Getting a call about his identity, whoever it was from, was good regardless, and I tapped my fingers on my desk as the phone continued to ring.
“Hello?”
I straightened up. “Allen Frank?”
“That’s me. Who’s calling?”
“I’m DCI Darren Mitchell, and I’m calling from Hewford police station. I’ve been told that you have information for us?”
“Oh!” Allen said. “Yes, that was quick. I wasn’t expecting you to call back so soon.” He cleared his throat. “It’s about the man on the news. I know him, his name is Martin Johnson.”
A buzz went through me at the name, and I hurriedly wrote it down.
“We really appreciate you calling in,” I told him. “Would you be available to formally identify him?”
“Uh, yeah, I mean, I should think so.”
After the postmortem had taken place, Martin Johnson’s body had been moved back to York. I arranged a time for Allen to come to the hospital morgue to identify his colleague and then have an interview with us about it. I hung up feeling like we were making progress and filled Stephen in on what had happened.
“That’s promising.” He nodded thoughtfully. “When’re we meeting him?”
“This afternoon. I hoped that we could get some research in before then, though Martin Johnson is a pretty common name.”
“I’ll have a look through the system.”
“And I’ll check the internet.”
For more difficult or in-depth research, I’d roped Keira in before, but these days it was easy enough to run a search online and find out a surprising amount of information on just about anyone.
We headed out to the car after lunch, and I drove us over to the morgue where we were to meet Allen Frank.
“There wasn’t any Martin Johnson on the system which seemed like a match with our John Doe,” Stephen told me what he’d found out from his trawling through the police records.
“So he’s kept his nose clean. He’s not got much in the way of social media, either, as far as I can tell. There’s a bunch of people with his name, but I did find one that looked like him, and who’s friends with Allen.”
“And?”
“He’s the joint manager of an insurance company. I looked the website over with a fine-toothed comb, but Martin didn’t seem to be pictured anywhere, though his name was in the ‘About’ section.”
“What, him and Allen ran the company?” Stephen whistled, impressed. “No wonder why he was wearing such nice clothes, then he was probably rolling in it, working in insurance. Do you think he could’ve been killed because of it?”
I hummed. “Aye, I wouldn’t rule it out. It could be that someone wanted his money, or they wanted revenge. Insurance companies can seriously piss people off.”
“For sure. I bet there’ll be some unhappy folk after these floods finish up, and their insurance won’t pay up to fix their soggy houses.”
“Exactly. Although, on the other hand, if the business wasn’t doing well, it could be that someone offed him because of debts,” I mused, thinking aloud. “What we need is a solid link between the two men, to tell us what this killer wants, why they’re doing this. It’s such a specific mode of killing. It’s got to mean something.”
“It would really ruddy help if we knew what the original killer’s reasons had been. Why he killed those older women.”
I nodded. “You can say that again. I’m hoping we can get something out of the bloke on Monday, when we drop by, but I’m not going to be surprised if we don’t. It’s been ten years. If he was going to reveal all, he’d have done it already, I reckon.”
“Don’t give up before we’ve even tried.” Stephen sent me a sympathetic look. “A fresh perspective might be exactly what’s needed.”
I smiled slightly, grateful for his optimism. “Aye, let’s hope so.”
It didn’t long to get to the morgue, and Stephen and I headed quickly inside. The wet continued to make my hair frizz up like a poodle’s, and I irritably tried to pat it down once we were in the warm. I ignored Stephen’s grin, looking far too amused.
Allen Frank was a couple of minutes late and came inside hurriedly, shaking off his brolly. He looked up and saw us waiting, and came over to shake our hands. He was a short man, no more than five foot five, and was dressed as smartly as his colleague had been when we found him. There was a shock of blond hair on his head that made me think more of a surfer than a businessman, and his face was lively and expressive, with his thick, pale eyebrows rising up when he saw us.
“DCI Mitchell, I assume?”
“Aye, that’s me.” I smiled politely. “This is my partner, DI Stephen Huxley. Thanks for meeting us on such short notice.”
Frank gave a little shrug. “It’s quite alright.” He frowned. “It wasn’t like Martin to miss work, not like him at all. I’ve been concerned about him.”
I looked at the shorter man for a moment, wanting to ask further questions, but holding myself back. There would be time aplenty for that at the interview later. For now, our focus was on making sure that our victim was indeed Martin Johnson and that there hadn’t been a mistake. From the photos I’d found under that name online, I was almost certain that we did have the right guy, but the formal ID needed doing, and we might as well get it out of the way.
The three of us went over to reception, where our visit had been expected. The staff took it from there, leading Allen away to look at the body while Stephen and I followed somewhat uncomfortably behind. I considered sitting in the waiting room and giving Allen his privacy when he viewed his colleague, but I was interested in how close the two of them had been and wanted to see Allen’s expression when he confirmed, or denied, Martin’s identification.
But there was very little to see, which was interesting in itself. Allen’s expression barely changed when the cloth was drawn back from Martin’s mottled and sallow face, except for a slight flinch of horror or revulsion. When I’d last seen the dead man, he’d been soaking wet, and his hair slicked back like a seal’s pelt. It looked thinner now that it was dry, and the way that his flesh had sunk into his face made him look like he’d aged years in two days.
