by A. J. Cross
‘Brendan, what’s going on?’ And to Watts, she added, ‘What do you want?’
‘Get back to my folks, Gemma.’
‘It’s just a routine call, Mrs Lawrence. Apologies for interrupting your Sunday.’ He glanced at Lawrence. ‘It’ll only take a minute or two.’ Giving Brendan Lawrence a sharp look, she turned away, closing the door behind her.
‘We need somewhere we can talk without being overheard, Mr Lawrence.’
‘I don’t have secrets from my family.’
‘You might want to reconsider that statement when I tell you why we’re here.’
They followed him to a door on the other side of the hall and into a large room expensively fitted out as a home office. Once they were inside, he closed the door. ‘Whatever this is about—’
‘Murder, Mr Laurence. A shooting, to be exact.’
Lawrence didn’t respond.
‘Own a gun, do you?’ He saw the words strike home.
‘No.’
‘How about a few years back?’
Beads of sweat were now visible on Lawrence’s upper lip. ‘For security reasons only. There were burglaries all along this—’
‘On a permit, was it?’
‘No. I don’t have it any more. It was stolen … in a burglary.’
Watts slow-nodded. ‘And you with an eye for security. Just goes to show. Report the burglary and the theft of the gun, did you?’
Lawrence said nothing.
‘That gun is putting you in a really awkward situation.’
Lawrence looked up at him. ‘You seem to be implying something.’
‘Implying’s not my style, Mr Lawrence, but rather than disrupt your family time’ – he turned towards the door, ignoring the frustration on Judd’s face – ‘it’ll keep for an hour. Which is when I expect you at headquarters so we can discuss a gun you bought around a decade ago.’
Lawrence’s face was now bloodless, mouth gaping. ‘I’ll bring my lawyer.’
‘You do that. If you don’t arrive, I’ll be back here to talk to your family.’
Back at headquarters, Judd was still looking moody. ‘If you’ve got reason to suspect that Brendan Lawrence shot his brother and sister-in-law, why didn’t we bring him in?’
‘Your tendency to want everybody who gets our attention banged up has its appeal. It also has its problems. Lawrence is a person of interest, but he might be moving shortly to suspect because of this.’ Watts reached for a sheet of A4 lying on the table, re-read it, then passed it to her. ‘Huey’s statement about supplying a gun to Brendan Lawrence ten years ago is not proof of anything. We need more. Lawrence might tell us when he gets here.’
‘Which should have been over half an hour ago.’ The door opened and Traynor came inside. ‘You’ve watched the re-enactment video?’ asked Watts.
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
‘I’m still considering it.’
‘I’ve got information from Nigel, the security guard. Remember him? He was in Forge Street a couple of nights prior to the shootings and saw an adult male and a younger male. According to his description, the adult was big, well-built and had dark hair. That description says “Brendan Lawrence” to me.’
‘I see.’
Judd looked up at him. ‘There’s been another development, Will. Huey Whyte sold that gun to Brendan Lawrence a decade ago.’
Traynor took Whyte’s statement from her, read it. ‘Have you spoken to Brendan Lawrence about this?’
‘Briefly, when I confronted him earlier, he denied it, but he looked like somebody with a lot on his mind. I told him to come here to talk about it. So far, he hasn’t arrived.’ The phone rang. Watts reached for it. ‘Yeah, Adam.’ He listened, nodded, got to his feet. ‘Thanks a lot.’ He put down the phone.
‘Remember Adam was trying to retrieve a useful print from the gun. It’s still a non-starter but he’s tested it for DNA. Care to guess the match he’s come up with?’
‘Brendan Lawrence.’
‘One of these days, Traynor, I’ll tell you something you don’t know. It matched a sample taken from Lawrence following a drunk and disorderly incident back in 2006. Judd, you’re with me.’ He reached for the desk phone.
‘Where to?’ she asked.
‘I’ll tell you in a minute.’ He tapped a number, then waited. ‘Gemma? Bernard Watts here. Is Brendan with you?’ Her voice drifted across the room.
