Where There’s A Will

by Coles, Linda

  “I hear you, Will,” she said. “The best thing you can do is keep yourself busy. There’s nothing you can do here. Carry on as normal, there’s plenty of people working this case now and I can’t tell you much else as you know, but thanks for your help so far.”

  “Thanks, but will you promise me that if you hear of anything, or if you think you have Jonesy, you’ll call me immediately?”

  “You have my word. Now go do something with the family, keep busy.”

  Rochelle had already gone, there was no point in Will asking anything else. He stood there for a moment, head bowed, not thinking of anything, not feeling anything, not wanting to do anything, but he also knew that if he spent the day in his current funk, it would be a day wasted. She was right, there was nothing he could do now but wait. He turned to see Louise making sandwiches for the picnic and wandered over, sliding a hand across her shoulder.

  “I’m coming too,” he said. “There’s no point moping around here all day for something that might or might not happen. That is if you want me to come?”

  “Of course, I’d love you to come,” she said warmly. “Plus, the girls love spending time with their dad and it’s no trouble to make more sandwiches. Now, why don’t you go get changed and as soon as I’m done here, we’ll head out?”

  “Then that’s what we’ll do,” he said.

  Thirty minutes later, and with four excited children secured in their respective seats, they set off towards Wicksteed Park, a short drive away in the nearby town of Kettering. It was always nice to watch their children, full of sugar, enjoy themselves, and by the end of the day they’d be tired out and sleeping soundly on the journey home.

  It was while they were driving back that Will’s phone rang and, glancing at the screen, he saw it was DI Mason. Something had happened. Since Will was driving, he debated whether to answer the call with the family in the car, but he needed to find out what she had. He clicked the green button on his steering wheel and said, “DI Mason, I have my family in the car with me, do you have some news?”

  There was a pause and Will suspected Rochelle was choosing her words carefully, knowing little ears could hear.

  “Maybe you could meet me at the mortuary as soon as you can.”

  Will didn’t need to ask. By her tone and the way she spoke, what she didn’t say, he knew they’d found Jonesy. “I’ll meet you there in an hour,” he said.

  Louise placed a hand on his thigh and squeezed it gently. “Would you like me to come with you?”

  “I’m getting tired of going to the mortuary,” he said. “But no, thank you, I’ll be fine on my own. I hope this is the last time, though.”

  Sixty-Five

  Seeing Jonesy laid out in the mortuary was a low point for Will and he fought to contain his emotions in front of Rochelle. He doubted she’d be the sympathetic kind and thought she’d likely wonder what to do with the blubbering male at her side. The other deaths had been bad enough, but having seen Jonesy only a couple of days ago, and him already escaping the first abduction, he wondered if his own asking him to go to the police and report what he knew had put his life in danger. He also wondered, and not for the first time, what it was all for. Was someone cleaning the streets of the homeless? Did they have a vendetta against them? Or was it something else? Either way, he hoped that DI Mason and the team would find out who was responsible and put a stop to it sooner than later. He’d spent far too much time at the mortuary of recent and he didn’t particularly want to identify any more bodies any time soon. Three was more than enough.

  He managed to chat a little with Rochelle while he was there, though she didn’t give much away. The same bruising around Jonesy’s neck was evident and he pondered that. When he mentioned strangulation to her, something flickered in her eyes and Will pressed her for an answer, but she said nothing. He assumed, by the marks on their necks, that they’d all been strangled, and with something wide, but eventually Rochelle relented and let it slip that this hadn’t actually been the case. The pathologist had surmised, in the first two cases, that the victims had been sedated before being smothered. It was news to him. She wouldn’t tell him any more and had likely gone out on a limb to tell him that snippet. Everything he knew had pointed to strangulation, yet thinking back, nobody had actually said it. Smothered? That took some doing. He wasn’t sure if he wanted coffee or alcohol, but he needed something to lift his mood; he didn’t want to bring his family’s happiness down to his level after such a lovely day out. He thought about ringing Birdie, she always cheered him up, but she was also a paying client and not someone that he could pick up the phone and have a good old moan to. Or was she?

  “Sod it,” he said and asked Siri to dial her number. She’d want to hear about the recent update and that it was in fact Jonesy that lay in the mortuary in a cold refrigerated unit alongside Clyde and Bowie. It was only a moment before Birdie’s voice filled his car, and as usual a smile found its way to his lips. It was hard not to with her.

  “Hello Will,” she said chirpily, almost like birdsong, and he wondered if that was why they called her Birdie. She’d never mentioned any other name.

  “Hello Birdie,” he said, trying to emulate her good spirits and failing miserably.

  Birdie picked up on his effort straight away. “What’s happened?” she asked.

  “I’ve just come back from the mortuary and identifying Jonesy’s body.”

  “Oh Will, I’m so sorry to hear that.”

  “I guess we now know who was in that cellar, we just don’t know who his abductor is. And there was another message left. ‘Checkmate’.”

  “Checkmate,” she echoed. “End of the game.”

  “That’s all I can think of, or game’s up, perhaps? Depending on your interpretation.”

