Vanished Beneath: DS Lasser six (The Lasser series Book 6)

by Robin Roughley

  'Don't spout the bloody obvious at me Sergeant.'

  Lasser dropped the cigarette watching as it smoked itself to extinction on the tarmac.

  When his phone began to ring, he yanked it from his pocket.

  'Who is it?' Bannister asked.

  'Medea.'

  'Did you tell her about her friend being spotted in Horwich?' Bannister asked.

  'Shit!'

  Bannister shook his head. 'Don't tell me you forgot?'

  'Come on with everything that's happened I just...'

  'Oh, Medea's gonna love you, she's been at home worrying while you've been sitting on the information for three bloody hours!'

  Lasser scowled at his boss before slapping the phone to his ear.

  'Hello.'

  Bannister slapped him on the back. 'Good luck Sergeant,' he mumbled before walking back to his car.

  Medea jabbed at the phone in anger; she was sitting outside James Drake’s house under the jaundiced cone of a streetlight. The relief she'd felt when Lasser had explained about Emma being seen in Horwich had been immense, however, when she discovered he had known about it since mid-afternoon she had lost the plot completely.

  'But you said you'd let me know as soon as you had any news?'

  'I know Med and I'm sorry...'

  'Sorry!' her voice rose an octave. 'I've been sitting with her father; he's going out of his mind with worry. I mean, you know it's been driving me mad, the not knowing and yet you couldn't even be bothered to pick up the phone and ring!'

  She heard Lasser sigh down the phone, she knew it was a sound full of regret but she chose to see it as a sigh of exasperation. 'Oh I'm sorry am I boring you?'

  'Don't be silly, it's just...'

  'So I'm being silly now am I?'

  'No of course not I didn't mean it like that.'

  'One thing I asked you to do and you couldn't be bothered,'

  'That's not true it’s just been a bad day...'

  'Oh well I'm sure Emma's having a great time being held captive by a complete psycho.' She could feel her anger mounting, all the worry, all the stress bubbling to the surface.

  'Look Medea I told you we'll find her...'

  'And I'm expected to believe you; the great Sergeant Lasser gives his word so it must be the truth?'

  'There's no need to take the piss!'

  For the first time she heard an edge of anger in his voice and the sound of it only served to infuriate her more. 'How am I expected to trust a man who can't even keep his word,' she spat.

  The line went quiet, she could hear Lasser breathing hard, could picture his face clamped down as he tried not to say something he would regret.

  Medea gave him all the time he needed to hang himself.

  'Emma isn't the only problem I've got, Med.'

  'So she's a problem is she?'

  'I...'

  'Oh just piss off!' she snapped before throwing the phone onto the passenger seat.

  Now she sat with her head hanging, her black hair covering her face as the tears slid down her cheeks. She hitched in a breath and tried to calm her nerves, but the feeling of anguish grew until it seemed to fill her head. Nobody was taking this seriously, Emma was in trouble, and they didn't care. She thought of Lasser his face etched with tiredness and pushed him from her mind.

  Easing back in the seat, she dragged the hair from her face and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. She looked towards the house; one solitary light glowed dimly behind the curtains. Medea could picture James sitting on the sofa, his life's clock slowly ticking down as the cancer ate away at his body. All the pain of the wasted years and the terror of dying before Emma was found only serving to speed up the dying process.

  When her phone began to ring, she ignored it; her mind in lock down, her memories frozen in the past. The nights out with Emma, walking around town drawing admiring glances from the people on the streets, carefree and oblivious to everything as they concentrated on having a good time.

  The phone continued to drone, vibrating its way across the seat. Emma should never had gone to London, she should have stayed up here where she belonged.

  The bleating died and she wasn't even aware, she tried to picture this Andrew Forbes, already she hated the man who owned that name, despised him for what he was putting her through.

  When the phone started up again she blinked as the sound found its way into her muddled mind.

