A Place To Bury Strangers (Atticus Priest Book 2)

by Mark Dawson

  Mack finished up with the officers and told them to call her first thing in the morning, or sooner if there was anything that they thought was particularly important. She took Atticus down the stairs and then out onto the street.

  “Where’s your car?” she asked him.

  “I came by train,” he said.

  She looked at her watch; it was three in the morning, and the first train wasn’t for another couple of hours yet.

  “I’ll give you a lift,” she said. “Get in.”

  He did as he was told. She got into the car, started the engine and pulled away. They sat in silence as she picked her way through Andover’s quiet streets. She reached forward to switch on the radio, jumped between channels and settled on Radio 2. The DJ was playing inoffensive pop and, after listening to it listlessly for ten minutes, Mack switched it off again.

  She glanced across the cabin at him. “What are you thinking?”

  “I want to know what’s on that drive.”

  “They’ll find out.”

  She wasn’t sure if he had heard her. “There must be something. Why else would he have gone to the trouble of hiding it?”

  A deer raced across the road fifty feet ahead of them, a streak of brown in the headlights. Mack dabbed the brakes in case there was another, but none followed.

  Atticus ignored that, too. “I mean,” he went on, “it has to be why whoever it was who attacked me was there. Right? It wasn’t a coincidence. Couldn’t have been.” He stared out of the window at the dark fields on either side. “Have you gone public about Burns being one of the dead bodies?”

  “Not yet,” Mack said.

  “That might’ve explained it,” he said. “Whoever killed Burns hears that his body has been discovered, panics, and goes back to search his flat before we can get there.”

  “Why now, though? Wouldn’t they have done that after they killed him?”

  “Maybe they did—maybe they went back to double-check. Or maybe they didn’t know where Burns lived before.” He paused. “Wait. Shit.”

  “What?”

  “What if they went to his brother, too?”

  “Is that how you found out about the flat? You went to his—”

  “Yes,” Atticus cut in. His mind was running ahead, faster than his words. “I spoke to Derek Burns earlier. What if…” He paused again, then reached into his pocket and took out his phone.

  “What are you doing?”

  Atticus ignored her. He opened his videos and swiped to the one that he had shot of Derek Burns that afternoon. He tapped it to play, paused it, then let it play again. Burns was at the gate to the field, his dog straining against its leash. Atticus watched as a blue Range Rover drove between him and Burns.

  “Atticus?”

  “You need to send someone to check on Derek Burns.”

  “Why?”

  “I was followed today. This car.”

  He held up the phone.

  Mack pushed his hand out of the way. “I’m driving.”

  Atticus closed his eyes. “Range Rover. Dark blue. Dent in the front bumper.” He looked down at the screen, but the car that had passed between him and Burns had done so at a perpendicular angle, and the registration was invisible. He screwed up his face and tried to retrieve an image of the car from his memory, but he couldn’t.

  “Coincidence?”

  He looked across at her and frowned. “I don’t believe in coincidences.”

  “No,” she said. “You don’t.”

  He pressed his fingers against his temples and concentrated. “I think I’ve seen it near my office, too.”

  Her phone was in a holder that was fastened to the window. She tapped it awake, called the Control Room and asked them to send an officer to check on Derek Burns.

  Atticus reached into his pocket and took out a hip flask. He unscrewed it and took a draw of whatever was inside. He sighed and offered it to Mack. “Whisky. Want some?”

  “I’m driving,” she said again.

  He took another sip and screwed the top back on again. “You need to get onto the drive,” he said as he put the flask back into his pocket. “You don’t need a warrant for that.”

  “Please,” she said. “I know the law. Burns is dead, and we found the drive at his premises. I know we don’t need one.”

  Again, it was as if he hadn’t heard her. “And you have four dead girls in the graveyard who were likely put there because of something he was involved with. Burns didn’t kill and bury himself, did he? You’ve got to move fast.”

  He was getting agitated. She said, “I know—”

  He cut in over her. “Whoever else was involved is probably still out there.” He waved a hand in the air impatiently. “Just… just do it, Mack.”

  They crested the final hill and saw the city laid out in the valley below them. The spire’s illumination had been switched off, but the red warning light still glowed at the very top. It was a welcome sight, and one that she had grown to love in the time that she had lived in the city.

  She glanced over at Atticus. He had gone quiet.

  “Okay?”

  “Bit of a headache.”

  “You’ve probably been concussed.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “I should take you to casualty to get it checked out.”

  “No, Mack. Really. I’m okay.”

  “I can’t persuade you?”

  He smiled and shook his head. “I just need to sleep.”

  “You shouldn’t be alone,” she said. “Where’s the dog?”

  “In the office.”

  “And he’ll be okay?”

  “What?”

  “Will he be okay if you don’t go back tonight?”

  “But I am going back.”

  “You’ve got a choice. You either let me take you to A&E to get checked out, or you come to the hotel so I can keep an eye on you.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  She reached across the space and took his hand. “Will you do as you’re told, for once? Please? Let me look after you.”

