by Bo Brennan
“It's not,” she said, gazing into the grieving crowd. “They’ll heal in time.”
Colt took a long, hard look at her emotionless face and concluded she’d never lost anyone. Never felt a part of herself die with them. He had. Time wasn’t a healer, it just blunted the sharp edges of pain.
“It was a nice service,” India said, as they followed the coffin across the grass.
“If you say so,” Colt said.
Sharon’s mother attempted a smile that was at odds with her tear stained face when she saw them approaching the graveside. “Thank you for coming,” she said, tightly clasping the hand of the young woman beside her. “This is my husband Norman, and this is Sarah, our other daught . . .” Her voice broke with emotion, the rest of the word trapped in her throat. Glancing down she swiped at the fresh tear starting its descent of her cheek.
“We're sorry for your loss,” India said, looking into the pained faces of the family. Patricia looked ten years older than she did last week.
“I didn't realise she had so many friends,” her father mumbled quietly.
“She was a very popular young woman,” India said. “You should be very proud.”
“All her old school and University friends came,” Patricia sniffed. “They've even set up a Facebook tribute site for her.”
“That’s nice,” India said, and glanced at Sarah. She was blessed with the same heavy auburn hair and porcelain complexion as her sister, but a small metal hoop graced her bottom lip.
“Why are you even here?” she suddenly spat. “You should be out there catching the bastard who did this!”
“Stop it, Sarah. Please,” her mother croaked, and her father turned away shaking his head.
India tensed, caught off guard by the teenager’s misplaced anger. The father’s body language made her wonder if he thought the right daughter was standing here today.
Colt instantly stepped in. “We're doing the best we can to find the man responsible for hurting your sister,” he soothed.
“Your best isn't good enough,” she cried. “He needs stringing up.”
Colt placed his hands on her shoulders, met and held her scathing eyes with his. “We will get him, Sarah.”
The girl observed him momentarily, weighing him up, deciding if he could be trusted – if he was genuine in his belief they would catch the bastard she held responsible for her older sister's untimely death. “Promise me,” she said, her eyes never leaving his.
India hadn't decided if he was trustworthy or not herself yet. But she knew he could never, ever make that promise. She watched and waited. He was the master of sincere, and unlike the smile he sometimes wore, sincerity couldn't be faked. She couldn’t wait to see how he swerved this one.
He raised a hand to Sarah’s face and gently brushed a tear from her cheek with his thumb. “I promise you we’ll catch him,” he said. And he meant it too.
He'd intended to mingle and pay his respects, but weather like this made funerals muddy affairs. A grand’s worth of suit was not appropriate attire for puddle splashing.
Anyway, they’d looked like a right miserable bunch of bastards, no fun at all. Instead of going inside, he'd sensibly opted to stay in the luxurious comfort of his dry and heated vehicle – listening to some snappy uplifting tunes while they sang depressing downbeat hymns.
His eyes darted to the faces of the mourners now pouring from the cemetery chapel and traipsing across the grass to the freshly dug hole. He shook his head as the sobbing face of a younger version of Sharon passed the car window. Yeah all right, she was good, but she wasn't that fucking good, sweetheart. He didn't realise she had a little sister, she'd never mentioned it. Not surprising really, she looked like a right drama queen with her convulsing body being dragged along by a couple of decrepit old wrinklies.
Shazza would never have pulled a face like that.
If he'd have thought for one single second that shag happy Sharon could ever be capable of looking like that, he wouldn't have touched her with AJ Colt's dick.
Sighing to himself, he guessed he should be making tracks. It was boring now. Or at least it was. His eyes slanted through the haze of rain and fell upon the giant outline of a familiar figure striding towards the graveside under an equally giant black brolly.
“For fuck’s sake,” he spat out loud inside the car. “He gets where shit won't.”
The regular Colt family oracle had confirmed he was back. He'd suffered a whole evening of the skin crawling bitch’s company to glean a few utterly mundane details. Should've checked first to see if they'd made up before subjecting himself to her attempts at lasagne. The slop was still repeating on him now. At least the palace was finally sold; knowing it had cost him dear brought a smile to his face. Thought Lisa would've done better there though. Put up more of a fight. But then again she'd always been easy; spread her fucking legs like butter.
He looked around; there were no cameras here. No film crews. No media hounds to fawn over him. There was no reason for him to be here at all. Odd that Sharon was the one to get him back, she wasn’t anything special, even back then. Personally, he’d thought the Compton sisters would’ve been the ones. There was no way AJ Colt could ever forget them.
Still, if he was planning to attend all the funerals of his adoring fuck buddy fans – AJ Colt would be a very busy man. A very busy man indeed. Maybe another career change would beckon soon, perhaps becoming a pall bearer would be the only option left open to him. The fucking cripple would make a good Lurch, although he doesn't seem to be dragging that leg so much these days. In fact, he was beginning to walk kind of normal. After all that effort to finish his sparkling career that would do no good at all. Thought being a cop would plunge him into obscurity, but no, he still fucking found his way in front of the cameras.