  Picking it up she automatically pressed the answer button, in her mind she was already apologising. 'Lasser I'm sorry, I...'

  'If you call anyone he says he'll kill me,' Emma Drake said in a trembling voice.

  77

  Natasha Iknoff's English was better than her husband's. Perhaps it was down to the fact that she had made friends with some of the young mothers who took their kids to the local mother and toddler group.

  At first, Natasha had sat and listened, not wanting to open her mouth in case they shunned her as a foreigner. After a few weeks, one or two of the women had started to talk to her, and she had been amazed by how easily she had picked up the strange language. Six months later and she could join in the conversations with ease; she'd even took to calling at a friend's house for morning coffee.

  The mothers would drink brews and chat while the kids played in the back garden of the house.

  Though as she stood in the hallway with the two men in front of her, all thoughts of blending in vanished, it was like being back in Poland; she had seen people like this before. Big men, hard men, who cared little for anything but money and power.

  Not for the first time she cursed her idiot husband, why couldn't he have got a normal job like everyone else, why did he always have to try and play the big man.

  When the police had come to take him away Natasha had made up her mind that she would leave him before he dragged the family into his mess.

  The presence of the two men told her it was too late to distance herself from here husbands stupidity.

  She listened as the one with the black hair told her what would happen to her children if her husband blabbed to the police. Natasha had stood looking at her shoes as the threats seeped into her brain, he knew they had children, he knew their names, and that was enough to make her shudder in fear.

  The other man seemed to fill the small hallway, his face a tanned slab of meat with small dark eyes pressed into the flesh like sultanas in heavy dough. He had said nothing, then again he didn't have to his eyes told her everything she needed to know.

  'So make sure when you go and see him you tell him what I said.'

  Natasha had looked up and nodded. 'I will,' she said.

  Boris had pointed a finger in her face. 'Make sure you do lady, or it'll be you and the kids who pay.'

  'I understand.'

  Boris had treated her to a smile. 'Good, it's nice to do business with someone who knows the score.'

  Natasha had said nothing as the two men left the house.

  Closing the door quietly she leant her head against the woodwork and cried.

  78

  By the time he'd pulled off the small car park, the stain left by Colly Roberts had all but vanished, the crowd had diminished as the sun sank behind the block of flats. Bannister had smoked another of Lasser's cigarettes; his arse perched on the bonnet of the car

  'So what did she say?'

  'Don't ask.'

  'That bad eh?'

  'I tried telling her it's been a bastard day...'

  'Come on Lasser, as far as she’s concerned Emma Drake is the only thing of importance.'

  'I get that but I'm not a miracle worker, like you said we have to concentrate on the murders...'

  'I never said that!'

  Lasser snapped his head around to find Bannister grinning at him.

  'Bastard!' he snarled.

  Bannister flicked the cigarette into the air watching as it trailed sparks onto the ground. 'Don't worry she'll come round.'

  'And what if we don't find Emma or what if Forbes doe
s something stupid?'

  'Well then she'll probably never forgive you.'

  'Thanks for that.'

  'Listen get her chocolates and flowers, make a peace offering.'

  'Like that's going to work.'

  The traffic on the main road was heavy, headlights flared and the sound of an occasional horn split the air.

  'Go and get it sorted Lasser.'

  On his way home Lasser had called at the local Tesco, grabbing a box of Thornton's Continental chocolates and a bunch of flowers before making his way back to the car.

  As he climbed in the first spattering of rain hit the windscreen. Placing the box on the passenger seat, he had a quick sniff at the flowers and frowned when he failed to pick up a scent.

  'Bloody useless,' he mumbled as he slipped the key into the ignition.

  He flicked on the wipers and headlights as he pulled off the car park, the clock on the dashboard showed ten to seven. The sight of the chocolates and flowers made him feel cheap and cheesy, Medea wasn't the kind of woman who would swoon at the sight of a few blooms she would probably throw them in his face and stamp on the chocolates.

