‘Tod Monaghan’s been dead for three days – unless he left her with plenty of food and water, she’s already died of thirst.’
‘She could still be alive.’
‘Can we not go two minutes without you pair—’
‘All the other victims got starved and dehydrated before he stuck them in his smoker, so he’s not going to leave her a fourteen-inch ham-and-mushroom with extra cheese and a big bottle of Diet Coke in case she gets peckish, is he? Use your head.’
‘I have had just about enough of your bloody lip, Constable.’
‘Blow it, Sergeant. Genuinely. Out your arsehole, like a trumpet.’
What was the point?
One last go. ‘I’m asking you both nicely: can you try—’
‘That’s it: get out of my car.’
‘It’s not “your” anything, so—’
‘GET OUT OF MY BLOODY CAR!’
Silence.
Franklin emerged from the ladies’ side of the public loos, wiping her hands on her suit trousers. Face wrinkled and sour.
‘GET OUT!’
‘Fine. Great. You know what, I will.’
‘Go on then.’
‘I am.’ Some clunking and rattling. ‘Here!’
‘Don’t you throw stuff at me! You—’
‘It’s your half of the list, you moron.’ Then the coffin-lid thunk of the car door slamming.
‘AND GOOD RIDDANCE!’ The sound of an engine revving, then growling, getting louder as she worked through the gears. ‘GAAAAAAARGH!’
Franklin turned her collar up and marched over, weaving her way between the pothole puddles.
‘That man drives me totally insane! He’s impossible.’
‘Dotty—’
‘Everything’s an excuse to moan and be sarcastic and nip, nip, nip.’
Franklin hauled open the driver’s door and threw herself in behind the wheel. Shuddered. ‘God, that toilet is disgusting.’
‘You know what I should do? I should turn this sodding car around and drive right over the top of him!’
She pointed at the phone in Callum’s hand. ‘Anything?’
He pulled on a grimace. ‘Don’t ask.’
‘You heard what he said to me, Callum, didn’t you? You heard.’
‘Look, you can’t just abandon him, you’re police officers. You need to work—’
‘Should turn right round and squash him like the turdbeetle he is! Leave nothing but a skidmark behind. You see if I don’t! He can …’
Callum held the phone against his chest. ‘Dotty’s thrown Watt out of the car, and driven off without him.’
‘Children.’
A big sigh, then he went back to the phone.
‘… never hated anyone so much in my whole sodding life. Not even the wee shite who cost me my leg. He’s that bad!’
‘Yeah, well, maybe he only does it because he’s secretly in love with you.’
‘Urrrrrrgh … Think I just threw up in my mouth a bit.’
‘You’re welcome. Now turn round and go pick him up. We’ve got a little girl to find.’
– Detective Constable John Watt –
‘I HOPE YOUR SODDING WHEELS FALL OFF!’ John steps out into the middle of the road and slams the palm of his left hand into the crook of his right arm, punching his fist up as DS Moron drives off into the rain.
Woman’s a bloody disgrace.
No way she made sergeant on her own merit. No: must’ve been a bribe to stop her suing the force after the crash. Which was probably her own fault anyway.
John hurries back onto the pavement, stands under the awning outside a tat shop and has a squint at his watch. Half eleven.
Could head back to Division Headquarters, put in a formal complaint about his useless DS … But what good will it do him? No way they’ll fire her, no matter how crap she is. So the only option is to outshine her. Show them how a real police officer does things.
He pulls the other sheet of paper from his pocket – the other half of their list.
DS Hodgkin is such a moron.
Did she actually think he’d printed all those addresses out at random? That he hadn’t done a Bayesian statistical analysis, based on the property’s location and the location of the victims, and ranked them in order of likeliness? And, having gone to so much trouble, that he wouldn’t keep the best ones for himself?
She could’ve just ridden his coattails to glory, but no. Hodgkin had to be the thorn in his toilet paper, the nettles in his underwear, the razor blade in his sock, the bleach in his eyedrops.
John scans the list. Definitely going to need a car to get round all these.
That’s OK, though. Just grab a taxi back to Camburn Road where he parked this morning, collect the Clio, and head out to save the day.
