up. The friends they had. Their leisure activities. Their doctors, dentists, universities, if they went, the hospitals they visited, the jobs they had, the jobs they wanted and never got, the job they were doing when they were killed, who they worked for, who they worked with.’ They stared at him. ‘What you’re after is linkage. Anything which links Zoe Roberts, Annette Barlow, Daniel Broughton and Justin Rhodes and right now I don’t care how remote it might seem.’ He dropped the A4s on to the nearest desk, pointed to them. ‘It’s all there. Start with the families, work up a list of names, start knocking on their doors. Get more names. Talk to them. If they’re unavailable, ring them when they are. I want you back here with every single detail of these victims’ lives from childhood till they died and I want it all by midday tomorrow.’ He looked up as more officers came into the room. ‘Just in time. These four will fill you in on what I want.’ He looked at the pinned-up photographs, his eyes moving over the victims’ faces, seeing only differences. He dropped more A4s on the table, pointed. ‘Vivian Smith, if that’s her real name, the woman who phoned the tip line to say she worked for an escort agency and knew of Zoe Roberts. While you’re at it, show her picture to everybody you talk to. I’m hoping somebody will recognize her.’
Watts went to the scene in the early afternoon, getting nothing new from forensics or SOCO who were busy closing it all down. Judd looked up as he came back into the office, pushed word-processed sheets to him without comment. He read her report of her wine shop visit. ‘I owe you some other notes, Sarge, but I decided to search PNC for all known cases of young adults between the ages of twenty and thirty-five of both genders who’ve been the target of violence. I was hoping for a lot of millennials. All I got was a load of individuals who don’t conform to type. Attacks on that age-range are about theft of phones, money, credit cards, mainly drug or alcohol fuelled.’
She looked dispirited. ‘You were right. “Millennials” is just another buzz word the media loves to play up. It means nothing.’
Watts looked up at the Smartboard. The victims stared back at him. ‘I’ve got every officer I can spare talking to people, searching for connections among those four. Traynor is committed to their being linked in some way. I still think they’re random but I can’t see the sense in it.’
She eyed him. ‘That’s why they’re called “random”, Sarge. The sense is inside the killer’s head.’
‘Know-it-all.’
The phone rang. It was Traynor. ‘I’m at the scene. How long are you planning to keep the forensic workers here?’
‘They’re finishing later this afternoon—’ Traynor cut the call.
Judd was gazing at the victims’ photographs. ‘We haven’t got a clue what their killer was after, have we? What it was all for.’ She propped her face on one hand. ‘We’ve done everything. Talked to people who knew the victims, chased down leads. I don’t get any of it.’
TWENTY-EIGHT
Saturday 27 August. Midday.
Watts had spent most of the morning ensuring that the whole scene was closed down. The area was deserted now, except for a couple of officers he’d stationed at either end of the trail to log who came and went. He anticipated they wouldn’t be busy, that people would stay away because of what they’d heard or read, but it wasn’t unknown for killers to return to scenes.
Back at headquarters Watts made a terse internal phone call. ‘Everybody back?’ Getting a single word response, he headed for the door. ‘Come on, Judd.’
She looked up at him. ‘Where to?’
‘You like detail and there should be plenty of it waiting upstairs, collected by a dozen mates of yours.’
She rubbed her hands together. ‘Victimology.’
They came into the squad room. ‘Where is it?’ asked Watts.
Jones pointed at a stack of close-written sheets. ‘Here, Sarge.’
Watts went to it, distributed them. ‘We’re going through every bit of data you’ve gathered. What I want is anything which stands out, or resonates as a potential link to two or more of the victims.’ He pointed to the whiteboard. ‘And, as we find it, it goes up there. Let’s get started.’
Two hours later the atmosphere in the room was downbeat, the whiteboard unmarked. The officers had done a thorough job, even located an address for Vivian Smith which turned out to be a bare, single room without even a phone. Three other occupants of similar offices had no knowledge of her. Watts pulled sheets together. ‘Thanks for your efforts, lads.’