‘No. He took the dog and left straight after you did and we haven’t seen him since. He’s been acting weird for days. What’s going on?’
‘Any idea where he’s gone?’
‘As he’s got the dog, my guess is he’s where he usually walks it. Westley Park.’
Watts ended the call. ‘He’s heading to where Molly Lawrence’s handbag was disposed of.’ He reached for his keys, his eyes on Traynor. ‘Why am I getting the idea that none of this is a big surprise to you?’
‘The bits and pieces are beginning to slide together. I’ll follow you.’
TWENTY-NINE
Sunday 23 December. 6.30 p.m.
Judd was on her phone alerting incident room officers as suburban landscape flashed past the BMW’s window. They joined the darkened dual carriageway curving ahead. Seeing the road sign, Watts followed it, turned on to a narrow lane then into a large parking area, his headlights sweeping over a single vehicle. A black Range Rover, similar to one he’d seen parked outside the Lawrence house earlier in the day, registration letters, BNL.
They got out into silence and damp chill as Traynor’s car purred to a halt. Watts raised his hand as he got out, his voice barely a whisper. ‘Nice and easy.’
They followed the mud-covered path for several metres. Directly ahead was the pool from which Molly Lawrence’s handbag was recovered. They skirted it, walked on, picking up subtle sounds within the undergrowth, then a sudden, high-pitched whine starting up from heavy tree cover to the right. A sudden rushing from within the trees, followed by a frenzy of barks, sent Watts grabbing for Judd’s coat as the big dog bounded towards them. Judd grabbed Watts’ arm as Traynor went forward, seized its collar, the dog jumping up, pounding its muddy paws on the ground and against Traynor’s legs.
‘Easy, boy. Easy,’ he whispered to the big chocolate-coloured Lab. ‘Shhh … good boy.’
He looked up at his two colleagues, his hands either side of the dog’s shoulders. ‘He’s not a threat. He’s young and very upset about something.’
They moved forward, the dog now darting ahead of them, doubling back, running on again.
‘I don’t like the feel of this place,’ whispered Judd. She pointed to where the dog was disappearing into some trees. ‘And, what’s wrong with him?’
They followed the muddied path through heavy trees and on to a small clearing. Brendan Lawrence was there, lying on cold, damp ground. The dog ran to him, moving to and fro, with more whines, more drumming of paws. Traynor went to it, held it by its collar, led it away and crouched beside it as Watts approached Lawrence, knelt and placed his fingers against Lawrence’s neck.
‘Is he dead?’ whispered Judd.
Watts reached into his pocket for a disposable glove. ‘Call an ambulance. One unconscious adult male in need of urgent assistance.’ He carefully inserted his index finger inside the mouth of a half-empty brandy bottle lying nearby. ‘Tell them the indication is that he’s dead drunk.’
The ambulance arrived within fifteen minutes. Its crew walked to where Lawrence was lying. They checked him, removed him to their vehicle where they continued working on him. Watts waited with Judd, Traynor and the dog at the open doors. One of the paramedics jumped down to them, speaking quickly.
‘Information provided by the family indicates that he’s a regular drinker. Preliminary exam indicates no physical injuries but he’s taken a lot of alcohol on board in a relatively short time. He was pale and unresponsive when we arrived, with a blood alcohol count of 0.39. Fortunately, no signs of other substance use. We’ve got him lying on
his side and we’re taking him to hospital. On the way he’ll be given oxygen, intravenous fluids, probably glucose.’
Watts grimaced. ‘When will he be in a fit state for us to talk to him?’
‘Lap of the gods, sorry.’
They stood back, watched as the ambulance doors closed and it moved away.
Traynor looked down at the Labrador, gently rubbed the soft fur between its ears. ‘What happens to you in the meantime, boy?’
The dog looked up at him and gave a quiet whine.
Watts pointed at it. ‘Can you keep it overnight? The family will have enough to think about when they find out what’s happened.’
Traynor stroked the dog. ‘I need to call into the university. I’ll take him with me, then pick up some food for him on the way home.’
12.05 a.m.
