by A. J. Cross
‘Looks like we can’t rely on the locals when it comes to identifying gunfire.’
Back in his office, Watts photocopied his and Judd’s notes. ‘Unless you’ve got anything you want to add, I’ll email these to Adam’s team.’ Not getting a response, he gave her a close look. ‘You all right?’
She looked up at him. ‘No, I’m not. I’m furious. Whoever did that to Mike Lawrence, then turned the gun on his wife, should be forced to watch what we’ve just seen.’
He thought she had a point.
8.10 p.m.
During the dinner he had made, Watts told Chong all he knew of the Lawrence case. It didn’t take long. Aware of the opportunistic cat circling his ankles, he looked across the table at her, thinking how empty this house had felt during the last ten days or so. Ditto, his life, despite all that had been happening at headquarters.
‘The good news – well, two pieces of good news: SOCOs have found a gun which you probably know about already, and Will Traynor is on board.’ He gave her a quick glance, thinking that she must be tired after her flight, hoping that she wasn’t.
‘Glad to hear about Will. Yes, Adam told me about the gun.’ She sat back. ‘That was a really lovely dinner.’
‘So are you. Lovely, I mean.’
She grinned. ‘I was at headquarters this afternoon, getting my brain moving. Sorry I didn’t have time to come and say “Hello”. How is Will?’
‘He’s looking good and there’s none of that edginess he had back in the summer. He’s sold his house and he’s living about three miles from here with his daughter, although she’s dividing her time between his place and the university.’ He stood, reached for their plates. ‘I attended the Lawrence post-mortem at the hospital this afternoon.’
Carrying other items from the table, she followed him to the kitchen. ‘What did you learn?’
‘Stripping away the technicalities, basically what we already knew: Mike Lawrence shot at fairly close range, the first shot skimming his cheek, the second entering to the side of his chin and making a right mess of the inside of his skull.’ He shook his head. ‘I was surprised at how I felt, watching the post.’
She raised her brows. ‘Hearing that, so am I. You’ve seen enough of them. How was it different?’
He rinsed plates and glasses, then put them inside the shiny metal dishwasher. ‘Not sure. Maybe something to do with the brutality of this case. Possibly, because we know what happened to Mrs Lawrence. Do you know that she was pregnant?’
‘Yes. Who was with you at the hospital?’
‘Judd.’
‘How did she cope?’
‘Really well. A bit spacey afterwards.’
‘Who did the post-mortem?’
‘Big bloke. Wexler. He sends his regards.’
Chong grinned. ‘He’s a character. We trained together. Did he get you chatting during it?’
‘He did the chatting. Towards the end, I couldn’t remember Adam’s surname when he asked for it and I’m not so sure I knew my own by the time we left.’ He shrugged. ‘I think I was distracted because of Judd being there and how she was doing.’ He gazed down at Connie. ‘I’ve put your bag in the spare room.’
She went to the door and turned, giving him a steady look. ‘Bernard, I’ve just spent several days with my mother who is eighty-one years old, frail, not very well, but when I left she was making plans for a holiday with my brother and contemplating spending some of it, if not hiking, then on her feet.’ She waited. ‘Do you get what I’m saying?’ She watched his eyes move from side to side. Shaking her head, she left the kitchen.
He gave it a quick once-over. Getting on for twenty-five years married until his wife died, and now a year-long relationship with Connie Chong hadn’t made his understanding of women’s thinking any swifter. He listened to the new dishwasher going through its paces. He patted it. One thing he did know: women had most of the good ideas.
‘Bernard?’
‘Coming.’ He headed for the hall and stairs. ‘How about I make mugs of hot—?’
He gazed upwards at small feet, their neat nails a deep rose colour and on, over honeyed skin, the dark triangle, the neat curves and swells and on to the pixie haircut and her face smiling down at him. ‘My bag is in the main bedroom where it belongs.’ The hall clock ticked its way to eight forty-five.
‘You’re not tired from your flight?’
