by A. J. Cross
‘Wha’?’
He reached for his coat. ‘The Lawrence family is expecting us.’
Watts slid into a space between vehicles parked outside several large semi-detached houses and pointed. ‘The one with the dark blue front door is Mike Lawrence’s parents’ place.’
They got out into damp cold and headed for it. The door was opened before they reached it by a tall, dark-haired man so unexpectedly familiar to Watts that he was instantly back at the scene that night, looking at Mike Lawrence inside his car, already dying. This had to be the brother, unshaven, wasted-looking, his eyes shadowed. Watts took out ID.
‘Mr Brendan Lawrence?’
Lawrence gave a brief nod. They went inside the house. It was full of people, the low, steady buzz of conversation dropping to almost nothing as Watts and Judd appeared. A man and a woman stood, came to them, looking shattered, the man speaking quietly.
‘Detective Inspector.’ He grasped Watts’ hand. ‘John Lawrence, Mike’s father. This is my wife, Bernice, Brendan, you’ve just met and over there are our daughters, Rhoda and Oona and Oona’s two little girls.’ Unsmiling, the two young women acknowledged Watts.
Watts introduced Judd, catching sight of food and drink laid out on a nearby table. ‘Our apologies for intruding, Mr Lawrence. I was hoping we could talk to you and your wife, but we can come back when it’s more—’
‘Please, stay. It’s not a problem. You’re welcome to have some food with us, maybe a drink?’ Conversation in the room had resumed.
‘Is there somewhere quiet we can talk, Mr Lawrence?’
‘Believe me, this is quiet for this house.’
They followed the Lawrences through the press of people, Watts glimpsing a priest sitting on a sofa, cup and saucer in hand. Averting his eyes, Watts walked on and into a quiet, comfortably warm room. He closed the door.
‘Mr and Mrs Lawrence, on behalf of West Midlands police and all at headquarters, please accept our condolences for what has happened to your son, Michael and your daughter-in-law, Molly.’ Both murmured quiet thanks. Watts let a few seconds drift by.
‘If you’re able to talk to us about them, it could assist our investigation. We’d really appreciate it.’
The Lawrences exchanged glances. Mr Lawrence said, ‘I don’t think we can be of much help. Mike and Molly left here for dinner in town …’ He paused. ‘And that’s the last we saw of them.’
‘They didn’t mention any other plans for that evening?’
‘No. We assumed that after dinner they would be going directly home.’
‘Any information you’re able to provide about your son and daughter-in-law’s lives could be useful to us.’
Another exchange of glances. Mrs Lawrence sent him a confused look. ‘How might our talking about Mike and Molly help you find whoever did this? They wouldn’t know anyone like that.’
‘Any information you give us could add to the picture of what’s happened, Mrs Lawrence. If you’re able to help us with that we’d be very grateful.’
‘Of course. I’m sorry. We’re feeling stressed, in a bit of a turmoil …’
‘We understand. Whatever you’re able to share with us, we’d appreciate it.’
She looked at her husband. ‘Mike was a good son, wasn’t he, John? A friendly, helpful person. Popular. Eight GCSEs, two A levels. He went to art college. Goodness knows where he got that talent from. Not from me. Straight from college, he went to work for an interior design company, where he was still working when …’ She took some seconds to regroup. ‘Mike loved his work. He had a real flair for it, a nice manner with clients …’ She looked away. There was another brief silence. ‘He worked hard. He always wanted the best for Molly. He didn’t earn a big salary and he was never particularly ambitious, was he, John? He chose to stay with the company and the work he loved.’ Her voice wavered. ‘Which pleased Sebastian, his boss …’
John Lawrence placed his hand on her arm and looked at Watts. ‘What you’ve just heard is what our son was. A good man who did right by his family. Molly is like a daughter to us. She’s a quiet person. I remember the first time she came here I was a little concerned that she’d find our family, this house, rather noisy. She has only her mother, you see, but she was always happy here. We’re praying that she will be again. She believed in Mike. She encouraged him to set up his own design company. Mike preferred to stay where he was. He loved the work and clients sensed that. They liked him. He didn’t get stressed by the high cost of some of the designs he brought to reality. He knew his clients could afford it which gave his talent free rein. That was the reward he got from the work.’ His voice faded, replaced by a heavy silence. ‘Sorry, I seem to be going on …’
Bernice Lawrence sat forward, looked Watts full in the face. ‘You’re making progress?’
