A Place To Bury Strangers (Atticus Priest Book 2)

by Mark Dawson

  48

  Atticus closed the door behind him and turned to look at the flat. It was tiny. The door opened into an abbreviated hallway, almost small enough for Atticus to be able to touch the walls to his left and right by raising his arms. He stepped forward, passing a door to a small bathroom with a shower and a toilet and a sink, and then a minuscule kitchen against the wall on the left. Atticus opened the fridge and gagged at the stench of rancid milk. He took the bottle and looked at the best-by date: it was two months ago. There were two cans of lager, a rotting apple and nothing else. He shut the door.

  The main room, no more than fifteen feet by fifteen feet, combined the living room and bedroom. There was a bed jammed into a space that was only just large enough for it, and a settee faced a television that rested on a modest unit. The flat looked as if it had been recently refurbished, but there was no escaping the fact that it was compact.

  Atticus started to look around. The bed was unmade, the sheets rumpled and stained. There were dirty plates in the sink, and an unfinished microwave lasagne lay discarded on the counter, still in its plastic tray, the cellophane film torn off and curled at the edges.

  It felt strange. Atticus had been investigating Alfred Burns for months—both officially and then, after he’d been sacked, on his own—and had built up a picture that was so comprehensive that it sometimes felt as if he were inside Burns’s head. He had been involved in the search of Burns’s Salisbury house and had found the stash of pornography that had been instrumental in building the case against him. That was more than a year ago now, and Burns had used the interim to disappear from view. To be inside his flat, to see his possessions, felt almost like reacquainting himself with someone he had once known. Some things were familiar: the framed picture of Burns and his brother from their childhood, feeding goats through the fence of a petting zoo; a green army surplus greatcoat that Burns had worn when Atticus first arrested him, now dumped on the floor. Other things, though, were different. The furniture was cheap and disposable, most likely supplied by the landlord. The television still had the sticker from the British Heart Foundation affixed to the side, advertising the price and confirming that it had been given an electrical safety test. Burns had enjoyed a little money before, but it was clear that he had fallen upon harder times.

  Atticus went over to a low bookshelf that stood next to the television. There was a collection of cheap paperbacks stacked side by side and, in a deeper shelf at the bottom of the case, a set of ring binders. Atticus took the first binder over to the settee and opened it. It contained bank statements from KBank. Atticus took out his phone and Googled the name; it was an abbreviation of Kasikornbank, a Thai bank headquartered in Bangkok. Burns must have set up an account when he fled to Thailand in the aftermath of his acquittal. The statements were monthly and had been arranged in reverse chronological order; Atticus turned the pages to the first statement, dated ten months earlier. The account had been opened with a deposit of five thousand pounds in December 2019. Atticus ran his finger down the separate entries and saw the activity that he would have expected to find: small cash withdrawals in Thai baht, payments to supermarkets in Bangkok and Chiang Mai, online shopping. The five thousand had not been topped up and looked as if it had been husbanded as carefully as Burns could manage. He had eked it out until, with six hundred pounds left, there was a payment of £468 to Lufthansa. Atticus could guess what that payment denoted, and a quick Google search confirmed it: a flight from Suvarnabhumi to Heathrow was between four hundred and five hundred pounds.

  Derek Burns had given Alfred enough money to leave the country, and Alfred had only returned once that money had run out. Could the fact that Alfred had needed money be connected to his death? Derek had said that his brother had solved his financial problems. How had he done that?

  Atticus put the folder back in the bookshelf and stepped back against the far wall so that he could look back into the flat in the hope that he might see something that would give him a better idea why Burns had been murdered.

  There had to be something.

  He lifted the mattress off the bed to see whether anything had been hidden between it and the slats of the frame.

  Nothing.

  He went to the kitchen and opened the oven and the microwave. He opened the cupboards and took out the meagre collection of pots and pans, then the crockery. He looked for any sign of loose tiles, then dropped down to his knees and pressed against the kick-board, pushing one side in so that he could pull it away and shine his torch into the void behind it.

  Nothing.

  He went back to the mattress and stripped the sheets. He examined it closely and, as he turned it over to look at the bottom, a flap of fabric fell open. He dragged it out into the middle of the floor—there was just barely enough space to set it down between the frame of the bed and the settee—and pulled the flap back. It wasn’t wear and tear; it was deliberate. An opening had been cut, either with a knife or a pair of scissors. Atticus reached inside and felt the edge of a square or rectangular object. He closed his fingers around it and pulled it out: it was a brick of banknotes, sealed with an elastic band. The notes were twenties and, as he riffled the edge, he guessed there must have been a hundred of them. He put the bundle down and reached into the mattress for a second time. He pulled out another brick and, reaching back inside again and again, pulled out another three. That made five in total and, checking them one against the other, Atticus estimated that there must have been at least ten thousand pounds.

  Here was the money Alfred had been seeking.

  How had he come by it?

  Atticus paused.

  He had heard something.

  Footsteps.

  He waited, expecting to hear the sound of the other door on the corridor opening and closing, but it did not.