She regarded him, one hand on her hip. ‘Clearly, my reference to my mother was overly oblique, so try this. I’m fifty years old and my job, which I’ll be resuming some time tomorrow and which I love, is also a constant reminder that life can be unpredictable, at times brutal and also unexpectedly short.’ She turned, gazed over one shoulder at him. ‘Now, do you get it?’
Hearing his quick footfalls on the stairs, she laughed.
ELEVEN
Monday 10 December. 7.50 a.m.
The carjacking files were spread on the table close to the still-slim one relating to the Lawrence case, the Smartboard waiting to receive any information additional to that yielded by the post-mortem.
‘What time is Will due in?’ asked Judd.
‘Knowing how prompt he is, in eight point five minutes.’
‘When are we going to see Dr Chong?’
‘About the same.’
She was silent, then: ‘There’s loads of guns in Birmingham, Sarge.’
‘And I need reminding because?’
‘Just saying. The one that’s been found might not be—’
The door opened and Brophy came in. ‘When Dr Traynor arrives, ensure that he knows that I expect, make that demand, due care be taken by all working with this force when interacting with various inner-city residents.’
‘He knows that that’s general policy,’ responded Watts, wondering why Brophy was acting like his pants were on fire. ‘Plus Traynor is sensitive to people’s feelings—’
‘I’ve just had one of the inner-city community leaders on the phone to tell me that concerns are already being raised by residents feeling targeted due to the high police presence in the area.’
Watts was unimpressed. ‘We’ve hardly started and we’re already taking due care but those kinds of concerns come second to my investigation.’
Brophy frowned. ‘The situation still needs careful handling.’
Jonah Budd’s name nudged inside Watts’ head. ‘Whatever leads we get, we follow them, regardless of ethnicity, and whatever we do will be appropriate and subtle. This isn’t the seventies.’ He watched Brophy swivel and disappear.
‘How many days have we been on this case and he’s already getting on my—’
The phone rang as Traynor came inside. Judd reached for it, nodded.
‘We’ll be there.’ She replaced it. ‘Hi, Will.’ To Watts: ‘Dr Chong is ready.’
Inside the PM suite, they watched Chong place copies of the hospital post-mortem report on Mike Lawrence in front of them, plus accompanying photographs, followed by a shorter report relating to Molly Lawrence.
‘Both are concise yet thorough. Details of the injuries to Michael Lawrence you already know.’ She indicated the shorter item. ‘This is the hospital’s overview of Molly Lawrence’s injuries, which basically indicates the bullet entered low on her right side, after which it travelled upwards and, exiting almost instantly, avoided major organs. I’m guessing here when I say that the assailant probably had some difficulty aiming the gun from the rear seat. Her injuries are currently incapacitating but fortunately not life-changing.’ She waited. ‘Any questions?’
‘No,’ said Watts.
Traynor shook his head.
She headed for the door. ‘In which case, a physical demonstration of the shootings should be mere icing on the cake. What I’m about to show you is something Adam and I spent several hours assembling yesterday.’
They followed her from the PM suite, along the corridor, up a flight of stairs to the ground floor and along another corridor towards the rear of the building.
‘Where are we going, Sarge?’
They stopped at a door marked Forensic Test Area. A triangular warning sign bearing a laser symbol was next to it. Chong entered a code into the keypad to one side and they followed her into a vast, light-filled, featureless space.
Judd took several steps inside, looking slowly up and around, her mouth a perfect ‘O’. ‘I’ve never been in here … It’s … it’s like Lidl, without the stuff.’
Chong smiled, pointing ahead. ‘This is where specific types of mock-ups are created.’
They followed her across a wide expanse of pale floor to the Lawrences’ dark Toyota Previa, its rear doors standing open, its front doors removed and lying on mats nearby. Both front seats were occupied by white, featureless mannequins. ‘We reconstructed all of this from the crime scene photographs.’
They stood, eyes fixed on slender rods, some blue, others red, protruding from the mannequins. Chong pointed. ‘They’re made of aluminium. Hollow for lightness. The blue ones indicate the bullet trajectories for Michael Lawrence, the red for Molly. Come closer.’
