Where There’s A Will

by Coles, Linda

  Will detected a finality in the man’s words and wondered why he was reticent to let him explore further. Had George’s acquaintance, Hoppy, in the Bridge Street tunnel, been telling the truth about seeing people down there? Will knew the conversation was over, it was time to leave.

  Maybe they could find another entrance elsewhere.

  Forty-Five

  Will dropped George back at the Bridge Street tunnel then drove himself home, hoping Louise hadn’t stayed up waiting for him. By the time he got there it would be close to 10 pm, and she had an early shift the following morning. He felt bad for not texting her earlier to let her know what he was up to, but the excitement of finding the tunnels had meant time had got away from him.

  The journey home was a quick one with hardly any traffic on the road, and soon he’d parked outside his house and let himself in the back door. He could see there was a single lamp on in the hall, so he knew everyone was upstairs, tucked in bed and likely fast asleep. He quietly tiptoed through the house, turning the lamp off as he went, then navigated the darkness from experience and feel. Once upstairs, he popped his head round the bedroom door, and with the little light that came in from the outside street lamp, he could see the top of Louise’s head. He crept across and bent down to plant a light kiss on her temple. At his touch she started to stir, a tiny whimper escaping her mouth, making Will smile. She never fully woke or said anything, the whimper enough to acknowledge him, so he carried on to the bathroom for a quick shower. Once he was finished, he checked in on the girls, each one fast asleep, transported to their dreams as he again headed for the bedroom. Will gently lifted the duvet and slipped in beside his wife. In a whisper he said, “Goodnight”. Not a sound escaped her lips and Will lay on his back gazing up at the ceiling while he dissected everything he’d learned during the evening. There was no way he was going off to his own dreams just yet; he needed to box up all of the new information and put each piece in the right compartment of his mental filing cabinet before sleep had any chance of finding him. Tomorrow, before he picked Birdie up to drive to Leicester, he’d call DI Mason and find out if there were any test results back yet from the pen. At some point in the afternoon, he’d go back to All Saints’ Church and have another word with the father, and without George’s presence this time and he himself dressed a little smarter. He could understand why the man had looked so alarmed, as if they were about to thieve something. It hadn’t been the ideal situation to then ask a favour and hope he would oblige. If he went back dressed a little more appropriately and with a slightly different tale, he might get somewhere. It was worth a try.

  Will finally closed his eyes, and let sleep take him to his own dreams just like his girls were in theirs. Tomorrow was another day. He’d take Birdie to Leicester then plan something nice for his family for the weekend coming. Louise had been right, he needed his own rest too, and with his extra shift at the centre and the exhumation at the beginning of the week, it would be nice to spend the day with them doing something silly. He’d figure something out tomorrow.

  On the other side of town, Colin Hayhurst lay in bed, staring at his own ceiling. The meeting had been pointless really, but that was because he hadn’t told the whole truth. Had he mentioned the real reason for the blackmailing, that he was skimming public money for his own gain, he might have got a very different solution than ‘ignore them’. With two deaths already, the last thing he wanted was a third on his hands, but he had no clue how to stop it and he couldn’t possibly pay the ransom. He thought back to the latest text, ‘touch move’, and the hideous image. There hadn’t been much time between each victim, and he hoped there wasn’t a pattern, another body with another message tomorrow.

  Forty-Six

  The killer had been surprised at how easy it was to gain their trust. It was always interesting finding out what had happened in their often young lives, how the rails had come off their past, or not in some cases. Not everybody living on the street was trying to get off it, indeed some just liked the lifestyle, the freedom, no bills and no property to worry about, and some had been homeless for most of their days. As long as they had enough food to keep themselves going, that was fine by them. When it came down to the basic needs in life, as long as you had access to shelter and food there wasn’t much else the human body actually needed, the rest superfluous.

  The killer wasn’t sure quite when it had started to form in their mind, but things quickly made sense. From there it had been relatively easy, though some parts of the plan had been more difficult than others. They’d focused on making new ‘friends’, and when they’d seen them again on the street, it was easy enough to entice them with the promise of food. They’d been trusting, expecting a friendly chat and not something to be alarmed by. And so the killer would take them to a local café for hot tea and a burger, and then would find some excuse of why they needed to pick up some heavy items from nearby – they wouldn’t mind helping out, would they? They could finish their meal in the nice warm car, with the promise of being dropped back to wherever they wanted afterwards.

  Like lambs to the slaughter, each of them agreed to lend a hand. It would have been rude not to. Once they found themselves down in the tunnel, the sedative that had been slipped in their tea back at the café was nicely at work and they soon found it hard to keep awake. No matter, there was a bed at the ready. It was all so simple, the body no defence to the powerful drug circulating in their system. That gave the killer all the time they needed to restrain hands and feet, and tie the thick belt around their neck. It would be uncomfortable when they woke, but the position of it stopped them straining hard against it, or else they’d strangle themselves. A gag across the mouth made sure they stayed quiet. The killer went back the following day, taking some food, and hoping by that time the stupid mayor would have succumbed to the demands, then they’d be able to let their captive go. It wasn’t easy finishing the act at Hunsbury Hill Park.