  He closed his eyes and listened for the sound of footsteps climbing the stairs to the next floor up, but, again, he heard nothing.

  He tried to remember if he had locked the door to the flat.

  He didn’t think that he had.

  He killed his phone’s flashlight and looked for somewhere to hide. The bathroom was the only room that had the privacy of a door. The bed was screened from the kitchen by a short partition, and that, at least, would offer a place where he wouldn’t be seen from the front door.

  He stepped across the mattress, trying to avoid making a noise, and slid into the narrow envelope of space between the frame of the bed and the partition.

  He heard the squeak of the door handle and then the creak of the door as it was pushed open.

  49

  Atticus heard the sound of footsteps and then the door closing with a gentle click. He heard the bathroom door opening, and the click of the light switch as the cord was pulled. The switch clicked again, and the bathroom door creaked as it was closed. He heard a gentle scrape as a pot or pan was moved on the counter, then a clink as a plate knocked against another one.

  He saw the tight beam of a torch sweep out into the living space, follow the wall from left to right, then jerk away as the torch was pointed somewhere else.

  Footsteps, drawing closer.

  Atticus looked for something that he could use as a weapon, but there was nothing.

  He crept to the edge of the partition and held his breath.

  The torch shone out again, sweeping left to right against the wall.

  A man stepped into the living space. He was big—bigger than Atticus, both in terms of height and build—and dressed all in black. He wore black trainers on his feet, the soles squeaking against the laminated floor as he pivoted. He wore a pair of black jeans, a black bomber jacket, and gloves. He had a cap on his head and was facing away, the angle preventing Atticus from getting a look at him.

  The man took three steps forward, leaving Atticus enough space to try to slip out from behind the partition and get back to the door. Atticus moved, but, as he did, he saw his reflection in the glass of the uncovered window that looked down onto the
street.

  The man saw it, too. He spun back around to face him.

  It was too dark for Atticus to make out the details of his face. He saw glimpses: thick eyebrows, a squat, flat nose. The man didn’t speak. Instead, and without warning, he closed the distance between them, drew back his fist and threw out a jab. Atticus managed to bring his arm up just in time, catching the inside of the man’s right arm so that the punch deflected a little, his knuckles biting into Atticus’s cheekbone rather than his chin. He felt a flash of intense pain and stumbled back into the kitchen. The man followed him, drawing back his fist again. Atticus bumped against the counter as the man uncorked a clubbing cross into Atticus’s ribs, punching the air out of his lungs. He gasped for breath, raised both hands and shoved the man away from him. He felt heavy slabs of muscle beneath his shoulders and was dismayed by how little he was able to move him back.

  Atticus reached out behind him, his fingers closing around the handle of a saucepan. He swung it, as hard as he could, but his assailant had seen what he was doing and stepped up, inside the arc of the swing. The saucepan missed the man’s head and fell from Atticus’s fingers, crashing against the floor with a loud clang. The man grabbed Atticus’s jacket in both hands and drove him back against the counter; his elbow struck a stack of dirty plates and toppled them onto the floor, the plates shattering noisily.

  Atticus slid his forearms between the man’s arms and tried to force them apart, but the man was too strong. Atticus tried to knee him in the groin, missed, and, his attention momentarily distracted, didn’t notice his assailant draw back his head and then bring it forward. The butt connected with Atticus’s forehead and, for a moment, he saw stars.

  He was aware of stumbling ahead and then falling to his knees.

  Part VII

  Sunday

  50

  Atticus opened his eyes and groaned. His head was throbbing and, when he reached up to touch his temple, he saw blood on his fingertips. He remembered: he had been attacked. He must have banged his head on something and blacked out. He was lying flat on his stomach, and, as he gingerly tried to raise himself, he felt a dizzying rush and the certainty that he was about to be sick. He lay back down and waited, closing his eyes again and concentrating on his breathing until he was sure that the moment had passed.

  He tried to sit again and, this time, managed to push himself up. He shoved back so that he was leaning against the wall and, taking another breath, pushed himself to his feet. The dizziness returned, and he had to steady himself with a hand against the wall. He made his way over to the mattress. He had left the bundles of notes on the floor next to it, but now, as he looked down, he saw that they were gone.

  He lowered himself to sit on the settee, took out his phone and dialled Mack.

  “Atticus? What is it?”

  He managed a grunt in reply.

  “It’s midnight. What’s up?”

  Atticus tried to speak, but his head suddenly swam, and he swallowed back another wave of nausea.

  “Atticus—what is it?”

  “There’s been an… incident,” he said.

  “What incident? Are you okay? You sound half asleep.”

  “Someone… jumped me. Banged my head.”

  “Jumped you?”

  He made an affirmative noise.

  “What are you talking about? Are you still in Andover?”

  “Found…” He felt vomit in the back of his throat and paused until it receded. “Found Burns’s flat.”

  “Please don’t say you broke in.”

  Atticus knew that what he said next would make Mack’s job either harder or easier. He closed his eyes and tried to ignore the throbbing in his head for long enough to pick his words with care.

  “I got inside the front door,” he said.

  “You broke in?”

