A Place To Bury Strangers (Atticus Priest Book 2)

by Mark Dawson

  “We found that in the jawbone,” Williams said.

  Mack looked more closely. “An implant?”

  “An endosteal implant,” Williams confirmed. “The most common type that we see. Someone loses a tooth for whatever reason and goes to see the dentist—this kind of treatment is what probably happens. You have a titanium screw fused to the jawbone so a false tooth can be fitted. It has a rough, textured surface to increase the osteointegration potential of the implant.”

  “Which means?”

  “The likelihood that the bone will form a secure bond with the metal. The issue we have here is that this implant was etched by way of anodic oxidation. That’s only been practical for the last twenty years or so. I did a radiographic examination of the implant to see if I could get a better idea, and my best estimate is that the work was done somewhere between 2000 and 2005.”

  “No,” Mack said. “Not possible. I’ve checked—the last body was buried in the churchyard in 1942.”

  “Apparently not,” Fyfe said. “That might have been the last official burial, but Amy went into the ground significantly later than that. At least sixty years later.”

  Mack hung her head and exhaled. She had thought that the discovery would be easily explained, but now that bubble had burst.

  “I’m sorry,” Fyfe said. “It’s not going to be quite as easy to dispose of this case as it first appeared.”

  The first thought that struck her sucked the strength out of her; they were going to have to dig up the graveyard to see whether Amy was the only aberrant inclusion, or whether the disturbed ground was hiding other secrets.

  28

  Atticus opened his eyes and, for a moment, had no idea where he was. He was lying on his back on a bed rather than the futon that he was used to back at the office. The ceiling was higher, and the walls were painted a soft green rather than the neutral magnolia that his landlady insisted upon. The room smelled different, too; patchouli oil, he thought, rather than the fusty smell of clothes that really needed to be washed. He felt movement to his right, and, as he turned, he saw the shape of a second person beneath a single sheet. He saw a naked shoulder and a halo of dark hair that spilled over the cream pillowcase. He remembered: he had gone out with Jessica Edwards for a quick drink after he had given the police a statement about the drug house, and that drink had led to another and then another. The evening was lost in a fugue of alcohol and spliff, but it wasn’t difficult to put it all together.

  Atticus heard a buzzing sound and, turning his head, he saw his phone on a bedside table. It was jerking left and right with the vibration of an incoming call. He reached over and grabbed it, holding the screen in front of his face until his eyes focused enough for him to read who was calling.

  It was Mack.

  He spoke quietly. “Hello?”

  “Atticus?”

  Atticus looked over at Jessica, still asleep, and felt a ridiculous buzz of shame.

  “Hold on.”

  He carefully sat up, swung his legs around and got off the bed. The mattress springs creaked in protest, and Jessica stirred, turning over and mumbling something under her breath. Atticus froze, the phone still pressed to his ear as he waited to see whether she would awake.

  “Atticus?”

  Jessica sighed, stretched an arm toward the warm patch of bed where he had been, and drifted back into a deep sleep once more.

  “I’m here,” Atticus whispered as he crept across the bedroom to the hall.

  “Where?”

  “London,” he said.

  “Why are you in London?”

  “The missing persons case.”

  “And?”

  “And she’s not missing anymore.”

  “Why are you whispering?”

  He crept down the stairs and saw his clothes—or some of them, at least—across the back of the sofa. “No reason.”

  “Are you with someone?”

  He felt the shame again, as if he had been caught in flagrante, before chiding himself for it. Why? There was no reason for him to feel that way. He and Mack were not involved. It wasn’t as if he had been unfaithful.

  “I met someone last night.”

  He listened for any note of regret in her response. “You sly dog,” she said. “Who is she?”

  “Just someone I met,” he said, disappointed that she’d made no obvious reaction.

  “Be nice to her.”

  “I always am.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “Unfair,” he protested, but, before he could defend himself, Mack had moved on.

  “I’m at the mortuary. I had an early meeting with Fyfe. You know it looked like we might be able to close that inquiry down?”

  “The bones in the churchyard?”

  “Fyfe examined them overnight, and it’s not what we expected. The last body that was officially buried in the churchyard was in the forties.”

  “And this one?”

  “Has dental work that can’t be any more than twenty years old, give or take. Whoever it is, they died no earlier than the late nineties.”

  Atticus lowered himself down onto the edge of the sofa. “Shit,” he said.

  “Exactly.”

  Atticus went through into the downstairs bathroom and gently pulled the door closed.

  “What’s next?”

  “I’m going to have to speak to Beckton.”

  “Recommending what? Dig up the graveyard?”

  “You got any other ideas?”

  He shook his head. Mack’s life was about to get a lot busier and more complicated. “I don’t think you have a choice.”

  “No. But I’ll admit I was hoping you might have something brilliant I could try instead.”

