A Place To Bury Strangers (Atticus Priest Book 2)

by Mark Dawson

  Fyfe was crouching down next to the officer who was excavating the earth around the remains. He looked up and caught Mack’s eye. He looked sombre. Mack knew what he was thinking because she felt it, too: someone had been using the graveyard as a place to bury their victims. Amy might have been buried twenty years ago, but this body—whoever it was—had gone into the ground recently.

  Killers, in Mack’s experience, did not leave twenty years between their murders.

  She was uneasy about the secrets that the graveyard might yet soon divulge.

  Part V

  Friday

  36

  Mack found her dreams returning to a field of bones in an abandoned village. She imagined the dead, those who had been buried there a hundred years ago and those who had gone into the ground more recently than that. Sleep was fitful, and, as the clock on the bedside table showed four thirty, she gave up. She took her book and went to sit by the window, looking down onto the junction of New Street and Exeter Street. Even then, though, she was distracted. Atticus’s office was just five minutes away, and she couldn’t help thinking of him.

  How would he have responded to the news of the second body last night?

  What would he have done?

  Thinking about him made her feel guilty and, tired and thoroughly annoyed with herself, she took a shower and prepared herself for the day. The press conference had been scheduled for nine, and, as senior investigating officer, she would lead it in tandem with Chief Superintendent Beckton.

  Mack walked to the station. There were two outside broadcast vans with satellite dishes on their roofs in the car park, with technicians working on banks of equipment that she could see through the open rear doors.

  Mary Winkworth was waiting for her in her office.

  “Busy already,” Mack observed.

  “We kept it local,” Winkworth said, “but the news spread fast. The BBC and Sky have sent correspondents. It’ll be on the news at lunch.”

  “Right.”

  “You okay with that? Mallender was big.”

  She nodded. “They hammered me after that, too—at least it should’ve toughened me up.”

  “You’ll be fine,” Mary said. She checked her watch. “We start in an hour. I’d get down there twenty minutes before if I were you so we can run through what it’ll look like.”

  Mack said that she would. She got up, in need of a cup of coffee, but before she could follow Mary out of the office, she saw Professor Fyfe making his way across the CID room. It looked as if he was wearing the same clothes as yesterday. His trousers were crusted with dried mud that must have got inside the cuffs of his Noddy suit, and his shirt was crumpled and unironed. He looked exhausted.

  “Good morning, Mack.”

  “Have you been home yet?”

  He shook his head. “We haven’t stopped. I’m going to go home after this, but I have an update for you—I thought I should come and speak to you in person. You’re speaking to the press?”

  “In an hour.”

  “You’ll need to know what we found last night, then.”

  “I need a coffee first. Want one?”

  He said that he did. Mack told him to wait in her office and went into the small kitchen. The kettle was already boiled. She took two cups and shovelled coffee into both, adding water but forgoing milk, and brought them back to her office.

  She handed one cup to Fyfe and sat down. “What do you have for me?”

  “Another three bodies.”

  “Three more?”

  He nodded. “Making five in total. We’re testing them now. I’ll let you know when I have results, but I think we should prepare for the worst. They all went into the ground in the last few years—closer in time to the body we dug up yesterday than to Amy.”

  “It must be the same killer.”

  “That would seem to be the most likely explanation.”

  “Let’s keep it to ourselves for now,” she said. “I don’t want that coming up at the press conference until we have a little more to say. I’ll just be speculating until then.”

  “Agreed.”

  “What about the body we found yesterday?”

  Fyfe sipped his coffee. “He’s at the mortuary.”

  “Male? You’re sure?”

  “Definitely. And there’s something unusual about him. He had a prosthetic leg. The prosthesis is missing, but the socket was still there.”

  “Can we identify him from it?”

  “I think it’s quite likely. I’ve scheduled the PM for later. I need some sleep first.”

  “And you’ll let me know?”

  He got up. “Straight away.”

  Mack thanked him. He zipped up his muddy jacket and left the room. Mack watched him cross to the lifts, and then took out her notebook and started to jot down the things that she wanted to cover—and the things that she could not—in preparation for her statement to the press.

  37

  Mack took the stairs to the ground floor. The press had gathered in the largest of the building’s conference rooms. She looked inside through the glass panel in the door. The table had been removed and replaced by four rows of seats, five to each row. It wasn’t really designed for an event like this, and the reporters, photographers and camera operators were jammed in tight. The seats were all taken and so was the space behind them. A long trestle table that had been covered with a white cloth faced the audience. Mary Winkworth had printed out their names on pieces of card and then folded them over so that they were visible to the crowd: Mack was on the left, and Beckton was on the right.