“It’s him,” he said stiffly, holding himself rigid, like he was having to stop himself from stepping away. “That’s him.”
He clearly didn’t want to linger, so Martin’s face was covered up again, and we were directed out to a room where Allen could complete the necessary paperwork. I offered to fetch him a drink while we waited and got one for each of us. Allen took two sugars in his tea, and a smidge of colour returned to his face once he’d drank half of it, making me realise how pale he’d gone. Perhaps seeing his dead colleague had had more of an effect on him than he’d let on.
Oddly enough, I’d thought he was a man who wore his feelings openly when I first saw him not half an hour ago, but I was already changing my mind. He was a businessman, and I decided that he was probably talented at seeming open, friendly and honest when he needed to, and concealing his true feelings just as easily.
Allen finished up the paperwork efficiently, signing his name with an elaborate flourish. He dropped it off at the front desk as we headed out, asking him to follow us in his car on the way to the station.
In the interview room, he asked for a fresh cup of coffee, and I made myself one too. I turned to Stephen.
“You sure you don’t want one?”
He pulled a face. “Better not. I’m trying to cut down on caffeine.”
I snorted at that.
“Think I’m the one with a caffeine problem, but good for you, mate.”
I brought back our drinks, a cup of water for Stephen, and we settled in.
“When did you last see Mr Johnson?” I asked first, after we’d introduced ourselves for the recording equipment. They found Johnson’s body on Tuesday night, and I was curious to know how long it’d been since he was last seen.
Allen rubbed his nose. “Late on Friday. He sent me an email
, too, on Saturday, but I didn’t read it until Monday, when he didn’t show up for work. That was completely unlike him. I tried to call him, but I couldn’t get through.”
I shared a look with Stephen, who looked as concerned as I was. Potentially, the killer could have had Johnson held captive for two, almost three, days, if they’d taken Johnson on Sunday.
“What can you tell us about him? What was he like as a person?” I asked.
Allen sighed, rubbing a hand over his chin with a quiet rasping noise. He had a small amount of stubble that was such a pale blond that I’d not noticed it before.
“He wasn’t the easiest man,” Allen said after a long moment. “He was an excellent businessman, and he handled that side. The numbers, and guiding the business, while I dealt with customers and staff, talking to people y’know. He made us a lot of money.” He quirked a smile that could have been sad or bitter, I wasn’t sure. “I never thought he seemed happy. I thought he was going to work himself to death. He didn’t seem to do anything else.”
I took a moment to digest that, feeling rather sad for the dead man. I’d never heard of anyone dying wishing they’d worked more hours, and I said that as someone who’d put work first in my priorities for a long time.
“Did he ever mention a family? A partner?” I asked, wondering whether Martin had focused so intently on work because he’d been lonely, filling a hole in his life that could have been better filled with people.
“No,” Allen snorted. “He didn’t talk about himself unless I pressed him. We worked together for ten years or more, but I only ever found out that he was estranged from his family in Australia, not why. And I never heard of him getting into a relationship that lasted longer than a night.”
I hummed, rubbing a hand over my still-damp hair. Allen didn’t seem too keen on his colleague and, while it would be good if we could hear another person’s opinion on the man, I took Allen at his word for now.
“He wasn’t sociable, then?” Stephen said. I took a sip of coffee and listened to Allen’s response.
“No,” he said. “I never saw him talk to people about anything other than work, and he didn’t go to the company parties or anything. The only thing I ever heard of him doing outside of work was going to music shows.”
“Music shows?”
“Yeah, rock bands.” Allen twitched a smile. “I was surprised when I saw it on his calendar. He seemed more like the type for opera, but apparently, it was rock-and-roll he was into.”
I didn’t think that would be relevant, but I dutifully made a note, regardless. “Was there anyone who might’ve wanted to hurt him?”
“Hurt him?” Allen’s eyes widened slightly, and he leaned forwards. “Wait, I thought- Well, I assumed it was a suicide. Are you telling me he could’ve been murdered?”
“Was there a reason you assumed it was a suicide? Did he have mental health issues?”
Allen looked at me for a minute before slowly settling back in his chair.
“Apart seeming dour all the time? No, no, he didn’t,” he admitted. “Far as I know, anyway. Like I said, he wasn’t much of an open book.”
“You said he wasn’t sociable,” Stephen put in, “but did that mean he was rude or unkind? Did people in the company dislike him?”
“Oh, no.” Allen frowned. “He was standoffish, yeah, and that rubbed people up the wrong way a bit. But he wasn’t mean. In fact, he sometimes wanted to keep people on when I thought they deserved the sack. I can’t imagine that anyone would’ve hated him so much as to kill him.” He shook his head.
I made a noise of acknowledgement. “Could you tell us more about your company? Did you and Mr Johnson have equal shares?”
“Uh, not exactly. Martin was there from the start, and he had the bigger share.” Allen shifted uncomfortably in the plastic chair as he looked between us. “But, look, I have plenty. I didn’t off him looking for more, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“We weren’t thinking anything like that. We just have to ask these questions,” I assured him. “You say your finances are healthy. Did you know if Mr Johnson was in any debt?”