Traynor gazed down from his university window at relatively light, inner-city traffic, reviewing the latest developments in the case. Developments which had taken them from a double shooting, its solution rooted in the area he was looking down at, to a possible grudge-attack by someone who knew one or both of the Lawrences, and now to the victims’ family. His phone rang. He reached for it.
‘Yes?’
‘Dad! It’s me. Where are you?’
Hearing her anxiety, he looked at his watch, saw how late it was. ‘I’m sorry. I should have phoned you. I got caught up with the investigation, then I had to come back to the university.’
‘DI Watts rang to tell me what happened, that you might be late but there was no reply at the house.’
‘I’m on my way home in the next ten minutes.’ He frowned, picking up an insistent, rhythmic beat. ‘Where are you?’
‘I’m with Beth at her halls.’
‘It’s well past midnight.’ Hearing her light laugh, he rubbed his eyes. ‘As long as I know where you are.’
‘I left pizza for you. Its looks might improve, once you heat it up.’
‘No calls for me?’ he asked, keeping the hope out of his voice.
‘Nothing on the machine while I was home. See you!’
He glanced at the phone in his hand, then out of the window, feeling a familiar dull ache. He went to his desk, leafed through his office schedule, seeing entries made by students requesting his time, saw that it was Christmas Eve. Was it three days ago that he’d made the phone call? One he had never envisaged making? He located the number and tapped it, immediately halting the connection because of the lateness. It rang almost immediately.
It was Watts with news from the hospital. Brendan Lawrence’s condition was stable. ‘Depending on his progress during the next few hours, their plan is to discharge him. I’ve told them to inform me before they do. We’re having too many late nights, you and me, Traynor. How’s the dog?’
Traynor looked across his office to the sofa, the dog lying on one of Traynor’s sweaters, saw the rhythmic rise and fall of soft fur.
‘He’s sleeping.’
‘It’s what we should all be doing.’
THIRTY
Monday 24 December. 8.45 a.m.
Traynor drove into headquarters and parked close to the building, well away from the press waiting around the entrance. Getting out of the Aston Martin, he pulled the seat forward and reached for the lead, whispered, ‘Come on, boy.’ He quickly reviewed the plan he had worked on until four that morning. It needed Watts’ endorsement. His phone rang.
‘Traynor.’
‘Merry Christmas, Will Traynor. This is Jess Meredith, returning your call.’
Stopped by a dopamine surge of pure pleasure at the warm, low-pitched voice with its hint of laughter, he smiled. It was just as he remembered it from the investigation he had worked on with Watts back in the hot summer.
‘Jess. I hope you didn’t mind my calling you. When I didn’t hear from you, I thought that was it. That you weren’t … I rang again, just to be sure, but it was late, so I …’ He closed his eyes. He sounded like a teenager on heat.
‘Obviously I didn’t mind, or I wouldn’t be calling you. I’ve been away for a few days.’ Traynor gave her words a quick evaluation. She has someone. Of course, she has …
‘Will?’
‘I’m at work, but can I ring you later?’
‘Yes. You do that. Whatever the time.’
He came into headquarters, instantly picking up the tight atmosphere. The kind he had experienced on other cases. The feel of an investigation on the move. Watts was coming towards him, his eyes on the dog.
‘Hello, mate.’
He ruffled the short fur on its head, gestured to the bored-looking young officer on the desk. ‘Company for you, Reynolds.’
Brightening, Reynolds came and took charge of it. ‘Have you read the email I sent you, Sarge?’
‘When I have a minute, I’ll get to it.’
Reynolds watched them go downstairs, the dog at his side whining, straining at its lead.
The custody sergeant looked up as they came into the suite. ‘Whatever you two have been up to, to deserve being here today, I hope it was worth it.’ He turned the screen towards them. They looked at the heavy, dark-haired male lying on a single bed.
‘Following his arrival and pre-custody risk assessment, we put him in one of the holding rooms, rather than a cell. Want to see him?’
Watts studied Brendan Lawrence on screen. ‘If he’s up to it.’