  He squeezed her fingers. “Okay. You win.”

  53

  Mack parked the car in the car park at the back of the hotel and led the way inside. She knew that what she was doing would lead to regret, but that wasn’t enough for her to stop. She considered Andy, then dismissed him; her husband had made his thoughts on their marriage clear. She thought of her children, and that was almost enough for her to change her mind, but not quite.

  They reached her room, and she pulled out her key, fumbling it into the lock. The room was clean. Mack was grateful that housekeeping had been in to tidy up after she had left it in a mess this morning. She guided Atticus to the bed. He sat down and, at her gentle insistence, lay back. She looked at his profile as he lay with his head on the pillow and his eyes pointed up at the ceiling; a livid purple bruise spread down from his scalp to just below his eye. She reached out a hand, stopped herself, and then, realising that she was too weak to resist, lay down next to him. She ran her fingertips through his hair, then let them fall down to his temple and across to his cheek. His skin was stubbled, the whiskers rough against her skin. She rested her head in the cleft between his neck and shoulder, nuzzling him, breathing in his familiar scent: a musk of perspiration and the deodorant that he wore.

  She slid her hand down to the opposite side of his face and turned him so that she could look into his eyes.

  “Mack,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Shut up, Atticus.”

  She braced herself with an elbow as she lowered her lips to his.

  54

  Atticus woke. The bed felt wrong—he was higher, and the mattress was softer—and, as he opened his eyes, it took him a moment to remember where he was. He turned—too quickly, triggering a twist of nausea—and saw that he was alone in bed. He reached out a hand and laid it in the indentation next to him where Mack had slept. The sheets were cool
. There was a sheet of paper on the pillow, and he took it, sinking back into the mattress and holding it up above his head.

  Gone to station. See you later. Don’t forget your dog!

  Atticus put the note down on his chest and closed his eyes. He remembered what had happened between them, that Mack had brought him back to the hotel and that they had been together again, like before, each of them frantic for the other. It had been as if the shackles that they had both agreed upon had been suddenly removed, and, without those chains to strain against, they had crashed into each other once again.

  His phone was still in the pocket of his jeans, which had been discarded on the floor beside the bed. He reached down for them, collected the phone and checked for messages. There were none. He called Mack.

  “Morning. Did you get my note?”

  “I did.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Headache,” he said. “It’s not that bad.”

  There was an uncomfortable pause. He wanted to speak about what had happened last night, but he had no idea what to say. He knew why that was: Mack might consider it a mistake, and that was not something that he wanted to hear. She didn’t broach the subject, either, and that deepened Atticus’s fear that she regretted it.

  “I…” he began. “I—”

  She spoke over him before he could say anything else. “Derek Burns is fine. They sent someone to check on him last night. Not very impressed about being woken at four in the morning, but, apart from that, nothing to report.”

  “I still want to talk to him,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “Think about it: I find out from him where his brother was living, and then, as I’m looking around, someone else turns up. I need to know how that happened.”

  “You think he told someone else that he’d told you?”

  He stared at the wall, then shook his head in frustration. “I don’t know. There’s too much I don’t know.”

  “One other thing,” she said, changing the subject. “I spoke to forensics.”

  Atticus felt almost relieved to have the subject changed. “The drive?”

  “They’re working on it.”

  “Still? We need to know what’s on it.”

  “I know.”

  “It might tell us why Burns was killed.”

  “I know that.”

  “And then maybe we’ll know what happened to the others.”

  “I know, Atticus. I know. They’re looking at it now.”

  “Tell them to hurry. It shouldn’t take this long. It’s intolerable.”

  “I will,” she said. “What about you?”

  “I need to walk the dog,” Atticus said.

  55

  Mack stood at the window of her office, looking out over the city. She was grateful that it had been a busy morning, and that she was able to throw herself into the investigation. The team in the MIR were working at a frantic pace, with conversation humming as the officers took and placed phone calls and discussed the contents of those conversations with one another. Mack had already had two detailed discussions: she had spoken with Robbie Best at Imber, and he had reported that another body had been discovered just after dawn, bringing the total to six, and Beckton, seemingly a permanent fixture at the station now, had called her into his office to be debriefed on the state of play.

  There was work to be done, but, despite that, it was impossible not to think about what had happened last night. She had barely slept and, when she’d woken at five, tired and confused, she had decided that it would be best to come into the station and get started. Atticus was still asleep when she left the room. The bruise on his face had come out, a spectrum of blacks and purples and blues, but, if he had been concussed, there hadn’t been any obvious consequences, and she had felt that it was safe to go. Looking at him sleeping like that had reminded her of the time when they had been together, sharing a room much like the one she was in now, and, most of the time, happy in one another’s company. That memory had quickly prompted images of her children, and she had bitten her lip until it hurt; she had hastened away from the hotel, knowing that she would have to deal with what had happened, but later.