Goodbye, DS Dorothy Pain-in-the-Arse Hodgkin, hello promotion.
And speak of the devil …
Her crappy Wheelchairmobile drifts down the road again, windscreen wipers going. Stupid fat face peering out through the rain-streaked glass.
John ducks down behind the little blue van parked outside the tat shop.
Off you go, Hodgkin. Keep on driving.
There, that’s much better, isn’t it?
Bye-bye.
Don’t let tomorrow’s headlines hit you in the arse on the way past: ‘POLICE HERO JOHN WATT SAVES MISSING TEEN ~ FIRST MINISTER PAYS TRIBUTE TO BRAVE DETECTIVE CONSTABLE …’
No: ‘PRIME MINISTER AWARDS KNIGHTHOOD TO NEWLY PROMOTED HERO COP!’
Yeah, that’s better.
John sticks his list in his pocket and hurries off to the nearest taxi rank.
59
‘Here.’ Callum thumped back into the passenger seat and held out a warm newspaper parcel.
Franklin took it. ‘Mayonnaise?’
‘They stuck a couple of sachets in there.’ He unwrapped his fish supper, filling the car with the loving scent of hot batter and brown vinegar. ‘Only chip shop in Oldcastle where they still wrap everything in newsprint. Well, if they know you.’
Steam paled the car windows, hiding the grey street. Rain danced on the roof.
She crunched on a chunk of batter. ‘McAdams was on while you were out. The SEB did another sweep of Paul Jeffries’ back garden and guess what they found.’
He popped a chip in his mouth, crisp and brown and salty, sharp with malt vinegar. ‘Go on then.’
‘The male body, with the clothes – there was another set of female remains buried underneath it. And it definitely wasn’t like the others: covered in kerf marks. Whoever she was, Jeffries had a serious go at her with a knife.’
‘Urgh … He just gets nicer and nicer, doesn’t he?’
‘That’s men for you.’ She crunked the top off her tub of mushy peas. ‘How many have we still to go?’
The list was on the dashboard. ‘Six: four private houses, a block of flats, and a disused green grocer’s. Should be done by about four, maybe five o’clock?’
‘If we’re lucky.’ Franklin dug in a chip and scooped out a splodge of neon green. ‘Odds on we’re—’
Her phone sat on the dashboard, buzzing as it launched into ‘Dancing in the Moonlight’. Again. For the third time in twenty minutes. She just grimaced at it. Then ate another pea-smeared chip. Chewing as the ringtone came to a sudden halt.
Callum broke off a chunk of flaky white haddock and tipped it into his mouth. Almost too hot to eat. ‘Can I ask you a personal question?’
‘No.’
‘You don’t seem to like this Mark of yours very much.’
‘Maybe Monaghan never had access to Northeast Ecclesiastical Trust Holdings Limited list? Maybe he just knew that property was vacant?’
‘Maybe.’
‘So maybe he knew Paul Jeffries? Just because Dotty can’t find a connection doesn’t mean one wasn’t there. Jeffries was a lay preacher, right? Maybe that’s how Monaghan knew him? He was in the congregation.’
‘So, if you don’t like Mark, why are you still with him?’
Franklin chewed, frowning straight ahead at the opaque windscreen. ‘We should find out where Jeffries preached.’
‘Life’s too short: take it from me.’
‘He must have neighbours of some kind, right? They might know a bit about him.’
Callum peeled the outer layer off a pickled onion with his teeth. ‘Can’t believe I wasted five years of my life with Elaine.’
‘You’re not helping.’
‘Fine: he’s a lay preacher. What do lay preachers do?’
‘Depends what flavour he was. But there’ll be sermons, raising money for charity, organising trips for wayward youths, rescuing fallen women, visiting members of the congregation if they end up in hospital or their partner dies. So officiating at funerals too, probably.’ She shovelled in more chips. ‘Don’t know if they’re allowed to give people the last rites or not.’
‘Nah, that’ll be a union job. Demarcation and all …’ Callum put the pickled onion down. ‘Dying and elderly members of the congregation: they think Jeffries is God’s representative, right? They want to keep in with God on their deathbed, don’t they?’