‘He discharged himself from the hospital very early this morning and one of our lads brought him in without any trouble. A medic who was in at seven thirty had a quick look at him and said he was OK.’
They followed the duty sergeant’s broad back along the corridor, waited as he unlocked a door. ‘Visitors for you, Mr Lawrence.’
Lawrence looked up from where he was lying. He looked awful, the smell of alcohol pungent and clinging.
‘How are you feeling?’ asked Watts.
‘Like death … sick.’ He put a hand to his mouth and paused. ‘I don’t want to go home. I can’t face any of them but somebody needs to phone my parents.’
‘All taken care of. The big question for us is are you up to being interviewed?’
He looked up at them. ‘It wasn’t meant to happen. It wasn’t supposed to turn out like it did.’
Watts held up his hands. ‘Save it for the interview, Mr Lawrence. Do you want legal representation?’
Lawrence slowly stood, somewhat unsteady on his feet. ‘I have to tell you what I did. Until I do, I’ll never be able to face my family.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘I can’t face them, full stop, because of what I did—’
‘Stop right there, Mr Lawrence. This has to be done properly in interview with your legal representative present—’
‘It was a simple idea. It was planned easy but it didn’t work out like that.’ He stared at them, wavering. ‘I have to tell you. Put an end to it. I want to close my eyes without seeing my brother’s head—’
‘Sit down, Mr Lawrence.’ He sat heavily. ‘I want a doctor to see you. Only if he or she says it’s OK will we interview you.’
Watts and Traynor stepped outside the room. Watts lowered his voice. ‘I’m gagging to get it done, but the way he’s looking, plus his refusal of representation, it has to wait.’ They returned to the duty sergeant.
‘Get another medic here pronto to have a look at him. I need to know when he might be fit for interview.’ The duty sergeant wrote quickly in the daybook. ‘Until the medic arrives, I want Lawrence checked every fifteen minutes.’
They left the duty sergeant and headed back upstairs. Watts asked, ‘What did you make of what he said?’
‘A non-specific admission,’ said Traynor.
Watts gave him a frustrated glance. ‘I rang his family to tell them he’s here without giving details. Both his wife and his mother referred to him being in a volatile mood of late. There’s a bottle of brandy missing from his house. As far as they’re aware, he’s being kept here for observation.’ He looked at Traynor. ‘Keep in phone contact, Will. As and whe
n we interview him, I want you observing. I’m aiming to charge him with the murder of his brother and the attempted murder of his sister-in-law.’
Traynor left the building with the dog and got into his car. There was a lot on his mind. A lot to think about.
Walking into his house, he went straight to his study, sent an email, wanting a quick response but not anticipating one any time soon. Theories about crime-related trauma, emotional upset and resistance filled his head. He had all the textbooks. He didn’t need them. The Lawrence case was running, like a video, inside his head, bringing with it a long series of clear images. He looked down at the mass of notes, the hundreds of words he’d heard, written and absorbed, during this investigation, the theories they had produced, words which had drawn him in. Stranger. Stranger in the dark. Handbag in the dark. Handbag filled with water. A stranger, morphing into someone who knew Mike and Molly Lawrence.
Traynor sat, his eyes fixed straight ahead, thinking of a type of crime which had featured in narratives since there were people to write them. Fratricide. An hour ago, Brendan Lawrence had been about to confess. Watts had stopped him because there were procedures which had to be followed, but now they knew from Brendan Lawrence that what had happened was planned. It had not surprised Traynor to hear it. His thinking over the last couple of days had gradually led him to really know the guilty actions and to understand the motive. Money.
Traynor drove with the dog along almost deserted roads. Nothing was about to happen with Brendan Lawrence for the next few hours and right now he was experiencing the rare, for him, pleasure of knowing that there was a woman waiting for him. Getting out of his car, he reached for the dog’s lead and a plastic bag and walked with them towards the house, the tension inside his head soaring. The door opened and she was there, her curls a blonde-brown halo around her face. He recalled their first meeting in the hot summer when she had told him about a talented young reporter she had employed who had become a murder victim. So many sad stories. Too many.
‘Hello, Jess.’