  “I’m afraid it’s too early for that. Look—I’m headed back now. If you need a second opinion—”

  She cut him off. “Go and be nice to whoever was foolish enough to get tangled up with you. I’ll give you a call later—I wouldn’t mind bouncing ideas off you once we know what we’re dealing with.”

  “Whenever you like,” he said. “You know where I am.”

  He ended the call and reached for his clothes. He had a hangover, probably milder than he deserved, and he was hungry. Had they eaten last night? There had been talk of it, but he suspected that they had limited themselves to liquid refreshment and the bag of dope that Finn had given him. He would grab something from the station and eat it on the train. He dressed, smelling the sweetness of the marijuana on his clothing. He didn’t even know where this house was, so he took his phone again, opened the map and waited for the GPS to find him. It appeared he was in Bow.

  He went back to look into the bedroom. Jessica was still asleep and snoring very lightly. Atticus told himself that he didn’t have the heart to wake her, but knew that was just an excuse to save himself the possibility of an embarrassing conversation. He felt like a heel as he backed away, wincing as his feet found a loose board that squeaked in protest as he put his weight on it.

  He crossed the room to the front door, stepped outside and followed the directions on his phone to the tube station.

  29

  Mack parked in the car park behind the station. She got out of the car when she saw a man in a grey overcoat coming toward her.

  “DCI Jones?”

  “That’s right. Who are you?”

  He held out an envelope; Mack took it without thinking.

  “I work for your husband’s solicitor,” he said. “You’re served.”

  He hurried away to a waiting car. Mack held up the envelope. It was addressed to her, the ink already running in the rain. She opened the top and pulled out the contents; she saw a petition with the royal coat of arms and a stamp that indicated that it had been issued and an Acknowledgement of Service that she was supposed to complete and return. She skimmed the petition and saw that adultery had been listed as the grounds for divorce. Mack knew how it would proceed from watching Robbie Best’s divorce last year. Andy would apply fo
r a decree nisi, and then the court would issue a decree absolute. The procedure was underway, and there was nothing that she could do to stop it.

  Mack closed her eyes, fighting the urge to scream, and stuffed the envelope into her bag. She was too busy to worry about shit like this. It would have to wait.

  Mack pushed open the glass double doors, held her Wiltshire Police ID against the scanner and waited for the lift. It arrived and she stepped inside, held her card against the reader and then pressed the button for the third floor. General CID was on this floor, with major crimes—and her own office—upstairs. She crossed the open-plan office, stopped in the kitchen to make herself a cup of coffee, and then passed along the corridor that led to forensics until she reached Beckton’s office.

  Mack could see him through the glass door. She knocked on it.

  “Come!”

  Mack held her coffee in her left hand, turned the handle with her right, and opened the door. The office beyond wasn’t the largest in the building, but, thanks to its position, its window offered an excellent view of the cathedral. Beckton split his time between Salisbury and Devizes, where Wiltshire Police had its headquarters. As a result, this office was not furnished with anything that might reveal the character of its occupant. It felt unloved and unfinished, with just a single framed photograph of Beckton in full dress uniform accepting an award for good policing from a daytime TV presenter at an event in London.

  “Good morning, sir. Can I have a minute?”

  “Of course, Mack. Come in.”

  She stepped inside and closed the door behind her.

  “Everything all right with Mallender?”

  “All good, sir.”

  “Do you know when they’ll be sentenced?”

  “Next week.”

  “It’s a relief to have the bloody thing out of the way. I’ve never seen so many reporters in town. Maybe they’ll all piss off back to London now the show’s over, and we can get back to normal.”

  “Couldn’t agree more.”

  He gestured for her to sit. “What can I do for you?”

  She took one of the empty seats opposite the desk. “Did you read my email about the bone we found on the Plain?”

  “I did. You traced it back to Imber?”

  “Yes, sir. But it’s not what we thought.”

  “The bone wasn’t scavenged?”

  “It was, but that’s not it. The last body buried in the graveyard was eighty years ago. The bones we’ve found went in the ground no earlier than twenty years ago.”

  Beckton groaned. “God.”

  “There was no one even living in Imber when the bones were buried.”

  “I read about it—didn’t some of the villagers who moved out want to go back?”

  “They must almost all be dead now,” Mack said. “Why?”

  “There were villagers who said they wanted to be buried in the graveyard. Wives next to husbands, children next to their parents—you know.”

  “There have been burials in the churchyard of St. Giles since the village was abandoned,” she said. “I checked. But this isn’t the church—it’s the Baptist chapel. There haven’t been any additional burials there. It’s not impossible that she’s connected to Imber, and that someone buried her there because of it, but I wouldn’t be comfortable betting too much on that.”

  “She? It’s a woman?”

  “A teenage girl. Fifteen, we think.”

  “Cause of death?”

  “Fyfe is conducting a full PM today.”

  “And you’ll keep me posted?”

  “Yes, sir. Of course.”

  Mack made no move to leave.

  “Why do I get the feeling you’re about to ask me to do something that I’m not going to like?”