Judd followed him downstairs to the office. Traynor was there, writing on the Smartboard. He turned to them. ‘Murder is the ultimate crime. For the majority of killers, it requires massive psychological effort and exploration of other possibilities before the decision is made that death is the answer.’ He pointed at the victims’ photographs. ‘Somebody made that decision for each of these four and I doubt he agonized over it.’ He raised his hand, summoned more details on to the board, including photographs of the skulls, photographs of Roberts’ body lying on the ground. ‘He was monumentally angry at each of them. Destroyed them with controlled savagery. These were executions.’ Watts and Judd exchanged looks. ‘Dr Chong described the three skulls as carefully placed, all facing the same way. It suggests ritual. Intentionality. There was a specific reason for their killer doing what he did to them.’
‘I’ve been to murder scenes where “intention” was flashing like neon,’ said Watts, ‘because of what some random killer did to his victims, expressed through blood and scene-setting.’
Traynor shook his head. ‘What we have here is totally different. He hated all four. These killings were barbarous yet carefully managed, full of calm intent. They were personal. Judgement done. Ultimate vengeance.’
‘Dr Chong would be the first to say that she wasn’t commenting on intention or ritual when she said what she did about the positioning of those skulls. She was providing an observation.’
‘It still fits the theory, whatever she intended.’
Watts sighed. ‘I’ve had officers out there talking to family members, friends, colleagues, every associate of each of the victims.’ He pointed at the sheets. ‘We’ve spent two-plus hours going through all of it. There’s not one single connection among the four. Nothing.’
‘You’re wrong,’ said Traynor. ‘You just haven’t found it.’
Watts eyed him. He looked different. There was an odd gleam in his eyes. Reaching for the pathology folder, Watts removed photographs of the skulls in situ at the incline, spread them on the table, took out more photographs, taken from a vantage point further up from where they were found. ‘OK, Traynor. You tell me what all this means. Why were they there?’
‘Their killer wanted them looking at something.’
Watts stared at him. ‘Such as?’
‘Another burial site.’
Watts shook his head. ‘No. No more searches.’
Judd was on her feet as Traynor moved towards him. ‘This isn’t a case of me wanting or hoping that Clai
re is there. I know she is.’
Watts’ colour deepened. ‘Look, I understand—’
‘You don’t! Give me a categorical assurance that my wife isn’t somewhere at that damned place.’
‘You know I can’t do that. Nobody can.’ He thought back to the first mention of Traynor’s name at the start of the investigation. He had known that collaboration between them wouldn’t work. Traynor knew his stuff but he was too messed up.
Traynor delivered his next words like measured blows. ‘Get forensics back to the scene!’ He stared at Watts. ‘I want another search. Whoever killed them is organized, like I said days ago. Remember that one disorganized feature? It’s now telling me that, organized as he is, he has episodes when his thinking is distorted. He’s dangerous.’
They were back at the incline, the air leaden. Above them the red-and-white stakes marking the skull burial places were still in position. They gazed down at what was just visible of Blackfoot Trail, at the rolling land below them, a persistent buzz, coming and going as the mosquito-like drone zipped and hovered on the hot, still air. Watts narrowed his eyes as it moved purposefully, watched it hover for a third time then quickly lose height. They headed down to the field, Traynor leading.
‘Three possible search areas,’ shouted Petrie, raising his hand and pointing. ‘Two areas over there and’ – he pointed downwards to his feet – ‘one right here.’
Adam and one of his forensic officers headed towards it, a small digger following. Closing his mind to the cost implications, Watts followed Judd to the shade of a nearby tree, watched the digger scrape away grass. Traynor stood watching, waiting. To Watts, he looked like the loneliest person in the world.
Judd was lying on the grass, face flushed, eyes heavy-lidded, Traynor pacing nearby. Watts’ eyes were still fixed on the excavations. A shout from Adam brought Judd scrambling to her feet. They waited as he came towards them, saw the decisive headshake, his words drifting ahead of him.
‘Buried timbers and brick from an old barn in those two over there and animal bones in the third.’
They watched Traynor walk away, then followed him to the car park in time to see his car disappear from view.