‘Argh! Of course they do.’ Franklin sooked her fingers clean then pulled out her phone. Poked at the screen. Held the thing to her ear. ‘Hello? Yes, it’s DC Franklin. I need someone to get onto the Land Registry Office— … I don’t care if it’s Sunday. We need to know if a Paul Terence Jeffries owned any properties. Probably left to him by grateful OAPs right before they died … OK … Right. Tell them it’s urgent and call me back soon as you hear … OK, thanks. Bye … Bye.’ She thumbed the screen, then slipped the phone away. Grinned across the car. ‘We’re onto something, I can feel it.’
Callum popped a chip in his gob and grinned back. ‘We’re going to save Ashlee Gossard.’
John’s stomach makes a sound like an angry badger trapped in a bath. Should’ve stopped to grab a sandwich or something on the way. Too late now. Just have to wait till he gets back to town.
His Clio lurches and bumps along the dirt track, little stones pinging in the wheel arches as he slaloms left and right between the potholes.
The outskirts of Holburn Forest run along one side of the road, beech and sycamore giving way to the dark regimented mass of pine trees, stretching away up the hill. The other side is all gorse and broom, spines and spears, reaching down across plowtered fields full of reeds.
And there we go: Thaw Cottages. Number two on the good list.
There’s three of them – two semi, one detached, all grey. They look solid enough, but the semidetached cottages are missing glass in their windows, front gardens bounded by a sagging wall with most of the harling hanging off. Nothing but thistles, dock, and nettles growing within its boundaries.
The house next door isn’t much better – both front windows boarded up with rain-darkened chipboard, one chimney pot missing, a row of jackdaws glaring down with beady eyes as he parks the Clio outside.
Another sagging wall, another garden full of weeds.
Must’ve been quite something, living here. Probably monumentally crap in winter: trapped halfway up a hill, at the end of a long winding track, wolves roaming the woods behind the house.
OK, so maybe not wolves, but no way anyone comes anywhere near the arse-end of nowhere like this with a snowplough.
The view, though. That’s something.
The hill runs down, past a tumbled-down church and its crumbling graveyard, then out along the River Wynd, nestling in a valley that opens up as it hits the outskirts of Oldcastle. Can see most of the city from up here, lurking beneath a blue-grey lid of heavy cloud tinged with gold and purples.
John zips up his jacket and reaches back between the seats for the umbrella. Scrambles out and opens it with one fluid movement. Pop.
Those two years of contemporary dance were not wasted.
Rain drums on the umbrella skin.
Might as well check the conjoined cottages first.
No sign of a path beaten through the weeds to the front door, but the road hooked around the back of the buildings. Probably garages and things there.
He hops the broken gate and pushes his way through the soggy horrible nettles, holding his elbows up and out to keep both hands away from the stinging leaves. The front door isn’t locked, just tied shut with orange string – the kind farmers wrap around bales of hay. He unties it, pushes on the wasp-stripped wood, and steps inside.
Callum drew a red line through property number fifteen: a two-up-two-down on a housing estate in Blackwall Hill. Checked his watch. ‘Five to go.’
Franklin started the engine again, and pulled away from the kerb. ‘I know there’s no point just sitting about till we hear back, but this is such a waste of time.’
‘We’ve been over this.’
‘Where’s next?’
‘Gordon Crescent, Kingsmeath. Back down to the junction then right at the roundabout.’
The car’s windscreen wipers grunted and moaned.
Callum’s phone joined in the general noise. ‘Hello?’
‘Ah, yes, is Winston Smith addressing Detective Constable MacGregor?’
Because today hadn’t contained enough weirdos. ‘He is. And does Winston have something for DC MacGregor?’
‘Indeed he does.’
Rows of squat little houses slid by the Mondeo’s windows, all slumped beneath the rain.
‘Would he care to tell DC MacGregor what it is?’
‘Winston told you he would be triumphant, and triumphant he is. His software identified one thousand three hundred and fifteen possible three-character number-plate suffixes that would provide a reasonable match to the car on your footage. He then ran that through the DVLA’s dataset via a method he’d rather not discuss right now, and narrowed it down to cars that conformed to the manufacturer and make shown on your footage.’