  Winkworth stepped out of a room along the corridor and called Mack over. Chief Superintendent Beckton was waiting for Mack inside.

  “Quick run-through,” Winkworth said. “Chief Superintendent, it would be best if you opened the conference and then hand over to Mack.”

  “Of course,” Beckton said.

  “Keep it simple, Mack,” Winkworth suggested. “Don’t be tempted to give them any more than you’re comfortable with.”

  “Understood.”

  Winkworth looked at her watch. “A minute to go,” she said. “Are you both ready?”

  “I just need a moment with the chief superintendent,” Mack said.

  “I’ll see you in there, then.” Winkworth opened the door and went into the conference room.

  “What is it?” Beckton said.

  “I just spoke to Fyfe. They found three more bodies last night.”

  Beckton swore.

  “I know,” Mack said.

  “Does anyone else know?”

  “Outside the team? I don’t know. The press found out about the others very quickly.”

  “We play any questions on that with a straight bat,” Beckton said. “We’re not getting into details this morning. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” Mack said.

  “Ready?”

  Mack said that she was. Beckton pushed the door and led the way inside.

  Mack took her seat as Winkworth explained to the reporters how the press conference would work. She said that there would be statements from Chief Superintendent Beckton and then Mack, and then there would be a brief opportunity for questions to be asked. Mack looked out into the room full of expectant faces and found that her throat had gone dry. She had had experience of press attention during the investigation at Grovely Farmhouse, but she had never been able to conquer her fear that she would say something that she shouldn’t. The Christmas Eve Massacre had been a cause célèbre, a multiple murder that had not turned out to be quite as had originally seemed to be the case. This, though, had the potential to be much, much more notorious.

  Winkworth finished her introduction and handed over to Beckton.

  “Thank you all for coming,” he said. “As you know, two bodies have been discovered in suspicious circumstances on Salisbury Plain. We are currently investigating the discoveries, and I’ll hand over to DCI Mackenzie Jones now to take you through what we’ve found so far. Mack?” />
  That was it? Mack had expected a little more of a lead-in, but that, apparently, was all she was going to get. She cleared her throat and opened her notebook.

  “Thank you, sir.” Cameras whirred, and there was a volley of flashes as her picture was taken. She blinked the glare away. “On Monday, a member of the public alerted us to what he thought was a human bone that he found while walking his dog on Salisbury Plain. Subsequent tests confirmed that it was, indeed, human. We searched the immediate area, but did not find any other remains. We then broadened the search to include the village of Imber, two miles from where the bone was discovered. There are two graveyards in the village, and it was in the graveyard that used to serve the Baptist community there that we found a grave that we believe had been disturbed by army exercises. We believe that a mortar round exploded in the graveyard and exposed a set of remains. An animal—a fox, most likely—was responsible for removing the bone.”

  She looked down at her notes to compose herself; she knew that what she had to say next would ignite the story. There was nothing that she could do to change that, though.

  “The Home Office pathologist examined the bones and concluded that they were buried no later than twenty years ago. Since the last burial in the churchyard was in the 1940s, it was immediately obvious that this was something that warranted further investigation. An examination was carried out and concluded that the skeleton showed evidence of violence, in particular that the victim had been killed by strangulation. At that point, a murder investigation was established.”

  “And now you’ve found multiple victims?”

  Mack looked up into the banks of reporters, unable to see who had asked the question. Flashes fired again, and she looked back down at her notes, blinking the light away.

  Multiple victims?

  They knew already.

  She took a sip of water. “The area in the churchyard where the body was found is now being examined in detail. Although there is not much that I can tell you at this stage, I can say that the forensic officers at the scene believe that they have uncovered a second set of remains that could not have been legitimately buried there. A post-mortem has been scheduled for today, and we will share any further updates as appropriate.”

  “But you’ve found more than two bodies,” the same reporter called out.

  “Is that true?” another said.

  “How many bodies have you found?” asked a third.

  Beckton held up his hand. “Please be assured that we are doing absolutely everything we can to find whoever was responsible and try to understand exactly what happened.”

  “It’s more than two, isn’t it?”

  “I’m not going to be drawn into speculation at this stage,” Beckton said. “Detectives are following a number of lines of enquiry. We’re urging anyone who knows anything about the remains to get in contact as soon as possible.” He looked into the closest camera lens and addressed the watching audience directly. “We think it is very likely that members of the public will be able to help. Any information that they might have could be crucial to our investigation.”

  There was tension in the room, and Mack would have preferred to go back upstairs and get down to work, but Mary Winkworth stood up and announced that they would take a few questions.

  A reporter near the front of the room raised her hand, and Winkworth pointed to her.