  Mack smiled ruefully. “I’d like permission to look for other bodies that shouldn’t be there.”

  “You want to dig it up?”

  “I think we have to assume that might be necessary.”

  “You know exhumations are a nightmare to arrange?”

  “I’ve never done it, sir, but I can well imagine.”

  “We’ll need a licence from the Ministry of Justice. You need someone from Environmental Health on-site, probably some from the council’s health and safety team, too. And we’ll have to tell the relatives that we’re digging up grandad and grandma as well.”

  “I wish I could think of an alternative, but I can’t.”

  “We’ll need forensic archaeology on site. Ground-penetrating radar.”

  Mack shrugged. “I’m sorry, sir.”

  Beckton exhaled, steepled his fingers and then rested his chin on them. “Tell you what,” he said. “If Fyfe tells you that there’s any suspicion of foul play, I’ll get the licence for you, and then we can put our heads together and work out everything you’ll need.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Mack went through into her office and closed the door. She knew that she was going to have to brief her team about what they had discovered today, and found—to her annoyance—that there was only one person with whom she wanted to have that conversation. She had been thinking about Atticus since she had spoken to him that morning, and had realised—and this annoyed her even more—that she was jealous of whoever it was he had been with last night.

  But she had something now that she knew he would find irresistible.

  She took out her phone and called him.

  30

  Atticus took a seat at a table at the back of the restaurant. Salisbury wasn’t blessed with a wide range of culinary destinations, but Anokaa was the best Indian in town, and he had never had a bad meal here. It had also been one of the places that he and Mack had frequented during their relationship. It was big, and there were plenty of places where you could be discreet, with tables that couldn’t easily be seen by anyone who might be walking by outside.

  He had just taken off his coat and sat down when he saw Mack at the entrance. He raised his hand in greeting. She smiled, said something to the waiter who had diverted to attend to her, and then made her way across the room to him.

  “You look done in,” he said.

  “It’s been quite a day.”

  The waiter, wearing traditional dress, brought them a bottle of wine. Atticus put his hand over his glass; the waiter poured for Mack and then left the bottle on the table.

  “Not drinking?” Mack asked him.

  “Still a little hungover.”

  “I had a skinful last night, too,” she admitted.

  “Why?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  Atticus took his glass of water and touched it to her wine glass. Mack drank, then sighed and leaned back in her chair. She chuckled wryly to herself, and Atticus saw the tension release from her shoulders. She drank again, emptying the glass and then poured another.

  “Easy, tiger,” Atticus said.

  Mack winked and took another sip. Atticus was aware that she was looking inquisitively at him over the top of her glass.

  “So,” she said.

  “So?”

  “The mystery girl. Who is she?”

  “No one,” Atticus said.

  “Come on—stop being coy. Tell me everything.”

  “There’s not much to tell. She’s just someone I met.”

  “Tinder?”

  “What? No! I met her in London. Well,” he corrected himself, “I met her here, actually. She’s from the Met.”

  “Doing what?”

  “You heard of Operation Orochi?”

  “County Lines?” Mack said.

  “She’s a DC. She came down on a joint operation with the drugs squad in Melksham.”

  “I think I might have met her. Is her name Jessica?”

  “Yes.”

  “She came into the nick. She’s pretty.”

  Atticus felt the heat rising in his cheeks a little. He didn’t like the idea of Mack knowing Jessica, not after what had happened. “The kid she was after was selling out of a house
on Payne’s Hill.”

  “And your runaway?”

  “She met the boy here and went back to London with him. I told Jessica where to find him. We went out for a drink to celebrate and—”

  “I don’t need all the details,” she said, stopping him with an upheld hand.

  Atticus was a savant in many ways, able to read people for the most infinitesimally small reactions, but, when it came to his feelings for Mack—and especially when it came to her feelings for him—he was hopeless. He couldn’t work out whether Mack was interested in him as a friend—because the interest in Jessica was what one would expect from a friend—or because she was jealous.

  He decided to change the subject. “What about you and Andy?”

  “What about it?”

  “You haven’t made up yet?”

  She finished the glass of wine and shook her head. “I’m not sure that’s an option.”

  Atticus leaned in a little. That was the first time Mack had suggested that might be a possibility.

  “What about the kids?”

  “I see them twice a week. They’re with him. It’s better that way. He’s better at being a parent than I am. He always has been.”

  “That’s not true,” he said. “You’re a great mum.”

  She exhaled and shook her head. “We both know that’s not true. Me and you would never have happened if I were, would it?”

  Atticus wanted to say more, but he could see that the subject of the conversation was difficult for her. The evening had the potential to descend into the maudlin, and he was grateful when the waiter arrived to take their orders. Atticus chose the chicken bhuna and Mack the pot-baked lamb biriyani. The waiter thanked them and made his way to the kitchen.

  “What about Imber?” Atticus asked her. “That’s what you want to talk about.”

  “I’ve been out there all day.”

  “Why? I thought that was all done.”