“Slightly more private,” Harding agreed.
“Leave that,” I said and pointed to her mug. “I don’t want my office to need fumigating afterwards.”
Harding huffed, but she stood up, and we walked casually towards my own office. She had her pen and a pad of paper as if she were about to take notes. I held the door open for my partner after I unlocked it, and she walked past me with a smirk. I shut the door behind myself, then I walked to my desk and sat in my chair. I looked out the window and saw the gentle drizzle had given way to a torrential downpour that bounced off the pavements like bullets.
“So,” I asked while Harding plugged in her laptop. “Any luck with identifying the potential third victim?”
“There’s still a lot of information to process, but I have pulled one case because the brother of a perp--” my partner said and checked her screen, “named Mark Ashworth, harrassed Brown when Ashworth’s brother was charged with sexual assault last March. Ashworth maintained his brother was completely innocent.”
“Harrassed how?” I asked.
“It was mostly Ashworth appearing at the station, demanding to speak to Brown,” my partner said and frowned. “He was usually stopped in Reception, though. One time, he did wait for Brown in the carpark.”
“Was it ever violent?” I asked.
“Not according to the report,” she responded.
“Did Ashworth ever visit Brown at home?” I asked.
Harding shook her head.
“So it seems as though Ashworth crossed the line, but never too far,” I mused.
“I think it was too far,” my partner chided.
“Technically, yes, I agree.” I said and smiled at her indignant expression. “But I mean Ashworth didn’t act violently.”
“As the only woman in the room, I’d like to point out that you can feel threatened without being punched,” Harding replied.
“You’re right,” I agreed. “Did Brown ever file anything formally?”
“No,” the brunette admitted.
I watched the dust motes circle the light bulb in my desk lamp for a moment while I pondered the Ashworths.
“What about the brother?” I asked.
“What about him?” she replied.
“Was he guilty?” I asked.
“He was convicted by a jury and sentenced to five years,” the Brit said. “So, yes. Also, you and I know how difficult it is to prosecute sexual assaults.”
“It’s almost impossible at the minute,” I said. “So there’s very little chance Ashworth’s suspicion is correct.”
“Very little,” Harding agreed.
I sat back in my chair and watched rain dash against the window.
“Let’s look into Ashworth and locate his whereabouts for the last two murders,” I ordered. “I don’t think it’s him, but we still need to confirm any alibis before we rule him out.”
“Why don’t you think it’s him, sir?” Harding asked.
“If this was Ashworth, it would be a huge escalation from harassment to murder,” I said. “He might have violent tendencies, but he doesn’t seem to have the conviction to carry them through. Also, why act now? It seems unlikely he’d hold onto that level of anger for over a year.”
“Huh,” the brunette grunted as she prodded her computer. “Right, I’ll carry on looking, then.”
Harding stood, and I noticed her take an unsteady step backwards.
“Are you alright?” I asked.
“Just a bit light-headed,” she responded. “That’s all. It’s not like I was run over.”
“Have you had breakfast?” I asked and frowned. “You should eat.”
Harding laughed softly.
“Sir, you have no idea how I’ve longed for someone to say that to me,” she joked.
“Go on, then, get to work,” I ordered. “After you eat.”
“Yes, sir,” she said with a mock salute.
Harding closed the door as she stepped into the hall, and I was alone again. I breathed in the silence as I closed my eyes, and I could feel my mind start to relax. I ran through theories and suspects and tried to imagine what the motive behind two such gruesome deaths could be.
I felt like the connections were there, if I could just find them, but then my phone rang. I sighed at the intrusion, and picked it up hesitantly, expecting it to be ACC Clarke.
“What?” I snapped.
“Is that how you answer the phone for people doing you a favour?” Dr. Liu’s voice asked.
“Sorry!” I said. “I thought you were someone else.”
“Ahh, I’d hate to be them and experience your wrath,” she joked. “So, I’ve got some results.”
“What is it?” I asked eagerly.
“Brown’s cause of death,” she revealed. “It was definitely cyanide.”
“How was it given?” I asked.
“We think he ingested it in salts perhaps, or a form of liquid,” she said. “The body isn’t toxic, so that’s the most likely scenario. But we’re still working on the origins obviously. The killer must have cleaned up after himself again. There’s usually an awful lot of mess after a human ingests poison. You saw his face right? Clean as a whistle.”
My stomach lurched unpleasantly as I considered how cold someone would have to be to clean up the body of their victim that way.
“We almost missed it, too,” the doc continued. “We found it in his bloodwork. A couple of hours later, and well--”
“Good job we didn’t hang about, then,” I said.
“Don’t be so big-headed,” the beautiful pathologist teased. “And that’s not all I have to tell you. We’ve got the results of the paper found in the throat. It’s a specific type of newsprint. Not very common. Most newspapers have moved on to a more durable paper type.”
“Okay,” I said as my heart raced again. “That’s good. It’ll help me narrow down to--”
“I know,” she cut in. “You’re going to love me, but I already looked into it for you.”
Dr. Liu paused dramatically.
“You’re wasting tax-payer’s money by the minute.” I complained.
