“And the cuts to the victims? Were they neat or ragged?”
She frowned, her eyes distant. “Ragged, I think. I don’t remember them being especially neat. They were slashed through, but it wasn’t anything tidy.”
That was curious, but I gave a nod of acceptance.
“Thank you. If you remember anything else-”
She gave me a smile, her eyes crinkling at the edges. “I’ll be in touch.”
We rang off, and I leaned back in my seat.
“That’s another deviation,” I said, thinking aloud. “All the cuts were ragged in the original, whereas the ones to the feet on our victims-”
“Are stupidly neat,” Stephen finished. “Yeah, that doesn’t follow to me, either.”
“More questions, no answers.” I ran a hand over my hair, which was sticking up every which way, and needed a comb run through it. My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I pulled it out, my heart jumping when I saw Sam’s name pop up. Stephen snorted beside me, and I looked up.
“What?”
“You.” He grinned. “You smile like a lovesick puppy every time she texts you.”
I raised my eyebrows at him. “Well, forgive me for being happy,” I retorted dryly, before going back to my phone and ignoring him.
The text message wasn’t quite what I hoped, though, and my shoulders slumped a little when I saw that she’d said she couldn’t do a meetup tonight. She had a conference to go to in Leeds that had offered her a space last minute, after someone else dropped out. I was glad for her. I knew she’d wanted to go, but it’d been a few days since we’d last seen each other, and I missed her. Her bubbly laugh and easy-going nature, her childish humour and sharp wit. The way she smiled back at me, wide and happy, when I looked at her softly and thought how lucky I was.
I shook my head and put the phone away. Now wasn’t the time to be thinking about her, even if she was always lingering in the back of my head. Gaskell had claimed his reason for forbidding an in-office relationship was because we’d get distracted from our work, and I determined not to let him be right. I could feel Stephen looked at me askance, and I tried to make my expression more neutral.
“Trouble in paradise?” he asked.
“No,” I said flatly, turning my attention firmly back to the case. “Have we got an ID for the second victim yet?”
He gave me a long look before he replied, “I’ll check my emails.”
We had been waiting on an NHS police liaison to get back to us with news of who the knee prosthetic found in the second dead man’s leg belonged to.
“Here it is,” Stephen said, excitement fizzing in his voice. There was a pause as he read it. “Peter Gregory, forty-two years old, living in York.”
“Peter Gregory,” I repeated quietly, thinking of the dead man. We found him dressed in that thick fleece and ratty jeans, looking like a walker or keen gardener, and I wished I knew where the killer had taken him from. Had he been at home? Out walking in the city?
“I’ll call the family.” Stephen was already tapping at the keys of his computer, focused on the next task. “See if we can get a better idea of who he is.”
“Aye, and why someone might’ve targeted him.”
The medical liaison had included the contact details of Peter Gregory’s recorded second of kin, his brother, and Stephen got him on the phone almost immediately. They didn’t live in York but settled in Liverpool, so we had to do another video call. I would’ve much preferred to speak to them in person and get a feel for them, but we couldn’t afford the travelling time as things stood. I told myself that if I noticed anything that seemed strange when we talked to them on the video chat, we could make the time to pay a visit. For now, we had no reason to suspect anything of the family, who would need to be told about Peter’s death.
“It seems cruel to tell them over the phone, or on video,” I said, rubbing my chin. Stephen made a noise of agreement. “Y’know what, I’ll call the local bobbies, ask one of them to break the news in person.”
So that’s what I did, and it was close to the end of the workday before we got a call back from the Liverpool lot. They had informed the Gregorys and told to call us when they were ready to talk about it further.
I doubted that they’d call until tomorrow at the earliest, so the phone ringing at ten to five took me by surprise, and I almost tipped my coffee over my keyboard. I fumbled to pick it up, and my eyebrows rose when Peter Gregory’s brother introduced himself, his voice sounding strained but firm and determined. He wanted details, and answers, and most of all, he wanted this to all be a mistake.
“We’ll need you or another relative to come down to formally identify him,” I told him gently. “But from the pictures, we’ve seen online, and what you’ve told me, I’m certain it’s your brother. I’m sorry.”
He cried then, muffled and quiet, and my own eyes stung as I stayed on the phone, wishing that I had more to offer him than an earnest promise that we were doing our best.
It was a few minutes before Peter Gregory’s brother, Nick, cleared his throat and spoke again. “But why? Why would anyone do this to him?”
I weighed my words carefully. “We’re not sure yet. We’re investigating it carefully. Did your brother ever seem on edge, or like he felt threatened?”
Nick denied it, and he also refuted that Peter had had any enemies, that he’d received any threats or strange calls, or that anyone could’ve had any kind of grudge against him at all.
“He did well for himself,” Nick told me, speaking fast and urgent, like he couldn’t bear the thought of me having the wrong idea about his clearly dearly loved brother, “but he was the nicest, most humble bloke you’ll ever meet. We fought like cats as kids, but I always loved him. Maybe it should’ve been hard to live in his shadow when he did so well for himself, but he made it easy, y’know?”