Allen was shaking his head before I finished my question. “God, no. If I ever met a man less inclined to borrow money, it was him. He was always reluctant as hell to borrow anything from the bank.”
“Did he ever give the impression that he felt threatened, or afraid?” Stephen asked.
“Threatened?” Allen’s brow furrowed, his pale eyebrows pulling together. “No, I don’t think so. I’m not sure he’d have told me, but I don’t remember him acting strangely on Monday, or last week.”
We continued to ask our questions, getting an in-depth idea of who Martin Johnson had been, through his colleague’s eyes at least. He looked at his watch after an hour had passed and announced that he needed to get back. He promised to send over Martin’s details from the company records, and we saw him out.
After fetching our coats from upstairs, Stephen and I headed over the road to grab an afternoon snack.
“What did you think of him?” I asked Stephen as we walked.
He shrugged his broad shoulders. “I believed him, to be honest. He seemed pretty straightforward, but then, I’ve no doubt that acting like that is part of his job.”
“Aye, I agree. He said directly that he wasn’t jealous of Martin, and he didn’t try to paint him as a tool, just a bit aloof.”
We stepped into the shops, and I picked out a box of fruit while Stephen grabbed some crisps, a Twix, and a banana. The rain had eased, but it was too cold and damp to eat on the bench outside the station, so we headed back up into the warm.
“What’s our next steps?”
I chewed a sour piece of melon as I thought about it. “It’ll probably not lead to much, but if you can track down this family of Martin’s in Australia, that’d help. And chase up the second vic’s postmortem too. We’ll be down south on Monday, and I want to know if we need to send another officer to the PM in our stead.”
Stephen nodded as he made a note. “And what’re you going to do?”
“I’ll chase up the tox report.” I chewed my lip. “Then I want to look over the old case files again, now that there’s a second victim. Maybe something will stand out this time around.”
We set to it. Stephen put a headset on to call the forensics team over in Leeds, and I studied the Snake Killer case records. I recognised Gaskell’s way of writing in some of the turns of phrase, though he’d written it ten years ago. As I read, I didn’t fault Gaskell for the choices he’d taken in investigating the case. He’d not made any genius leaps of intellect, but he’d been steady and persistent, just as I tried to be.
As I studied the files again, studying every sentence, the only point that caught my attention came from Gaskell’s own DI. Gaskell hadn’t written more than a sentence on it, saying only that his partner had refused to give evidence in court against the man who was now in prison, Abe Muldoon. Gaskell hadn’t explained why his DI had refused, nor whether or not he’d thought that her protestations held weight, and I frowned at this apparent exclusion of certain facts.
Stephen came over to me with a fresh cup of coffee, which I accepted distractedly. Standing at my shoulder, he leaned down to look at my screen.
“Found something?”
I automatically glanced over at Gaskell’s office, but the door was shut.
“We need to talk to the DI who worked with Gaskell,” I said firmly. “She suspected something. I don’t know what, but we need to find out.”
As eager as I was to speak to her, that lead would have to wait for now. On Monday, we’d travel down to his old patch in Cornwall, and I had my fingers crossed that we’d find some answers down south, rather than more questions.
Six
Today was scheduled for our trip to Exeter prison, but Stephen was none too keen, much as I’d expected. I was hoping to speak to Georgina Pratchett, the witness on the Snake Killer case, but we’d not been able to find hide nor
hair of her.
“We have no idea whether or not she even still lives in Cornwall,” Stephen protested reasonably, though his tone was somewhat whiny. “She might not be in. She might have moved house.”
I knew that he was even less keen on making this trip now that he had been when I suggested it. He’d had to skip out of his youngest’s parents’ evening after the second victim turned up, and he wanted to spend time with his family, not go traipsing down the country. But we needed to follow up this lead, and I knew that Stephen understood that.
“Aye, there’s the possibility. But it’s not so far out of our way, and it’s worth a shot, hm?”
He sighed. We’d set out almost before the sun this morning and didn’t expect to reach Cornwall before two. Stephen fidgeted irritably, and we made a couple of pit stops so that he could stretch out his legs.
“It’s my ol’ knee injury,” he told me as he walked stiffly back and forth in the grotty car park behind a Little Chef. “Plays up when I sit for too long.”
“I’m sorry, mate. We can try for some paracetamol at the services?” I gestured towards the nearby building, which might have a Boots.
He stretched out his leg, rotating his knee. “Nah, I’ll be alright.”
I raised an eyebrow. “If you’re sure.”
We set off again once we’d grabbed some drinks and hot paninis for brunch, and Stephen didn’t mention his knee again, though I caught him wincing a couple of times. I decided to buy some painkillers before we made the trip back and make sure he took them.
I felt predictably weary by the time we arrived, around three. It’d been a slower run than we’d wanted, what with traffic, a bout of heavy rain, and the difficulty of driving down some of Cornwall’s twisty roads. I’d booked us into a B&B that was only down the road from where Georgina hopefully still lived, and we parked up there.
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