They followed her to the rear of the car, where she indicated its dark, carpeted floor, one area marked by a bright yellow circle. ‘That’s where the recovered bullet casing was found, which suggests that the gunman wasn’t too concerned about removing evidence. The bullet from the sun visor has been recovered.’
They followed her to the front seats of the car. She pointed to the impaled mannequins. ‘You have the hospital’s reports on the Lawrences’ injuries. What we’ve set up here is a visual indication of what occurred inside this vehicle. Adam and I have checked the rods with an inclinometer, so we’re satisfied with their accuracy.’ They tracked her moving finger. ‘If you look to the mannequin representing Mike Lawrence, you’ll see a small black cross on the cheek, yes? That’s where the first bullet grazed his face then continued on before embedding itself in the sun visor immediately above his head.’
She placed her hand beneath the blank oval of the face. ‘You know from the post-mortem that the second bullet entered Mike Lawrence’s lower jaw close to his chin, continuing upwards and into his skull.’ They followed her to the car’s passenger side.
‘You’ll see from the position of these rods that the damage to Molly Lawrence was different. One bullet only, which entered low on her right side before exiting quickly and somewhat higher, as you can see from the rod’s rising trajectory. Forensics did a complete sweep of the car and also located that bullet.’
Traynor leaned forward, his eyes fixed on the inside of the car. He looked at its doors lying nearby. ‘That window was shattered from the inside?’
‘Yes. All the indications are that both victims were shot from the direction of the rear seat.’ She looked at each of them. ‘In case there are any doubts, I’ve attached a laser to each rod. Stand over there, please, while I activate them.’ They moved away, waited, seeing nothing. Chong turned to them.
‘This space is so useful for the kind of investigative work I’m showing you, but it’s very light.’ The door opened. ‘Ah, just the person.’ She grinned as Adam walked inside, one hand gripping an aerosol can.
‘Canned smoke,’ he said.
She took it from him and sprayed each of the rods. The laser beams lit up. She pointed to the centre of the rear seat. ‘See? This is where the rods more or less converge, showing us the likely location of the gunman.’ They stared down at it. ‘The covering material has been removed from the seats. Indications are that they were subjected to minimal use prior to this incident, which raises the possibility of finding trace evidence such as hair. Unfortunately, nothing to report so far.’
Watts walked around the vehicle and lowered his head. He looked at the front and back seats. He straightened. ‘I’m having trouble seeing Mike Lawrence just sitting there, his pregnant wife next to him when all of this kicked off.’
‘We give you the science,’ said Chong. ‘I’m afraid that’s an investigative question for you to answer.’
He looked at Adam. ‘Anything to report on the gun?’
Adam shook his head. ‘Not yet. We’ve requested specialist advice which we’re expecting at any time.’
Traynor walked around the car, his eyes moving slowly over it. ‘My reading of the situation is that Mike Lawrence remained in position as the gunman got inside the car.’ He regarded it for several seconds. ‘It’s very possible he was fearful of doing anything which might excite or antagonize him and place his wife at increased danger.’
‘Sounds plausible,’ said Watts.
Back in the office, they looked at the photographs of the mock-up which Chong had provided. Watts reached for one of them, showing the Mike Lawrence mannequin in its seat.
‘What you said downstairs, Traynor, about Mike Lawrence’s lack of action. It sounds to me like he was doing exactly what he should have done in that high-risk situation. In which case, why did it end with both of them being shot?’
Traynor passed other photographs to him. ‘A contained space. Stressed people. A gun. At this stage we can only speculate on what happened inside that car. The gunman might have anticipated a challenge from Lawrence, misconstrued a sudden movement or tone of voice from either of them and believed that he was under threat.’
‘A nervy attacker.’ Watts thought about it. ‘Somebody unused to handling a gun?’ He looked at Judd. ‘Remember the victim of the last November carjacking? Maybe that was some kind of practice run to give her attacker an idea how to extend his repertoire.’
Traynor’s brows rose. ‘There’s nothing in any of those victim-witness statements which categorically confirms the existence of a gun. You already know my doubts of a link between those attacks and what happened to the Lawrences.’