‘It’s a major inquiry, Mrs Lawrence. We’re doing everything possible. Having a sense of Mike and Molly as people is a big help to us.’
‘Molly’s a great girl. We love her. We can’t believe what’s happened.’ She shook her head. ‘How her mother is going to get through this, I just don’t know. She’s had some difficulties over the years, poor woman.’ She paused. ‘Molly was so thrilled to be pregnant, wasn’t she, John?’ She looked at Judd who was writing. ‘As soon as they left here after telling us that the hospital had said everything was fine, we went online and ordered the best baby buggy …’
She stood, her face ashen. ‘John, can you talk to them, please? I can’t …’
She went quickly to the door and out. Biting her lip, Judd watched her go, then looked back to John Lawrence who was speaking.
‘We’re in touch with Molly’s mother by phone on a regular basis because she’s on her own. She’s spending a lot of time at the hospital. Bernice has seen Molly very briefly. She didn’t want to impose on the time her mother has with her.’
‘Did Molly say anything to your wife that might be relevant to our investigation?’
‘No. Bernice told me she just held her hand.’
Watts took a map from his pocket, unfolded it and showed it to him. ‘I need you to look at this, Mr Lawrence. It’s a map of the area where the incident occurred.’ Watts’ thick forefinger moved over it. ‘See this road? That’s the route your son and daughter-in-law took from the restaurant and … this is Forge Street right here.’
John Lawrence studied the detail. ‘We saw it on the news. It looked very rough. We can’t understand why they were there. It’s not the area they’d go through to get home from where they had dinner.’
‘It looks like they got lost but are you able to confirm if either Mike or Molly ever mentioned Forge Street to anyone in the family?’
‘Never, as far as I’m aware. Bernice and I had never heard of it before it was mentioned on the news.’
‘As I said, we think that your son and his wife got lost during their journey from the restaurant.’ Watts’ finger moved over details on the map. ‘They appear to have been heading in the direction of the town hall here, then home, but, in this area here there’s multiple traffic diversions. It’s really easy to take the wrong direction.’
Lawrence stared at the map, sighed, then shook his head. ‘Mike mentioned that his satnav was playing up a couple of weeks back, but I don’t know any more about that. If I’d asked him about it before this …’
‘Mr Lawrence, I had trouble driving there even with a fully operational satnav.’ He let a few seconds of silence go by. ‘You’re aware that the motive for what happened to your son and daughter-in-law appears to be robbery?’
Lawrence nodded, his colour heightening. ‘Yes, and for what? Our son had to die for the sake of some jewellery?’ He shook his head. ‘What’s this world coming to?’
‘You know that we have your son’s watch.’
Lawrence nodded again.
‘We need to retain it for now but it will be returned to you as soon as possible.’
Lawrence shrugged his shoulders, looking suddenly exhausted
. ‘Sorry. I can’t say any more about what’s happened. It’s all so bloody senseless.’
There was a soft tap on the door. It opened. One of the Lawrences’ daughters looked inside.
‘Father Mulvaney is leaving, Dad,’ she said quietly.
He turned to Watts. ‘If you’ll excuse me, Oona will see you out.’ He headed from the room.
Oona Lawrence looked at them. ‘I just want you to know that Mike was liked, loved by everybody who knew him, his family, his friends, his colleagues. You have to find who did this.’
Avoiding words that might be construed as a promise, Watts went with: ‘That’s our aim. Do you know any of your brother’s friends, his colleagues?’
She shook her head. ‘Not directly.’
They followed her through the house.
‘Mike loved his work. He and Molly loved each other, had made a life together. We just can’t accept what’s happened.’
They approached the front door. Mrs Lawrence was talking to Brendan a few feet away. Watts picked up her quiet words.
‘All I’m saying is that you haven’t visited her and I think you should.’