  Ten minutes later, he pulled into the cul-de-sac, frowning when he saw the empty drive.

  With a sigh, he pulled up and yanked on the handbrake before climbing out, his arms laden with the second rate peace offering. Fumbling his key into the lock Lasser pushed his way into the hall before making his way into the kitchen. He stood in the doorway and looked at the empty room. Dropping the flowers and chocolates onto the kitchen table, he flicked on the kettle before pulling out his phone. As he waited for the water to boil, he listened to the ringing tone, when the call went through to voicemail he frowned.

  'It's me, I've just arrived home if you're still with Mr Drake could you give me a quick call to let me know when you'll be back,' he paused, 'or maybe I could come over there, either way let me know,' he said before ending the call and grabbing a cup from the cupboard.

  Maybe he should have apologised again, told her he was sorry. Lasser frowned, suddenly wondering if he had done more harm than good.

  Bannister had been right, Medea hadn't been interested in what sort of day he'd had, her best friend was missing and that took precedence over everything.

  Pouring the boiling water onto the coffee, he added a splash of milk, before stirring the drink and dropping the spoon into the sink.

  Taking the drink into the lounge, he flopped onto the sofa and clicked the TV on. After thirty seconds of flicking through the channels, he pressed the off button.

  Silence settled around him and that old familiar sense of being alone in an empty house rose in his mind like a small bubble filled with toxic waste.

  His eyes roamed around the room, the dust free surfaces, the cushions on the sofa plumped just so. He thought back to when he'd been living alone, Bannister had said the place had looked like a pigsty and he'd been right. The rooms had been thick with dust, the sink littered with dirty pots and pans, the house had smelled constantly of cheap booze, like a back street dive that never closed - Heartbreak Hotel.

  Lasser sighed and pulled out his cigarettes, perhaps he was unable to function without a woman in his life? Suddenly he knew the truth, in the past it had been hard but he'd coped of a fashion, but with Medea things were different, here was a woman, ‘the woman’ he wanted to spend the rest of his days with. It was a frightening thought that filled him with anxiety, if he blew this, if he somehow drove her away then he knew that picking up the pieces would be nigh on impossible.

  Bannister was always winding him up, saying Medea was too good for him and that one day she would see through the facade to the real man beneath.

  What if that was the truth what if she suddenly came to her senses and realised he was a fraud? It was a stick he used to beat himself up with and one that was never far from his thoughts. He thought of those quiet intimate times when they would lie together and talk of the future, he would listen as Medea made plans, nothing major, just the kind of pipe dreams that people made when they were curled together with a harsh wind blowing at the window. He would smile in the darkness as she talked of them growing old together, and yet here he was letting her down, breaking a promise that had obviously meant so much to her.

  He thought of Colly Roberts as he plummeted to the ground, the way he had fallen in a pocket of silence until his body slammed into the ground with a sickening crunch.

  Closing his eyes, he tried to shut his mind off, but like a dripping tap in a steel sink it kept pinging the images forward. Medea chewing the inside of her cheek, her eyes bright with an unspoken fear. Emma smiling at him as she painted her nails, 'She's mad for you,' those had been the words Emma had used to describe Medea's feelings for him.

  Lasser grunted and his head slipped forward as the tiredness swept through his bones.

  He thought of the three bodies dragged from the lake, the bloated form of Joseph Crank, the dark haired Mary and the unknown blond girl, eighteen maybe nineteen, Doc Shannon had said.

  Sarah Clark battered to death with a tyre iron.

  Then a name slithered into his brain, one that he clung to as his mind closed down.

  'Kylie Frodsham,' he whispered and then he was gone.

  79

  Albie Ross spent the day in a hell of his own making. He hadn't bothered to open the curtains, the hours had passed with agonising slowness as he paced back and forth in the small living room.

  Occasionally, he would make a detour to grab another cold beer from the fridge.