  “Cheryl Rodgers,” she said, “Salisbury Journal. Question for DCI Jones. Are you still digging at the churchyard?”

  “We are,” Mack said.

  “And do you think you’ll find additional remains?”

  “That has to be a possibility.”

  The reporter who had interrupted before now did so again. “Ian Bird from the Sun. I’ve been told that you found more remains last night. How many bodies have you found?”

  Mack shuffled uncomfortably. “I can’t comment on that at the moment. But, as I just said, we think it is possible that there will be more bodies. We are continuing to dig. If there are other bodies there that shouldn’t be, we’ll find them.”

  Winkworth pointed to another reporter with his hand raised.

  “Can you give us an idea of what you think might have happened?”

  “It’s too early for that,” Mack said.

  “But it has to be likely that the same person who killed the first person is responsible for the second?”

  “And the others!” Bird called out.

  “As I said, it’s too early to speculate.”

  “One more question,” Winkworth said.

  A woman at the back of the room whom Mack recognised raised her hand.

  “Victoria Bishop, BBC Wiltshire. DCI Jones—you were in charge of the investigation into the Christmas Eve Massacre.”

  Bishop had been responsible for a number of negative reports from the early days of the Mallender inquiry, and Mack already knew where this was going to end up. “I was.”

  “The wrong man was initially charged in that case. Why should the public trust you to get it right this time? Shouldn’t someone else be in charge?”

  Mack glanced over to see whether Beckton would defend her, but, seeing him gazing cravenly down at the desk, she saw that she was going to have to deal with this herself.

  “Mistakes were made in the Mallender inquiry, but Allegra Mallender and Tristan Lennox were ultimately found guilty of all charges against them. We made mistakes, yes. But those mistakes were corrected, and the guilty parties were convicted. I can assure you that what happened in January last year will not be something that’ll distract me from this investigation.”

  “I wasn’t asking about whether you’d be distracted,” Bishop pressed. “I was asking if it was right—given that this is likely to be a significant investigation and that there are some questions about how the last inquiry was conducted—that you should be in charge.”

  Finally, Beckton came to her defence. “DCI Jones is one of our very best detectives. She has my complete confidence.” He held up his hands to stifle the competing follow-up questions. “That’s all for now. This is already a fast-moving investigation, and we have several leads that we need to follow up. I’d just say again that if any members of the public have information that they think might be of use in understanding what has happened here, then they should call Bourne Hill police station or, if they’d rather speak anonymously, they can call Crimestoppers. Thank you.”

  Winkworth thanked the journalists for attending, and they started to make their way outside. Mack knew that there would be many more of them than this the next time that a briefing was held. She hadn’t mentioned the likelihood that the same person was responsible for burying the bodies in the churchyard. But the thought of a serial killer would be like catnip to the men and women now making their way outside. Mack knew, with a sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach, that the inquiry was going to be challenging and that she was going to be its public face. That was a pressure she could have done without.

  “Well done, Mack,” Beckton said as the room cleared.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “That last question. There was something in it.”

  “About my competence?”

  “I don’t have any doubts in that regard, of course, but it goes without saying that we can’t afford mistakes.”

  “You know what happened with Lennox had nothing to do with me, sir. It wasn’t my mistake.”

  “I realise that,” he said. “But you were the SIO, and the buck stops with you.”

  “You’re right,” she said, not entirely able to dull the annoyance in her voice. “It does go without saying.”

  Beckton stood; Mack got up, too, and followed him toward the door. “What you said about ‘several leads,’” she said. “You know we don’t have anything, don’t you?”

  “You have to give these people something. Get out there and find a few bones we can toss their way—pun intended. At least give them the impression that we’re making progress.”

&nb
sp; 38

  Atticus had spent a quiet couple of days wrapping up his work for James York. He had felt guilty at not giving Bandit the attention he deserved, so, with that in mind, he decided to take him out for a long hike. He went to Grovely Woods and followed the Roman road to the Monarch’s Way, the route reputed to have been taken by King Charles II after his defeat at the Battle of Worcester. The clouds were heavy, and the gloom was oppressive as he passed beneath stands of conifers that blocked out what little sunlight there was. Bandit had spent the first mile or two dashing into and out of the trees, but, now that they were at the five-mile mark, he was content to trot out in front. Atticus had chosen a route that avoided Grovely Farmhouse, but now that he was among the trees again, he found that his thoughts led back to the Mallender inquiry and to Ralph Mallender, living alone in the house where his family had been murdered. He shuddered at the thought of it.

  He was still thinking about that when his phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s me.”

  “Mack,” Atticus said, “I was just thinking about you.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m out with Bandit. Why?”

  “I need to see you.”