He turned to her, his face weary. ‘Mom, you know how busy I am. I should be at work right now and from what you’ve told me, Molly’s really bad and – yes, all right, I’ll try and get there later.’
They left the house, Judd looking wiped out. Watts felt much the same. John Lawrence was right. It was senseless.
TEN
Saturday 8 December. 8.58 a.m.
His phone to his ear, Watts was relating to Traynor the little they had learned from the Lawrence family the previous day. He looked down at the memo he’d received five minutes before.
‘It won’t surprise you when I say that Brophy’s agitating for progress. He’s also anticipating that local residents will feel targeted by the investigation because of the use of a gun. I don’t give a rat’s backside how they might feel. This investigation will be as sensitive as possible but our priority is to find this shooter pronto.’
‘I agree. Is there any news as to when Mrs Lawrence might be well enough to talk?’
‘I phoned the hospital a few minutes ago. I’m waiting for a call back. I’ll ring you when I know something.’ He ended the call. The desk phone rang.
Judd reached for it. ‘Hi, Adam … yes, he is. No!’ She turned, looked at Watts. ‘He’s right here. OK, I’ll tell him.’ She replaced the phone. ‘Ready for some really good news?’
‘When am I not?’
‘SOCOs have found the gun!’ She watched his face register it. ‘Correction. They’ve found a gun but I’m betting any money it’s the one. It’s being processed. Adam will let you know the results.’
‘Where was it?’
‘In a deep hole, a few metres from the Lawrences’ car.’
The phone rang again. She reached for it, held it towards Watts. ‘It’s the hospital, for you.’ He took it from her.
‘DI Watts … Yes. I’ll be there in ten minutes.’ He replaced the phone and stood.
‘How is she?’ asked Judd.
‘That wasn’t about Molly Lawrence. It was the hospital letting me know that Mike Lawrence’s post-mortem is in half an hour. As SIO, I have to be there.’ He fetched his coat. ‘Ever attended a hospital post-mortem, Judd?’
‘No.’
‘How’d you feel about seeing one done?’
She shrugged. ‘I’ve been in the PM suite as Dr Chong showed us stuff. It won’t bother me.’
He waited as she got her coat. He was thinking about confidence. He’d had plenty when he was Judd’s age. Back then, life was simple. You hadn’t yet developed that voice in your ear telling you to be careful, watch what you were doing. If you had, you ignored it. That voice had started to register with Watts when he hit forty, although its owner by then was long dead. It was the voice of somebody who had prized security above all else. His mother. His eyes moved over the multiple files on the table. Right now, the security that came with the job didn’t seem to him to be that great a deal.
Forty-five minutes later, they were waiting, gowned and masked, inside one of the hospital’s pathology suites. Watts gave the cold tiles and metal surfaces a quick once-over. It was much like the one Chong presided over at headquarters but on a larger scale. Hearing a security pass being keyed in and the door opening, he straightened, with a quick glance in Judd’s direction. What he saw wasn’t quite what he was expecting. Her face wasn’t too dissimilar to the pale green scrubs they’d been given to wear. A guided tour of the aftermath of a headquarters’ post-mortem with Connie in charge was one thing. Being here, inside this vast hospital complex with …?
‘Detective Inspector Watts! Dr Wexler here.’
He watched the massive gowned figure approach them, a smaller man following, camera in hand. According to what they’d been told on arrival, Dr Anton Wexler, pathologist and specialist in head injuries, would be conducting the post-mortem on Michael Lawrence. Wexler beckoned them with a gloved hand to a series of light boxes. Taking an X-ray plate from the large envelope he was carrying, he pushed it upwards, did the same with a second. Watts and Judd stared up at them.
‘I’ll keep the technicalities to a minimum.’ Wexler turned to another gowned figure which had just appeared. ‘Take Mr Lawrence from storage, please. Place him on table C.’ Wexler gave Watts a wink. ‘Don’t want to keep him waiting, so shall we begin?’ He pointed at one of the X-rays.
‘Can you make out the track of the bullet which entered Mr Lawrence’s head close to his chin?’ He indicated the other X-ray. ‘It’s probably easier to discern on this one.’