‘There’s also still a lot we don’t know. When Molly Lawrence is ready to talk, hopefully she’ll clarify exactly what did happen. We’re clueless as to how their attacker got them to stop their car.’ He looked up as Traynor stood. ‘Any plans for the rest of the day?’
‘I’ve a couple of lectures to deliver, following which I’ll be giving some thought to the best way to approach my first meeting with Molly Lawrence to obtain maximum information about what happened to her and her husband. I also need to consider the forensic information now available from their car, including the absence of external damage.’ He stood. ‘I’ll be here at eleven thirty tomorrow with my perceptions.’
Watts watched him go. Here at … with my perceptions. Socially, Traynor was great company. When it came to his work, he was a theorist. A cool thinker. Watts pushed his notes across the table to Judd.
‘Put these in the homicide file while I get a grip on my perceptions.’
Five minutes later, the phone rang. He reached for it. ‘Watts. Yeah?’ He came upright. ‘That was quick! We’re on our way.’
He cut the call, reached for his own phone, tapped a number, under close scrutiny from Judd mouthing, What?
‘Hope you haven’t gone far, Traynor.’ He nodded. ‘Yes. Soon as you can.’
1.10 a.m.
On headquarters’ forensic floor, Chong was standing beside a tall, dark-haired man and making introductions.
‘This is Detective Inspector Bernard Watts, Senior Investigative Officer for the Lawrence homicide, Dr William Traynor, criminologist who is consulting on the case and police constable Chloe Judd.’ To all three, she said, ‘This is Dr Miles Mathison, ballistics expert. He’s going to tell us what he knows of the weapon recovered on Saturday morning, fairly close to the scene of the Lawrence shooting.’
‘Whereabouts, exactly?’ asked Watts.
‘Adam has photographs for you, but it was a few metres away from the Lawrences’ car, inside a deep hole,’ said Chong.
‘Dropped or concealed?’
‘Both are possibilities. I’m favouring dropped in the act of a quick exit by the gunman.’ She turned to the ballistics expert. ‘All yours, Miles.’
Mathison inclined his head to them. ‘Follow me, pleas
e.’
Watched by members of Adam’s team, they followed him to a workbench. Sitting at its centre was a lidded plastic box, something dark and shadowy inside it. He removed the lid, causing a quick intake of breath from Judd. They looked down at the dense, black object. A handgun, its grip grainy, Made in Russia etched on its side. Pulling on soft, white gloves, Mathison reached for it.
‘First, I’ll run through a description and some brief history. This is a converted Baikal Model IZH 798. They were originally made to look like a Marakov, a Soviet side arm, but unlike the military version they were designed with a semi-obstructed barrel which prevented the discharge of bulleted cartridges but allowed the discharge of eight-millimetre Lachrymator cartridges.’ He looked up at them. ‘So-called tear-gas cartridges. They were intended for the civilian market as a non-lethal personal protection option. There’s been a huge influx of these guns into the UK from Lithuania since the early 2000s, which is where they were illegally converted to discharge nine-millimetre short calibre cartridges.’ He looked at Watts. ‘You’re familiar with such a weapon, Detective Inspector?’
Watts nodded. ‘I’ve seen them over the years. Usually with a silencer and Russian or Czech ammunition, all wrapped up nice and neat in a happy bag.’
Judd frowned. ‘Happy bag?’
‘Con lingo for anything holding criminal tools of the trade.’
They watched as Mathison expertly handled the gun and demonstrated its loading mechanism. ‘The UK has a huge converted gun problem. The Baikal has some aesthetic appeal: see how black, how compact it is? Since it flooded into the UK it’s become a popular street gun, in fact, the street weapon of choice, favoured within British gang culture and also by gang bosses to enforce compliance. It’s also known as Hitman’s Kit because it can be used at close range, victims rarely escaping with their lives.’
Mathison replaced the gun in its container, then removed the gloves. ‘Are there any further questions?’ No one spoke. ‘In that case, if further queries should arise, Dr Chong has my contact details.’