“This paper is favoured by a local joint,” she said in triumph. “The Caledonian. Know it?”
I did know it. Not only did I make a habit of familiarising myself with any local paper, but I was aware of The Caledonian because Robert Crinkle had begun his career there, and he’d written a particularly scathing opinion piece on the inefficiency of our precinct. It happened five or six years ago now, and so I expected the paper had changed hands and staff had moved on. But I still hoped no current journalist would remember the article when I went to pay The Caledonian a visit.
“Logan?” Dr. Liu whispered. “Cyanide can be used in the process of paper printing. You don’t see it often, but older places that haven’t updated their equipment would still have it.”
“Okay,” I matched my tone to hers despite the feverish sweat on the back of my neck. “Thanks. That’s useful.”
After we hung up, I sat and wondered if The Caledonian not only favoured traditional newsprint, but traditional printing methods, too. I was about to call Harding in when there was a knock at the door. Before I could respond, the door opened, and ACC Clarke stepped into my office.
“I’m surprised you still knock,” I snapped and instantly regretted my tone.
“Why wouldn’t I?” she asked and frowned.
“Don’t you own the place now?” I asked.
The redhead sighed. Her large green eyes were red and several new wrinkles looked like they had appeared overnight.
“Will you stop this?” she asked. “I just wanted an update on the case. You didn’t answer my text, surprise, surprise.”
“I know,” I said. “I haven’t got around to it yet.”
“Somehow, I don’t believe you, Logan,” my boss replied harshly.
“There’s nothing to tell anyway,” I said and hoped she’d believe the lie. “I haven’t got anything concrete to report
.”
“Nothing?” Clarke said and raised a finely plucked eyebrow. “That’s not like you.”
“It’s not like I have a crack team of helpers,” I pointed out.
“You said you only trusted one person,” she said quietly.
“Aye, I did,” I replied.
The look on Clarke’s face told me she remembered my every word.
“You’ll tell me immediately if you have any new evidence,” my boss ordered.
“Sure,” I responded as blandly as I could.
“I mean it, Logan,” Clarke warned.
I managed to look properly chagrined until she finally turned on her heels and left my office. She slammed my door shut hard enough to rattle the frame, and I did a slow count to ten just to make sure she didn’t come back.
It was tempting to lock the door and keep everyone else out for the rest of the day. However, I needed Harding to do some digging on The Caledonian, and to check for CCTV footage. I rang my partner’s number, but she didn’t pick up. I glared at The Pit and then realized she wasn’t at her desk. I sighed, hung up my phone, and stared at the computer screen. I wasn’t nearly as fast as my partner when it came to digging up information on the internet, but it seemed I had no choice. After another glance towards The Pit confirmed that Harding still wasn’t at her desk, I started to type.
My first search took me to the Audit Bureau of Circulations, where it was soon painfully clear that print journalism was dying a slow death. It was bad news for someone who preferred to feel the weight of a newspaper in their hands than zoom in on digital articles, but on the upside, there was a good chance that Crinkle would soon be out of a job.
I had to wade through a long list of Scottish dailies before I reached The Caledonian. I crossed my fingers as I clicked, but when I saw the result, I sighed. There were over six thousand newspapers sold in the last three months, and an average of seventy-one sold every day. There was no realistic way to track down everyone who had bought a newspaper around the time of Brown and McLuckie’s murders. That just left the staff, then, and part of me secretly hoped I could tie Crinkle to the victims.
After another Google search, I found The Caledonian’s office number online and decided to call while I waited for my partner to return. I heard seven long, flat rings and then a tinny, overly-cheerful voice asked me to leave a voicemail.
“Ahh, this is DCI Thorne at Grayfield Station,” I said. “I’m investigating a case, and I believe you could provide me with some helpful information. Please call me back on this number as soon as you can.”
I hung up and wondered if I’d ever hear from them, or if I’d have to visit the lion’s den in person.
The rest of the morning ticked away with no real result. I requested the CCTV footage from any camera within a five-mile radius of the station, only to be told there was a backlog jamming up the system. I tried calling the newspaper again, only to hear the same taped message. I hung up without leaving another request and glanced towards The Pit. Harding still hadn’t reappeared, and the Irn Bru I drank wasn’t sitting well in my stomach. With no other leads, I turned back to my list of cases that Brown and McLuckie had worked on.
I’d reread the same page three times without realizing I had done so when Harding flung open the door. I was about to shout at her for disappearing, but she cut me off breathlessly.
“Sir!” she said and grinned. “I’ve found it.”
“Found what?” I asked.
“I’ve found the case which links CC Brown and McLuckie together,” my partner exploded.
Chapter 7
“Lock the door,” I ordered
Harding shut the door and turned the lock, then she dropped into her usual chair and set her laptop on my desk.
“Are you sure it’s the right case?” I asked.
“You won’t doubt me when you see the details,” Harding boasted.
I moved to the other side of the desk and sat down in the other guest chair. Harding pulled up the database and quickly typed in the ID and password. I snorted when I realized she was signing in as me, and Harding suddenly realized what she had done.
“Oh, sir--” she stammered. “I’m sorry. I should have asked you.”