The Mondeo climbed the hill, over the railway bridge and down the other side. Slowing as Franklin took them left at the roundabout.
‘And will Winston be getting to the point sometime soon?’
‘This cut the number of hits to a mere two hundred and ninety across the UK. He then took those and hammered the ANPR system to see if any had been spotted in the vicinity, and lo his genius was rewarded.’
From here the entirety of Blackwall Hill stretched away down to the river, the garish goings on in Montgomery Park standing out like a grenade in a kid’s sandpit. Especially that massive inflatable spider.
‘Callum’s dying of old age, here, Winston.’
‘Those last three characters are the letters D.W.G. and form the climax of a personalised number plate, currently appearing on a black Mercedes registered to Bob’s Speed Trap Records Limited and insured for the use of one Donald Newman.’
So Newman hadn’t died or gone away, he’d gone legit. Or at least as close as passed for it in the music industry.
‘OK. Thanks.’
‘You don’t seem to grasp the celebrity status of the gentleman in question, DC MacGregor. Donald Newman’s stage name is Donny McRoberts, AKA: Sick Dawg. The rap sensation and creator of such modern top-ten classics as “Rock, Paper, Shotgun” and “I’m-a Spit on Yo Grave, Irene”.’
‘You’re sure it’s him?’
‘Winston does not make mistakes. And he has that very vehicle on camera entering Kingsmeath via the Blackburgh Roundabout not thirty minutes earlier.’ A sniff. ‘Now, he takes it your business here is concluded, Detective Constable. And that you will be providing him with a cost centre to write his time against?’
‘Thanks, Winston. I’ll get back to you.’ Callum hung up before there were any complaints. Then checked his watch again.
So Donald Newman was Donny ‘Sick Dawg’ McRoberts.
Maybe Willow’s brother had been right about the helicopter, tiger, and ‘loads of bitches’.
Well, Donald was in f
or a very nasty shock as soon as Callum caught up with him.
Which probably wouldn’t be any time soon.
No way they could abandon the search for Ashlee Gossard to go rattle Newman’s teeth for him. No matter how much he deserved it.
Franklin took a right at the traffic lights and onto the dual carriageway, heading for Kingsmeath.
But he really sodding deserved it.
The house is dry and dusty inside, littered with ancient manky furniture riddled with little holes. And the drifts of tiny black ‘Tic Tacs’ all over the floor explain why. There’s mould on the walls by the empty windows, ancient flock wallpaper curled and stained dysentery-brown.
John picks his way through to a bedroom – complete with rusty bedstead and sagging mattress. A wardrobe full of old lady clothes and more mouse droppings.
The bathroom is clean, but dusty. The kitchen cupboards still have tins in them, but they’re bloated and furry with dark brown flakes.
As if someone just walked out years ago and never returned.
The kitchen window is dirt-greyed, almost opaque. John huffs a breath on the glass and clears a patch with the side of his hand, revealing an overgrown garden and a collapsed shed. Looks as if next door’s is much the same, only there’s a greenhouse full of dead brown stalks in there too.
Past the garden is an old bothy – stone walls, corrugated iron roof – and an ancient wooden barn surrounded by chunks of farm machinery slowly disappearing under thistles and brambles.
OK, so finish up in here, check the other two cottages and then—
‘What the sodding hell did you think you were doing?’
John freezes. Licks his lips. Forces a smile and turns. ‘Sarge. What are you doing here?’
DS McAdams is standing in the kitchen doorway, arms folded, face creased into a pale glower. ‘Oh don’t look so surprised: I knew exactly what you were up to, soon as you ditched Dotty.’
Oh crap.
John’s mouth clicks shut.
‘Have you any idea how much trouble you’re in right now?’
‘I was just—’
‘I know exactly what you were “just”, Detective Constable Watt.’ His head falls back and he stares at the ceiling. ‘Why me?’
‘It wasn’t my fault, Sarge, DS Hodgkin threw me out of the car.’
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