He's got the tits in tow. A self-satisfied feeling washed over him as he watched the meathead tenderly place his hand on the small of her back. So she was his new squeeze, not much of a date bringing her to the funeral of his ex. He sure knows how to show a girl a good time.
A new adoring fan, bet she has no idea what he's like. She looked nice too, far too nice for him to ruin. Very fuckable. It was easy to see why he'd hauled his sorry arse back to Winchester now. The slightest whiff of pussy and he'd been down that motorway in a flash, bet he got a hard on seeing tits do the press conference. The problem was, this time, he'd seen her first.
Chapter 23
The whole team stood behind the two way mirrored glass observing Colt and Tom Dwyer having an informal chat with the estate agent, Mr Martin Kennedy.
“I hate estate agents,” Sangrin sneered, “all hair gel and attitude.”
India jerked her head sideways and stared at Lee Sangrin’s own spikey do. Hair didn't jut out at all those weird angles on its own. Sangrin would be right at home showing giggly female students around squalid bedsits.
India turned her gaze back through the glass. There was something very unattractive about a man who used more styling products than a woman, and Martin Kennedy was proof. The rugged, well-dressed man with the short crop and meaty muscular thighs seated opposite him was far more palatable. “He's tall enough,” she murmured, “but his build’s off.”
“Maybe the glass does the same as the camera and adds twenty pounds,” Sangrin said. “You were busting out all over on film, Kane. I taped it. You know, for later.”
“Why don’t you save your breath for your blow-up girlfriend, dickhead.”
“Give it a rest you two,” Firman growled. “Lacey, would he have come in of his accord if he was our man?”
“Oh, most definitely,” she trilled. “Narcissists think they have a superior intellect; he'd waltz right in here expecting to swat a couple of flies and waltz right back out again.”
Colt laid the vivacious, smiling, before photos of Katherine Darcy and Martha Matthews on the table in front of him. “Do you know these women, Mr Kennedy?”
Martin Kennedy studied them for a few moments befor
e answering. “No.”
Colt tapped each photograph in turn. “This is Katherine Darcy from Southampton, and this is Martha Matthews from Leigh Park, both good looking women. You valued both of their properties recently.”
Martin Kennedy yawned and crossed his arms, looking bored. “The names ring a bell,” he said. “But I don't recognise the faces.”
Colt hated it when people crossed their arms in interview, took it as a sign they were hiding more than a paunch. And he particularly hated when slimy bastards looked down their snotty noses at him. He laid a photo of Sharon Cutler on the table, and imagined Veronica freaking out behind the glass. Martin Kennedy wasn't under caution, he was here of his own free will. Colt could work his way through the entire cast of Eastenders if he wanted to. They were just having a nice friendly chat. “How about this woman, do you know her?” he said, casually.
Martin Kennedy barely glanced at her picture and shrugged. Nice and relaxed he brought a foot up and rested an ankle across his knee, intentionally showing Colt the sole of his shoe. “I'm a very busy man. I value lots of properties for lots of pretty women, and they pay me well for my personal attention. How much more of my time will you be seeking to take up for free, Chief Inspector?”
Martin Kennedy smiled, face all smug and superior. Colt smiled back. Martin Kennedy's services were clearly in demand, not many estate agents and surveyors could afford to wear Italian leather shoes in the current climate – they were bloody expensive. Colt knew because he wore them himself.
Colt slowly loosened the knot in his hand crafted black tie, slipped it over his head and laid it between the photos, taking great care to ensure the hand-woven silk label was proudly displayed. Martin Kennedy’s nostrils flared as he subconsciously fiddled with his own inferior brand of neck tie – probably Prada – pleasing Colt immensely. Studying Martin’s face and body language, he slipped another couple of photographs from the file.
“Do you recognise them now, Mr Kennedy?” he said, calmly laying the stomach churning after photos of Sharon Cutler and Martha Matthews on the table. The graphic close-ups of a charred twisted lipless scream, skull exposed where the face had peeled back as fat and muscle melted, and the splitting and splaying result of a face first ninety-five feet plummet into asphalt made him uncross his arms. Colt thought it might.
Martin Kennedy’s reaction was instant. He was out of the chair in a nano second, one hand gripping his stomach and the other covering his retching mouth as he fled to the corner of the room. All that moisturiser and fake tan wasn't doing much for his complexion now. He looked positively pasty when the blood drained from his cheeks, leaving behind a sullen orange hue as he regurgitated his lunch all over the floor.
Colt leant back in his chair and sighed, it was going to be a fucking nightmare getting vomit splatter out of those shoes. Shame.
“You can't believe I had anything to do with that,” he croaked from the corner, a long string of saliva hanging from his chin. Colt glanced sideways at Tom when he puffed out his cheeks and blew a breath up his face, and suspected he might be on the verge of getting his own shoes splattered if they stayed here any longer.
He rose from his seat and smiled. Throwing open the interview room door he beckoned the uniformed officer inside. “Thanks for coming in Mr Kennedy, you're free to go. This officer will show you out.”
“What, just like that?” he said, covering his mouth as he gagged again, a large bubble of snot swelling from his nose.
“Just like that,” Colt said. “Enjoy the rest of your evening. Oh, and Mr Kennedy . . . don't leave the country.”