Watts stared at what looked to him like a narrow, worm-like area in the midst of not much else. ‘This will be a full post-mortem. If I find no other injuries to Mr Lawrence’s body, I’ll focus on the excision of the bullet, which I’m assuming to be of significant interest to you, Detective Inspector.’
He pulled the X-rays free. They followed him to a distant table, its occupant covered by a thin green sheet, surrounded on three sides by centimetres-high glazed panels. Wexler glanced up at the wall clock, pulled a microphone close to his face, intoned his and their names and titles. ‘My colleague John Haynes is responsible for post-mortem photography. It is now nine thirty-eight a.m. on the eighth of December. We’ll begin.’
Watts and Judd watching, pens and notebooks in hand, Wexler neatly folded away the sheet. Mike Lawrence was now as exposed as he had been the day he was born. Wexler reached up to a vacant screen suspended above the post-mortem table. It filled immediately with a partial image of Mike Lawrence’s body, a portion of Wexler’s enormous girth, Watts’ head and shoulders, the camera poised in Haynes’ hands, and very little of Judd. Watts took a slow, deep breath, and watched Wexler get to work.
The clock’s hands moved steadily onwards. Forty-five minutes later, having found no evidence of injury to Mike Lawrence’s body, Wexler was now giving his full attention to the head, his voice rolling steadily on.
‘The first shot to Mr Lawrence grazed his left cheek. More of that later.’ He manipulated Mike Lawrence’s head. ‘See? This second shot was the cause of death. It inflicted a particularly devastating injury to Mr Lawrence’s brain as you saw from the X-rays. Let’s have a look at it, shall we?’
They watched Wexler deftly apply the scalpel, starting from behind Mike Lawrence’s left ear, continuing upwards, across his scalp, down the other side and behind his right ear. Watts kept his eyes on what was happening, his thinking on hold.
‘You’re in luck, Detective Inspector. There’s only minor bullet fragmentation and, right here’ – he pointed – ‘is the tissue disruption and destruction caused as it progressed through his skull, do you see?’
Watts nodded, wishing he didn’t. The camera whirred and clicked. Wexler continued, his eyes on the screen. ‘Now, here we have the cavitation in detail: the effect of the bullet’s passage through the soft tissue.’
Watts and Judd stood, mute, as Wex
ler continued his verbal description, pointing a gloved finger at destruction beneath one side of the jaw.
‘One entrance point here … and also stippling which indicates that whoever fired this shot was probably within say a metre of the victim. Which may be of no surprise, given media reports suggesting that he was shot inside his car …’ His facial expression focused, he applied the scalpel to the exit wound. ‘Not that the press has any idea what it’s talking about most of the time.’
Watts made brief notes, looked up to see Wexler grinning widely, the slim metal tool in his massive hand gripping a small object. ‘This is it, Detective Inspector! The object what done it.’ He shook his head. ‘Which is not accurate, is it? The individual who set it on its course did it and I’m more than happy to leave that with you.’ He moved the bullet towards a small metal dish, let it fall. It landed with a tinny sound.
‘That minor abrasion you can see to Mr Lawrence’s left cheek was caused by the first bullet, possibly a practice shot, which skimmed his cheek then travelled onwards and struck a sun visor. I understand that bullet is already in the possession of the police.’
He stepped away from the table. ‘You’ll have my report, plus the bullet I’ve recovered, within the next twenty-four hours. Give my regards to Dr Connie Chong, if you would, please and also to another of your colleagues, Adam … now, what is his surname?’
Despite his experience of post-mortems over the years, Watts still felt the effects of them and, right now, looking at what was in front of him, his mind was a desert. For the life of him, he couldn’t supply it. He glanced at Judd. Her face told a similar story.
They left the hospital, Watts on his phone to Traynor. ‘What’s the soonest you can be in? Right. See you then.’ He ended the call. ‘He’ll be with us early Monday morning.’
They drove the rest of the way to headquarters in silence, broken by Watts as they entered the car park. ‘How many shots were fired at the Lawrences, Judd?’
‘Two to Mike Lawrence and …’ She stared at him. ‘Three.’