  Sending the photographs to the mayor had been a risk, but how else were they supposed to send proof that someone was being held prisoner without giving too much away? So far, the man hadn’t responded favourably – that part of the plan hadn’t worked at all.

  The killer knew they needed to up their efforts. No, it wasn’t over yet. Not by a long way.

  Forty-Seven

  Will had again struggled with Poppy, who had yet again wanted to go to school dressed as a dinosaur. He knew the headmistress wouldn’t allow it, otherwise she would have a classroom full of fairies, dinosaurs, Superman and any other character a child chose to be. He’d finally relented by letting her wear a dinosaur-themed T-shirt under her school uniform. It was the best he could do to avoid an early tantrum. Sometimes she could be harder work than all the triplets put together, but he wasn’t complaining, he just needed to know how best to handle her on days when he hadn’t time to spare. Today was one of those days. Had he not got an early appointment, the dinosaur issue would have been water off a duck’s back, but he had things to do, people to see, places to go and thoughts he needed to allow to percolate.

  He’d tossed and turned a lot during the night and hoped he hadn’t disturbed Louise with his own restlessness, but the discovery of the tunnels and the handful of people that lived there had been exciting to say the least. What was even more so was the discovery that the tunnels ran under the church in the centre of town, and he wondered about the relevance of them to the case, if there was any at all. The fact that Hoppy had seen two men in another tunnel gave him a reason to ponder just how far the tunnels ran for. But was he off on a tangent? There was no actual link between the tunnels and the investigation or the deaths, apart from the strange damp odour he’s picked up from Bowie. Had the police made the same connection? In reality the two lads could have been killed anywhere and taken to Hunsbury Hill Park, but the tunnels were the perfect place to hide someone before dumping them later.

  Will had woken early to spend time searching online. He’d found an old map of the town, and altho
ugh it hadn’t got all the tunnels listed, it had suggested that there were several that ran across from the centre, at various angles, to the periphery of the town, but that they weren’t connected. While many had been sealed off, or later used as the town’s drains, many people had already found a way in. Given he and George had successfully entered the tunnel at Bridge Street, had others managed the same at other entrances? If so, how could he find out where they were?

  While it was exciting, all he had was a hunch and an odour. He didn’t even know if Jonesy’s abduction was anything to do with the two bodies found, and the same went for the blue marker pen, though he would follow that up this morning. He could have a big fat nothing and just a whole load of wild ideas that didn’t make sense, or he could have a lead. He wondered what the police themselves had got, what they were working with since they had access to forensic evidence, if there was any to be had.

  Will thought back to the marks he’d seen on Bowie’s neck after he’d flipped the sheet back. He was no pathologist, but he could rule out some causes of death. For instance, the skin around his neck wasn’t cut, so it hadn’t been wire. It was, however, terribly bruised and those bruises were wide in pattern, rather than narrow, so had to have been made by something wider than a standard belt, say. He could only assume Clyde’s neck was the same, since he hadn’t seen it. More was the pity. Will needed more to work with if he was ever going to get to the bottom of what had happened.

  He closed the back door and locked it as he left for work. All family members were exactly where they should be for the rest of the day and Will set off towards his car. At least Birdie would be good for a laugh this morning. He was looking forward to spending an hour with the older lady. She hadn’t asked him to wait in Leicester, having instead planned to travel home by train, so he would pick her up from the station, time to be confirmed.

  As he pulled up outside her house, he felt much more positive about things. He hated dwelling on something, hated it taking his mental energy and sapping his time, but he’d found himself involved with the case and while a part of him enjoyed it, a large part of him was incredibly frustrated with what little knowledge he did have. Maybe a journey with Birdie would help put things into perspective.

  Forty-Eight

  Will had been correct, the journey was just what he needed, and by the time they hit the outskirts of Leicester, he felt a whole lot more upbeat. Birdie had been ecstatic at the revelation concerning the tunnels. She had heard about them as a youngster but had never actually seen one nor been anywhere near one and, like a lot of locals, assumed it was fable, folklore and they didn’t really exist. Some said they were just a batch of interconnecting cellars where people stored things back in the seventeenth century, and others were adamant that the tunnels were linked and headed somewhere. From Will’s research the previous night he knew there were underground rooms at the county club as well as quite a maze of chambers under Market Square itself. While in the car, Birdie had spent some time looking up what she could via her phone and came up with a story about St Thomas à Becket. It seemed the man’s infamous escape from the Castle was a well-documented part of twelfth-century history, but how the then Archbishop of Canterbury managed to flee from the fortress still remained a mystery. Local myth said that he’d escaped from the clutches of Henry II thanks to a tunnel that linked the Castle to All Saints’ Church on George Row. How true it was, she had no idea; it was only a rumour and a hell of a long time ago. But it definitely seemed that there were several religious houses surrounding the town that might link back to All Saints’ Church, and if you were to draw lines between them all, you’d uncover a starlike pattern. If there weren’t tunnels underneath the town, there was certainly evidence of vaulted crypts. The church itself used one as a boiler room.