As the officer escorted a mumbling and sweaty Mr Kennedy off the premises, Colt and Tom strolled into the back room where the team waited. “You might want to get the cleaners in there, Guv,” Tom said, with a look of disgust.
“Harsh, James, harsh,” Lacey scolded, with a few tsks and tuts thrown in to appease Veronica, who sat in the corner shaking her head.
India's phone buzzed and she left without apology.
“That was fucking ace,” Lee cooed.
“What do you reckon?” Len asked.
“Don't know.” Colt sighed. “Have the FLOs reported back yet?”
“Not yet,” Len said. “Let's get him under round the clock surveillance until you do know.”
India came rushing back in, phone in hand. “Sharon Cutler was seeking a remortgage,” she said. “The day she got the DVD she missed a meeting with her bank manager, never got the good news that she’d been approved. Guess who they subcontracted the valuation to?”
Chapter 24
Thursday 9th December
“Martha Matthews’ phone records show mainly internet usage,” DI Mark Watson said. “There’s nothing untoward on her bank statements, but there’s enough PayPal transactions and monthly eBay fees to indicate she was running a little online business.”
“It correlates with the high internet usage,” Lucy said.
India frowned. “Sharon Cutler’s friends have set up a Facebook tribute site.”
“What’s that got to do with Martha Matthews running an internet business?” Lucy snapped.
India inclined her head and stared at her.
Colt swiftly stepped in before blood was shed. “He could be meeting them online,” he said to Lucy. “I want records for this business of hers, and find out if Sharon Cutler used the social networks too. And what about the others, were any of them users of eBay or Facebook?”
Mark nodded as he scribbled in his notebook while Lucy became increasingly arsey. “Surely you have these records for all the victims already,” she hissed.
“There's a big difference between murder and rape,” Veronica said. “And one of the most frustrating is the level of information available to us.”
“What was the last transaction on Martha’s bank account?” Colt said.
Mark flicked through his records. “A debit card payment to Domino’s Pizza at 9.06 on Thursday night,” he said.
“What did the pizza place say?” Colt said.
“We haven’t spoken to them yet, it was a recurring payment.” Mark shrugged. “She was a big girl, had herself a giant pizza every Thursday night.”
Colt glared at him. Mark used to be a good copper. He had a pretty good idea what the distraction was. “Get it followed up,” he said, before turning to Len. “What about trophies, any news there?”
Firman looked to his notes. “The FLOs have reported a couple of victims had missing items, but they can't be sure. One was missing a pair of shoes –”
“Told you,” Lee said, and slumped back in his seat when Len shot him a derisive look before continuing.
“One’s got a phone missing but thinks she might’ve left it in the pub, one lost her debit card, and another made a complaint that someone had stolen underwear from her washing line.”
“The back door key to Martha’s house hasn’t been recovered either,” Vicky said. “Her mum said the back door was always open with the key in the lock. No one ever used the front, she operated an open door policy.”
“Nothing additional picked up on the films,” Veronica said, wearily. “We viewed them all.”
“The Cutler recording appears unique to see him clearly take something,” Lacey added.
“Could that be deliberate?” Colt asked.
“Possibly,” Lacey said, raising a brow. “It was the one that brought you home.”
Colt frowned, he was far from home. “India, what have you got?”
“All three on this patch were divorced,” she said. “They all used different legal teams though, so no links there. But so far sixty-seven percent of the ones that have reported back are divorced or separated.”
“Sounds pretty high,” Colt said. A sign of the times, he thought.
“It is,” India said. “Latest stats are one in three marriages won’t make the fifteenth wedding anniversary.”
Colt’s thumb worried at the long faded indentation on his own ring finger. “The
re could be something there, dig deeper,” he said. “Tom?”
“Surveillance has turned up nothing on the estate agent yet.”
“Same here with the potential suspects that came from the press conference,” Lee said.
“And the Arson Report?”
“It was exactly as Gray Davies suspected, accelerants were confined to the main bedroom,” Vicky said.
Colt had no doubt he’d be right. As much as he disliked the bloke, Gray Davies was good at his job. “How was the Post Mortem?”
“Vile,” Tom said with a shudder. Colt gave a half smile. It was fair to say Tom Dwyer had suffered a worse day than most yesterday.
“As expected,” Vicky said. “The Hyoid bone in her throat was broken. Cause of death was Asphyxiation. Lividity in the small of her back and neck confirm she died there. Lack of smoke in the lungs indicates she was dead when the fire started. Stomach contents were tomato and garlic rich and consistent with pizza,” she glanced at Mark and Lucy. “Significant damage to both vaginal and anal cavities, also evidence of a later oral blood purge.”
Tom coughed and covered his entire face with his hands. “He may have had sex with her sometime after death.”
Lacey gasped. “Opportunistic necrophilia,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “When he returned to set the fire he couldn’t help himself, he had to have her again. He’s getting sloppy, James.”
“Pathologist refused point blank to narrow the time of death beyond what we already know,” Vicky added.
“We can narrow that down,” Lucy said. “Mark and I have tracked her movements.”