  There was a knock at the door. Mack flinched, expecting to see Atticus, but, as she turned, she saw it was Professor Fyfe instead.

  “Good morning,” he said. “Do you have a minute?”

  “Of course.”

  “I have a development that I think you’ll find of interest.”

  Mack invited Fyfe inside and indicated that he should take a seat. He did, taking a document folder out of his bag and placing two pieces of paper on the desk. Mack looked at them: the first was a photograph of a piece of equipment with which she was unfamiliar, a long cylindrical tube with a trigger at the top. The second was a forensic photograph of Alfred Burns’s skull, shot in close-up from the top and looking directly down.

  “So,” Fyfe began. “How did Mr. Burns meet his end?” He tapped a finger against the cylindrical device. “Do you know what that is?”

  “I don’t,” she said.

  “It’s a captive bolt gun. Usually used in abattoirs to kill cattle. Operation is simple. The operator secures the animal and presses the bottom of the gun against its skull. The propellant is a nine-millimetre-calibre cartridge without a bullet and, when the trigger is pulled, the powder ignites and pushes out a bolt. The bolt breaks the skull, usually going down about ten centimetres into the brain before a spring pulls it back. The bolt itself is concave, has sharp edges and is between ten- and twelve-millimetre calibre. Death is immediate.”

  Fyfe moved the second photograph into the middle of the desk and tapped a finger against the image of the single hole that had been punched through the bone.

  “I thought this was a bullet hole to start with, until I realised the powder burns were inconsistent with a gunshot wound and that there were no metal foreign bodies inside the skull. I was struggling until I remembered a suicide from years ago, back when I moved here from London. There was a worker at the slaughterhouse in Devizes. Poor bugger had clinical depression, not surprising given what he was being paid to do. He came into work one day, took his bolt gun, held it against his head and pulled the trigger. I remember looking at the wound when they brought him in. Witnesses said he’d held the gun to his head at a right angle. The sharp edge of the bolt cut the skin and pushed it into the wound like a plug. Skin, bits of hair, fragments of bone. The diameter of the plug was smaller than the bolt calibre, and the edges of the entry wound were sharp and pigmented with residue from the gas.”

  Fyfe tapped his finger on either side of the wound. Mack could see discoloration against what was left of the skin.

  “That was the key thing I remembered about the suicide: on either side of the wound, symmetrical to one another, we saw two powder tattoos that were created by gases venting through openings on the front of the gun. They were small and round, with the edges that were closest to the wound being sharp and clear and the outer edges less well defined. Just like this.”

  “How would someone get hold of a bolt gun?”

  “It’s not that difficult,” he said. “They used to be listed as firearms, but that changed. You need a slaughter licence to kill livestock, but you can buy the gun off the internet with no trouble at all.”

  Fyfe stood and gathered up the two photographs.

  “When will I have the full report?” Mack asked him.

  “I’m aiming for just after lunch,” he said. “I thought you’d appreciate an early look.”

  “I do,” she said. “Thanks.”

  56

  Atticus took advantage of the shower and dressed in yesterday’s clothes, then went back to the office. Bandit was waiting for him by the door, his tail swishing back and forth in expectation of a walk.

  “Sorry I’m so late,” Atticus said.

  The dog trotted over to the table and stood there, his muzzle pointing to his lead and harness.

  “Subtle,” Atticus
said, clipping the harness on and then attaching the lead to the clip. “Come on, then.”

  He led Bandit outside, let him relieve himself in the grass, and then took him to the car. He put him in the back and set off to the north. He had hoped that the drive might earn him a temporary reprieve from the barrage of thoughts running helter-skelter through his head, but it didn’t. They kept coming, rushing at him in a torrent that he was unable to stop: angles that they needed to investigate, possible connections, theories that might explain why Alfred Burns had been murdered and buried in the graveyard. None of his theorising did any good. The truth was hidden in a box that he couldn’t open.

  All he had were the vaguest hints.

  Burns had hidden the drive because it contained sensitive information. That was the only possible explanation.

  The man who had assaulted him had come to the flat to find it, and he hadn’t.

  Atticus needed to know what was on the device.

  Atticus parked in the street near where he had stopped before. He let Bandit out and took him to Derek Burns’s house. They climbed the sloping drive and turned right, making his way around the house to the entrance at the side. The property was larger than it looked from the front, with a second two-storey building connecting to form the shape of an L.

  Atticus reached the front door and knocked.

  There was no answer.

  He knocked again, with the same result, and then crouched down so that he could look through the letterbox. He saw an untidy hallway, with pairs of shoes scattered against the far wall and a muddy coat left hanging from the handle of a cupboard door. There were doors to the left and right, but both were closed.

  There was a window to the right of the door. Atticus looked through it into the kitchen. It was tidier than the hall, with a clear counter and a neat stack of plates sitting on a table that was big enough for two. Atticus saw a fridge with notes and postcards stuck to it with novelty magnets.