  “What can I do to help?” she asked positively.

  “I’ve been thinking while I’ve been driving back. It’s obviously got to be someone that’s got access to the church and access to keys. Whether they volunteer or whether they’re on the payroll, I don’t know, but you can’t get into that cellar easily without going through the church. It would be far too difficult to get at it from the other end.”

  “I agree. So, we need to know who’s got access, who has a key, don’t we? Let me think on it for a moment,” she said, and Will gave her space. A moment later, she resumed, “Right, I think I have an idea, Will. Leave it with me and I’ll see if I can get this to work, then I’ll tell you what it is.”

  “What are you thinking, Birdie?”

  “Let me see if it’s possible first off, then I’ll fill you in.”

  “Before you go, Birdie,” Will called out, hoping that she hadn’t already gone but she had. He called her straight back. “I meant to add, I was talking to DI Mason while I was in the mortuary and she let it slip he wasn’t actually strangled, none of them were strangled. But the first two did have large quantities of sedative in their system and the pathologist says they’ve been smothered.”

  “That’s interesting,” she said. “That puts another slant on things.”

  “Why do you say that, what are you thinking?”

  “Sedation before suffocation really has only one purpose and that is to make it easier for the person doing the suffocating. Without a sedative they would fight just like they do on TV, get scratched even, but if someone is already sedated, they have no clue that they’re being suffocated, making it far easier for the killer. And quieter. Screaming into a pillow still makes a lot of noise.”

  “I’m guessing you know this from prison?”

  “Where else would I know that from?” she asked, a smile bouncing off her words. She had a point. “So, I’d say we’re looking for a feeble man or more likely a woman,” said Birdie matter-of-factly.

  “Do you think the police will have come to the same conclusion?”

  “I would expect so. The pathologist will have, no doubt. Pretty shabby one if they haven’t done, I’d say.”

  “So, we’re likely p
rimarily looking for a woman, that’s probably made things a bit easier. And one with access to drugs.”

  “Spot on, Will.”

  Sixty-Six

  Birdie wasted no time calling Cynthia. It had been fun catching up with her after all the years, and she’d spent a good deal of time thinking about how much the woman had changed, and for the good, particularly with her new career that she obviously loved. It just went to show you’re never too late to learn something new. Birdie had first had the idea when they’d met, vaguely discussed it with her, and so making the call to ask the question now, she already pretty much knew the answer. It would just depend on whether Cynthia would be intrigued enough to do it, and able to keep out of any possible trouble that eventuated. When she had asked about hacking into someone’s computer system, she hadn’t thought that she’d be asking her friend to do just that and quite so soon. Birdie had figured it might be something for the future, though the target was never going to be something as elaborate and secure as a police database or a hospital, for instance. But a church? They probably had little or no security, making it a doddle. Anyway, all she wanted to know was who was a volunteer or employee there, and whether they had access to a key. There were bound to be emails back and forth, bound to be payroll and a list of volunteers on a roster even, because she doubted those that served coffee after worship were paid employees. Churches around the country were always fundraising and relied heavily on the goodwill and support of others, there weren’t funds available for wages for all. She had to find out who those people were, and she hoped there weren’t too many of them.

  “You want me to do what?” Cynthia asked. Her reaction didn’t sound as positive to Birdie’s ears as she’d hoped.

  “Come ooon,” she said, drawing out the last word a little. “You know you’re quite capable to do it, and this is your chance to do some good, like Will and I are doing. All we need to know is who has a key to get into the church. The police are probably already doing the same thing, but we can’t get access to their information, so we’re doing it ourselves.”

  “A couple of vigilantes are you, then? Through the back door?” said Cynthia, though not scornfully. Birdie could detect the smile at the end of the sentence.

  “Let’s just say I’m long done being a bad girl, it’s much better to be the good girl. Maybe you’d like to help?”

  There was a silence on the line while Cynthia thought about it. When she finally gave a long heavy sigh, Birdie knew what the response was going to be.

  “I’ll give it a go,” she said. “But no promises.”

  “Great, I knew you would,” said Birdie, doing an air punch. “Their addresses would be good if you could, but hey, we’ll take what we can. How long do you think it will take you?”

  “Hold your horses,” said Cynthia. “Let me just think for a moment.”

  The line was quiet while Birdie waited. She felt like whistling to fill in the space but refrained.

  “Okay,” said Cynthia. “I can rearrange what I’ve got to do today, so let me work on it now and hopefully I’ll have something to you by close of play, but like I said, no promises.”

  “I’m excited already,” said Birdie. “I’ll wait to hear from you.”

  Birdie sat in her chair in the big house on her own, pondering what to do next. She wondered what Cynthia would come back with and googled the church in the meantime to see when the next service was. There was one later on that evening and, of course, Sunday, tomorrow. She knew which one would be the most popular, with morning coffee served afterwards. It was a chance to mix and mingle, eavesdrop and see if she could find anything out. Not from the worshippers, not from those in the congregation, but from the volunteers, the vicar, perhaps the sexton and whoever else might be willing to chat. She called Will back and told him of the plan and that hopefully she’d have names by the end of the day. Did he want to join her at church the following morning? Of course he did.