“Impersonating an officer is a crime, you know,” I joked. “I have a lot of friends in fraud.”
“It’s just that--” she stammered. “That is to say, you have a higher security clearance. You see more details….”
“I’m joking,” I pressed. “I already told you that I trust you with it.”
“So, I’m not under arrest?” she asked.
“Not unless you don’t show me this case in the next ten seconds,” I complained.
“Right!” she replied with a grin. “Do you want it printed? I’ll print it.”
“Just show me on the screen,” I replied. “This is supposed to be a quiet operation, remember?”
“Yes, sir,” she jittered. “Sorry. Right, shall I just talk you through it? I know you prefer to think out loud.”
“Go ahead,” I said as I leaned back in my chair.
“So,” she began. “This case was two and a half years ago, so it was after Denise died, but before Brown had risen through his promotions. He was just a DCI--”
“Just a DCI?” I chuckled.
“Compared to being a Chief Constable, yes, he was just a DCI,” Harding smirked as she raised an eyebrow. “So, Brown was leading a spree murder investigation. He’d initially labelled the case a serial, but then the killer attacked two victims in two months, and so…”
“It’s a spree,” I finished. “There was no cooling off period?”
“Between the first and second victim there was, hang on--” Harding stopped to scroll down the page. “Three months. But the killer had been interrupted during the first kill so he most likely got spooked.”
I nodded.
“It would have scared him into hiding for a while,” I guessed. “Interrupted how?”
“The victim’s boyfriend came round for a surprise visit,” she replied. “According to the boyfriend, he and the victim argued earlier that day, and he wanted to make up. He went upstairs to find the victim dead on the bedroom floor.”
“Ouch,” I said in sympathy. “Was he a suspect?”
“Yes, sir,” she said. “But he had a solid alibi. He was in the middle of his restaurant shift at the time of death. CCTV and multiple witness statements confirmed it.”
“Cause of death?” I asked.
“Blunt force trauma with the victim’s lamp,” the brunette replied. “The autopsy indicated she’d also been asphyxiated but not to completion. The boyfriend’s interruption must have forced the killer to stop.”
“Aye,” I agreed. “They didn’t charge anyone for the murder?”
“They brought in lots of people for questioning,” Harding explained. “Brown had DS McLuckie lead the majority of the interviews. The closest to arrest were the victim’s stepfather who she’d never got on with, and a colleague who resented the victim for turning him down. But nothing ever stuck, and nobody was formally charged.”
“Okay, so…” I mused as I tipped my chair seat back and stared up at the swirling patterns in the ceiling.
“Three months go by,” I continued. “The killer is desperate to strike again, but knows he needs the time to plan more efficiently. He probably chooses the second victim quickly but then continues to stalk her for months. He makes notes of her daily routines, what she likes to do in her spare time, the people she works with, the people who check in on her at home, that kind of thing.”
Harding shuddered. “Actually sir,” she said. “That’s not all he did.”
“What?” I asked.
“He sent a letter to this department,” she said.
“You could have started with that,” I noted.
“I wanted to follow the timeline,” she replied. “So you would see this the way Brown and McLuckie did.”
I nodded because my partner was right. If she�
�d led with the note, I probably wouldn’t have paid any attention to anything else.
“What did it say?” I asked.
“It promised that the police would never find the killer’s identity because he was too clever,” the Brit said. “And he said the police should blame themselves when another woman is killed. That’s the gist of it.”
“So he was mocking them,” I suggested.
I thought of how much Brown would have hated to be taunted by a killer. I could understand because I’d have hated it, too.
“Yes sir,” Harding said. “Then three months later, another victim is found in her home. Strangled. Her cleaner found the body twenty-eight hours after the time of death.”
“So how did they link her to the first victim?” I asked as I watched Clarke walk slowly by my office.
I smiled nicely at the ACC when she glanced inside and hoped she wouldn’t try the door.
“The victims were both in their mid-thirties, similar appearance, lived alone and away from immediate family,” Harding said as she read from the screen. “Both were found in their bedrooms and strangled with an aluminium coil.”
“Aluminium coil?” I asked. “What’s the popular usage for that?”
“I’m not sure, sir,” she replied. “I’ll find out.”
“Good, okay,” I said. “I assume the third victim fits the same profile?”
“Fits exactly,” Harding said as she nodded agreement.
“Were there more threatening messages?” I asked.
“Yes, sir, but not sent to the station,” Harding paused and looked at me. “The messages were left in the victim’s mouths.”
I sat up in my chair and felt the breath leave my body.
“You’re kidding,” I finally said.
“No,” the brunette replied. “The notes shared the same taunting language, and the message in the third victim’s mouth even named Brown personally.”
“How could I not have heard of this?” I wondered in amazement.
“Well, sir, you don’t exactly socialise with other detectives,” Harding guessed. “And after what you’ve told me of Brown, I’m not surprised he didn’t confide in you.”
“But still, it would have been a high-profile case, and you know the speed of which gossip spreads around here,” I said.
Blue Vengenance: A Logan Thorne DCI Scottish Detective Thriller Page 13