  Now he slipped on his jacket, patting at the pockets to check he had the keys to the car, he made his way into the back garden closing the door quietly behind him. Lifting the lid on the bin Albie snapped his head away as the stink rose up to meet him. Sharon Cliff lay crumpled at the bottom of the narrow space; he could smell the overpowering stink of burned flesh and excrement.

  Gagging, he let the lid slam shut as the sweat broke out on his body, his hands felt clammy and stiff as if he had them thrust in the freezer for days.

  'Come on you can do this,' he hissed before dragging the bin to the garden gate.

  Undoing the clasp he clattered his way into the narrow alleyway before running to the front of the house for the car. Reversing the rust bucket down the passageway, Albie leapt back out and popped the boot; he could see lights on at the back of some of the houses, his eyes flitting back and forth on the lookout for some nosey bastard to pull their curtains wide to see what all the racket was about.

  Getting the body from the bin to the boot took every ounce of his dwindling strength, twice he had to stop and dry retch at the side of the wall as the stench swirled around his head.

  After what seemed and age he slammed the boot and pushed the bin to one side before scrambling back behind the wheel.

  Drawing a huge breath, he crawled forward, taking his time as he drove along the narrow street.

  The voice on the phone had been specific about where the body was to be dumped. At first, Albie had protested, but when the caller had threatened to hang up and call the police Albie had realised he had no choice in the matter.

  His eyes kept flitting to the interior mirror, convinced that any second he would see blue lights flashing in the distance as the filth hunted him down.

  Licking his lips, Albie headed out onto the main road, despite the hour, the traffic was still heavy with taxis ferrying people back and forth for a night on the town.

  He squirmed in his seat as a cop car went flying past on the opposite side of the road, holding his breath as it diminished in the wing mirror.

  When the traffic lights ahead changed to red he eased to a stop, watching as a group of girls tottered across the junction, linking arms in a long line, bare flesh shimmering with glitter glow as they strutted past.

  Under normal circumstances, Albie would have slid down the window and made some comment about the size of their tits or the shape of their arse. Tonight however, sex was the furthest thing from his mi
nd; in fact, he doubted whether he would ever be able to get it up again. An image of Sharon floated to the forefront of his misfiring brain, her lips wrapped the head of his cock, a gleam in her eyes as she went to work and then her face had started to twitch, her eyes had rolled back just as he shot his load.

  Albie shivered at the memory of what came next.

  When the driver behind blasted his horn, he looked up to find the light had changed to green.

  Raising an apologetic hand, Albie lurched forward before grabbing second gear.

  'Keep calm,' he urged before taking a huge lungful of air.

  Five minutes later, he pulled off the main road and headed down a short cobbled street lined with boarded up terraced houses. Over the years, an army of kids armed with broken bricks had shattered all the streetlights, leaving the stretch of road gloomy with shadows.

  When Albie reached the metal gates, he hesitated before slamming the car door open. Feverish with panic he scuttled to the boot and hauled the body from the narrow space.

  When the back of Sharon's head hit the cobbles, Albie groaned in distress. Grabbing her ankles, he dragged her to the gates and let go of her feet with a shudder.

  Feverously, he swiped his hands back and forth on the front of his jeans in an effort to wipe away the feeling of disgust.

  'Sorry Shaz,' he said as he looked down at the crumpled figure, her legs shone pale in the gloom, her peroxide coloured hair lay on the cobbles like threads of spun silver.

  When the dog stared to bark, Albie jittered back, he could see the mountain of scrap metal beyond the gates; hear the huge animal rattling its chain.

  Thirty seconds later, Albie Ross was driving away, the horror of what he had done branded for eternity onto his tortured brain.

  80

  Lasser awoke with a start, the temperature in the room had dropped leaving him feeling chilled. He blinked into the darkness before fumbling for the lamp switch.

  Rubbing at his eyes, he glanced at the clock on the wall and frowned before checking the one on his wrist.

  Half past one, moving to the window he slid back the blind, the frown growing deeper as he saw the empty space where Medea usually parked her car.