  “Should we invite Stanley too, do you think?” Will asked.

  “I’ll ask him,” said Birdie. “I don’t suspect he’s one for worship, though.”

  “I’m not a regular by any stretch – weddings and funerals are about it.”

  “Like so many of us. I’ll call him anyway,” she said. “It will do him good. Maybe the coffee and biscuits at the end will tempt him to attend.”

  “Well, tell him to make sure he’s got shoes on, and not his slippers,” said Will, laughing at Stanley’s sodden feet the previous day.

  “I guess we’ll need picking up, then.”

  “Let me know what time, then leave it to me.”

  Sixty-Seven

  Back at the police station, DI Mason and the rest of the EMSOU team were working furiously on the new lead. Fortunately for them, another victim meant more clues to work with, as invariably the killer got sloppier with each body they presented. The actual times in between finding each victim hadn’t changed, but as they gained more confidence often something slipped. Like leaving food wrappers behind. Why take every other piece of evidence away apart from something that linked all three victims to one room?

  A fisherman had eventually stumbled upon Jonesy’s body after he’d gone into the bushes to relieve himself early on Saturday morning. He’d had the shock of his life and originally thought the man was sleeping off a night on the town, but when he thought about the location, he knew it didn’t fit. He’d ventured over and touched him gently, not wanting to scare him, but the body had been freezing cold. He’d checked for a pulse then recoiled at the bruises on the man’s neck. There was no doubt he was dead, and had likely been there all night, if not longer. Knowing from too many TV dramas not to touch anything else, he’d immediately called the police. Being Saturday morning, the few businesses in the surrounding area were not occupied, and in the absence of CCTV footage from down the lane, their priority had been to find those business owners and hope they had private security footage of their own they could tap into. There wouldn’t be many vehicles that drove down the lane towards the lake.

  Teams had been set up and they’d promptly gained access to the premises and were now in possession of said footage. DC Flint and a colleague were working their way through it, but since they didn’t know the exact time frame, or what vehicle they were searching for, it was a laborious job. It appeared the lane was, in fact, quite popular. They knew the body had been moved and they themselves had been in the cellars underneath the church during the afternoon, so working backwards from then, they scrolled through the morning footage first. It made sense that the person wouldn’t want to drive around with a body in their boot for long, they’d want to get rid of it. Would they have waited till darkness, though? Like they had on Hunsbury Hill? It was possible.

  By 8 pm, DC Flint had narrowed it down to four vehicles. One of them was a black Mercedes, and when he checked the registration, he discovered it was registered to a local funeral home, Sanders and Co. It seemed an odd vehicle to be travelling down that lane, and certainly not a common vehicle to go fishing in. From the grainy prints they’d managed to get from a nearby recording, they surmised that there were two people sitting up front. They then used the ANPR cameras to retrace the journey of the vehicle and caught it on several through the town centre. Via the number plate recognition system, they then managed to track the vehicle near the funeral home and in the vicinity of the church, as well as making the journey out towards Delapré Park and the lake area. They had to have the right one. Finally, Flint cross-checked the locations with CCTV cameras to get a better look at the occupants. The images, however, weren’t clear enough to do much with.

  “Do you want to follow it up now?” Flint asked DI Mason. “Or wait till tomorrow?”

  She looked at the clock on the wall. It was getting late, and the team needed their rest. “I’ll call in on Mr Sanders on my way home. You get yourself home.”

  “I’ll come with you,” said Flint, always up for a bit of action. He had big plans; he wasn’t going to sta
y detective constable for any longer than he had to. He grabbed his jacket and the two set out.

  Flint pulled up behind Rochelle’s motorbike and the two walked towards the house together. DI Mason knocked on the front door of Duncan Sanders, the funeral director. It was opened by a burly man and the two introduced themselves, flashing their warrant cards. Even though it had been dark that night, she remembered him clearly from the exhumation.

  “May we come in for a moment, Mr Sanders?”

  “Of course. What is this about?” If he recognised her, he didn’t show it.

  “You’ll likely be aware of the recent murders, I expect,” DI Mason said as they walked down the hallway. Mr Sanders showed them through to a warm and inviting living room where he turned the TV off. A woman stood.

  “This is my wife, Monica,” Duncan said. “Do you need to speak to her too? It’s the police, dear,” he said, turning towards her. “They’re investigating the recent murders.”

  “Oh,” she said. “How can we help? And please take a seat.” She pointed to the sofa and Flint and Mason sat down.

  “I’ll get straight to the point,” Rochelle said. “Can you tell me why one of your vehicles was down Ransome Lane late yesterday morning, heading towards the lake?” Preamble was not her strong point and she didn’t feel the need to warm them up with insignificant questions.

  “One of our vehicles?” asked Duncan. “Are you sure? Only we had just the one funeral on yesterday, in the afternoon as it happens, so unless somebody took one of the cars out for some other reason that I’m not aware of… I don’t know why they would, though. Are you sure you have the registration correct?”