  “No—it was open. The door to Burns’s flat was open, too. There was someone inside.”

  “Jesus, Atticus. Do you think I was born yesterday?”

  “It’s the truth,” he protested, although he knew—and didn’t care—that Mack had seen through him; at least she could report what he had told her, and the search would be legal.

  “I asked you not to do anything stupid. You said you wouldn’t embarrass me.”

  “I know,” he mumbled.

  “Give me the address.”

  “I found something, Mack. Burns was blackmailing someone.”

  “Shut up,” she said. “Enough. Give me the address. You can tell me when I get there.”

  51

  Atticus waited until he felt steadier on his feet and then conducted another search of the flat. The money was gone, and the man had also taken the files with the bank details. The books in the bookcase had been turned out of the shelves, and the drawers in the kitchen unit had been dragged out and emptied onto the floor. Scattered cutlery and the shards of the smashed plates glittered in the dim light. Atticus had no idea who had attacked him, but it was obvious that he had been looking for something. It wasn’t just the money, or perhaps the money wasn’t what he had been looking for at all; was it the bank statements? Or something else entirely? Had he found it?

  Atticus heard a car pulling up to the kerb outside and looked down to see Mack making her way across the street to the entrance. He went to the intercom and pressed the button to speak.

  “Up the stairs. I’ll buzz the door for you.”

  He pressed the second button and heard the sound of the door unlocking. Mack’s footsteps followed and, a moment later, she arrived at the open door.

  She was angry, but, as she looked at Atticus, the anger was replaced with concern. “Shit. You look dreadful.”

  “Do I?”

  She stepped closer to him, reached up and gently touched her fingers to the side of his head.

  “You can’t keep doing this to yourself,” she said. “This is the second time.”

  “What?”

  “Jimmy Robson?”

  She had a point. Atticus had taken a beating after he had broken into the marijuana farm that Robson had been running in the cottage near to Grovely Farmhouse.

  “You should see the other guy,” he said.

  “Don’t joke.” Mack’s palm still rested gently against the side of his face.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  “I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to you.”

  She left her hand there, her skin cool against his, and, for a second, Atticus thought she was going to kiss him. He froze, the same as he always did, caught between the evidence of her feelings for him and the crushing lack of confidence that he felt when it came to understanding what people thought. He saw all the proof—the parted lips, the flared nostrils, the slight upward kink of the eyebrows—but, even as he registered it all, his self-doubt undercut it and, just like always, he couldn’t act.

  He saw the flicker of doubt pass over Mack’s face. She withdrew her hand, and the moment passed.

  “Burns told his brother that he needed money,” Atticus said. “He’d been in Asia. That’s why he came back—he ran out of cash. The brother wouldn’t give him any more; then Burns told him it didn’t matter. Turns out he’d hidden a lot of money in the mattress.”

  “How much?”

  “Ten thousand—maybe more.”

  “Where is it now?”

  “The other guy took it. He took folders with Burns’s bank statements, too. They were easy to find, though. I don’t think they were what he was looking for.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he would have found those straight away—they were out in the open. But he kept looking. Look.” He indicated the mess the intruder had made. “He emptied the kitchen drawers and the books in the bookcase. I don’t know if he found anything or not, but, if I were you, I’d assume he didn’t, even though he turned this place upside down.”

  She nodded. “All right. Even given the fact that your story is total bullshit, if we stick to it, we can argue that we’re here lawfull
y. Anything we find is admissible.”

  Atticus nodded, but, as she spoke, something caught his attention.

  Mack noticed the change in his expression. “What is it?”

  Atticus pointed to a large sack that was inside the largest kitchen cupboard. He had pushed it aside in his earlier search and thought nothing more of it.

  Mack went over to the cupboard and knelt down so that she could look inside. “Cat litter. So?”

  Atticus nodded. He felt dizzy again, so he sat down on the settee. “Look inside.”

  The bag was open, a corner cut away neatly at the top. Mack tore it a little so that there was enough room for her to reach her hand inside. “It’s full of litter.”

  Atticus got up with a wince of pain and walked across. “Let me,” he said impatiently.

  She shuffled aside. Atticus reached for the bag and, before Mack could say anything, he upended it and started to pour the litter onto the floor.

  “What are you doing?”

  Atticus continued to tip the litter out. “What don’t you see here?”

  Mack frowned, and then both eyebrows rose at once. “Shit. There’s no cat.”

  “Or anything else that would suggest that he had a cat. No food bowl. No cat bed. Who would have cat litter without owning a cat?”

  Atticus tipped out more of the litter, then reached inside. He felt something hard with a sharp edge and pulled out an oblong metal box, six inches by three inches, protected by a clear plastic bag. He opened the bag, withdrew a portable hard drive and gave it to Mack.

  “Here’s what he was looking for. Better tell forensics they’re going to have to do some data recovery.”

  52

  The officers from Salisbury arrived soon after. Atticus waited in the corridor outside as Mack briefed them. She had left the hard drive in a kitchen cupboard for the officers to find; better, she suggested, that it was discovered and logged officially than have to deal with the potential problem of it having been found during the course of an illegal search.