  “Anyway,” said Birdie excitedly as she put her phone back in her pocket, “it’s exciting nonetheless. Who would know that under our old town was such history?”

  “Agreed.”

  “Let me ask you this, Will,” she said. “What makes you think tunnels or crypts, or empty old rooms or whatever they are, are linked to the deaths, just the odour you picked up?”

  “Yes, unfortunately. I don’t have anything else to link them at this stage,” he said. “Just a gut feeling, which is nothing I know, and the police would laugh me out of the station.”

  “That they would,” she said. “You need something more concrete don’t you, excuse the pun.”

  “I thought if I could get into another of the tunnels, I could perhaps take a scraping off the wall and the floor. It’s easy enough to get a little pot to put the particles in so forensics can compare them to what debris they took from Bowie’s clothing. If they found anything, of course; they might not have. Same with Clyde. Plus, with so many tunnels and cellars and the like, they are bound to give varying results and they won’t have the budget or resources to test them all. That’s where we come in, is what I’m thinking.”

  “It’s a good idea, but a long shot.”

  “I know. If the rooms and the tunnels are nothing to do with it, fine, but I don’t suppose the police have got much more either, from an evidence point of view. Both lads lived on the street, remember, so most of what’s found on their clothing would likely be useless. Not like you and me where our clothes have been through the washing machine regularly.”

  “What about your friend, Jonesy? Wasn’t he there last night to speak to you?”

  “No, but he often goes walkabouts apparently, so he likely found friends somewhere else and will be hanging out with them.”

  “I don’t suppose your policewoman with the blue hair has been in contact with anything?”

  “No, she just thinks I’m a joke, I’m afraid – interfering. I’m going to give her a call later and see if they’ve got any results back off that blue pen I found, though probably nothing.” Will sounded disheartened to his own ears, not the way he wanted to be. Birdie had picked him up when she’d first got in the car, but all the negative talk of the case was beginning to drag him down again. His phone ringing interrupted his thoughts and he debated answering it since he had a passenger. From glancing at the screen, he noted it was Sanjeev.

  As if reading his mind, Birdie said, “Don’t mind me.”

  “If you don’t mind? Only, he’s a regular.” Will said, double-checking.

  “Go for it,” she said again, and Will clicked answer.

  “Hi Sanjeev, what can I do for you?” The car filled with background noise, but nobody spoke. Will tried again. “Sanjeev? It’s Will here, do you need a lift?”

  A slight stutter and then finally the caller spoke. “It’s Sanjeev, Will. Can I book a lift, please?”

  Will smiled and wondered not for the first time about the man’s lack of confidence; he assumed it went with his condition. It must be hard for him to form relationships, Sanjeev no doubt being the brunt of ridicule and hurtful jokes from his peers. It would be a patient individual that would get close to the man, that was if Sanjeev would even let them.

  “You can, my friend. What time and where from?”

  “The library, please. Two o’clock. Will you be there?”

  “Of course, not a problem. See you later.”

  Sanjeev had already gone, and Will disconnected. Birdie leaned forward from her seat in the rear and said, “I’m guessing he’s a handful, am I right?”

  Will smiled and caught her eye. “How could you tell?”

  “Life, Will. What’s his story?”

  Will wasn’t comfortable talking about his somewhat taxing customer and went with, “Let’s just say I’m extra patient with him, that I have to be. I can see the frustration in him some days and it makes me sad, but I can’t do anything for him but be patient. It is a whole lot harder for him than for me.” Will changed the subject back to his quandary at hand, the two murders.

  “What do you suggest I do, Birdie? With the murders, I mean.”

  She adjusted herself back in her seat. “Have yo
u any idea what either of them was strangled with?” she asked, picking up where they had left off.

  “No, only that it was something fairly deep, I’d estimate three or four inches or more. It looked like something with more surface area pressure, maybe a sleeve off something or a rolled-up towel, something like that.” He did his best to describe it, though he was no forensic expert. “What are you thinking, Birdie?”

  “Fortunately, we’re on our way to Cynthia’s. I wonder if she remembers a couple of the old cons we were inside with. There’s bound to be someone that strangled their victim, maybe she can shed some light on it. Worth asking.”

  It wasn’t long until they pulled up outside Cynthia’s address in Leicester. It was reasonable area, Will surmised, with the property a regular semi-detached box that looked out over fields at the front. Hers was one in a row of thirty or so, all fairly much the same, though some had different coloured trims or front gardens if they’d chosen to stay with grass rather than block paving. The majority had converted their gardens into parking spaces. Cynthia’s front garden was paved and Will parked his car next to what he assumed was Cynthia’s own. A net curtain in the living room window twitched slightly as Birdie opened the passenger door and Will helped her out. A moment later, another elderly lady was standing in the doorway with a smile as wide as a coat hanger. She looked trim in black cargo pants and a T-shirt that read ‘game on’ across her chest. Will had been expecting elasticated waist and a floral blouse, and the woman in front of them couldn’t have been any further from it.

  With open arms, the woman called out, “Well, if it isn’t Birdie Fox!”

  Will left the two women to it and wondered about their topics of conversation from times gone by. He would have liked to be a fly on that particular living room wall.