Nick’s words sparked a thought, and I kept it to myself, for now, focusing on the man on the phone. “How did he earn his money?”
“Oh, he worked high up in a bank. He’s always been a genius with numbers. He helped me pass my exams, y’know?” He sniffed. “He donated a lot of his money. He’s been on trips to help refugees in Greece and France. He’s a good Christian, like our parents, and anytime he’s not working, he’s busy being a bloody saint.” Nick gave a humourless laugh before his voice cracked, and his breath hitched.
I felt for him deeply, though I’d not had the same closeness with my own siblings, and bone-deep hatred of the killer settled itself more firmly into me. Nick’s brother would clearly be much missed.
I asked Nick a few other questions, standard ones about where Peter had lived, whether he’d been involved with anyone, when Nick last spoke to him, etc. Nick seemed to gather himself as he answered with crisp, concise answers, but I knew that it would be a long time before he actually came to terms with Peter’s death.
“Did the police you talked to give you the details of a grief counsellor?” I asked him.
Nick sighed. “Yeah, they did.”
I encouraged him gently to go to them before making sure that Nick had someone in the house to support him and ending the call. The conversation had left me drained, and I appreciated the hand Stephen put on my shoulder.
“Well done, mate.”
I hummed tiredly. “By every indication, he was a ruddy saint, this Peter. Charitable, kind, humble.” I paused. “And significantly wealthy. That was the only tie between Peter Gregory and the first vic, Martin Johnson. Otherwise, they were totally different; Johnson lived a lonely life, Gregory surrounded himself with friends and family, Johnson was atheist, Gregory was strictly religious, Johnson didn’t go abroad, Gregory frequently travelled for charity, and so on.” I shook my head.
Stephen looked contemplative. “So,” he said slowly, “if we think the link between them is wealth-”
“Or success,” I interrupted. “I suppose it could be either. Neither of them came from especially wealthy beginnings, I don’t think, though I’
m not certain of Johnson.”
Stephen waved his hand. “Okay, wealth or success, if that’s what the killer is hunting then, why? Is it some sort of class war? Do they resent these men for being rich?”
“It’s not like they earned their money illegally, or abused their workers, or even hoarded their wealth. By all accounts, they were decent blokes.” I frowned as I chewed a skin tag on my thumb. “But maybe there was some corruption under the surface that we weren’t aware of. Philanthropist public figures are sometimes hiding something.”
“We could set Keira on the task,” Stephen agreed. “Did you tell her about where her brother went, by the way?”
“Aye, but I haven’t heard anything back from her.” My legs were getting stiff, and I could do with a walk around and a fresh coffee. “I’ll go and speak to her, see if she has the time to give us a hand.”
I found Keira as busy as she always was, and our conversation was about as efficient as it could be. Stephen happily accepted the cuppa I brought him when I returned, and I told him what Keira had said.
“She’ll look into Gregory and Johnson’s companies, though she might not manage it for a couple of days.” I took a sip of my coffee, which was rich and bitter. “And she thanked us for finding out where her brother went. She said we didn’t have to keep an eye on him again.”
“Really?” Stephen’s eyebrows rose, and he looked like he almost didn’t believe me.
I could understand the doubt. Keira was normally like a dog with a bone when it came to getting to the bottom of something, but she’d found out that the house her brother visited on the evening we’d tailed him belonged to a minor celebrity.
“Robbie was doing an article on the bloke,” I told Stephen. “There was nothing suspicious about it at all. Robbie was just there for an interview. And he went in the evening because that’s the only time the guy was free.”
“Huh,” Stephen said, accepting that with a nod. “Well, I can’t say I wanted to sit in a cold car for another couple of hours.”
“Aye, me either.” I cracked a grin. “She looked a touch embarrassed about it, but, I don’t know, better safe than sorry, I guess.”
Stephen sent me a sideways look. “That wasn’t your view before. You went on about the guy’s privacy or something.”
“Aye, and I stand by that. But after talking to Nick Gregory…” I trailed off and shook my head. “He was devastated to lose his brother. No wonder Keira was worried, right? I’m glad we could sort it out, anyway. That’s all I’m saying.”
Stephen patted me on the shoulder. “Me too, mate.” He checked his watch and made a noise of annoyance in his throat. “Christ, where’s the time gone? I better get going.”
I waved him off as he gathered his things and disappeared off home. I lingered to get done some of the paperwork I’d been neglecting. It was menial work. I probably could have delegated it to someone else, but the repetitiveness of it was almost meditative. Ideas tumbled about my head as I worked, gathering momentum. I scribbled them down as they arrived and tried to hold the pieces of the case in my head, tried to look at the whole thing together rather than staring narrowly at one part. It was difficult, like trying to see the whole skyline through the limited circle of a telescope, and the thinking made my head hurt.
I gave it up around half seven and headed off home. It was bleak dark and cold, and a fine layer of mist hung around the roofs of the houses. I guessed that there would be a frost tonight as I started out running, the cold chilling my lungs and leaving my chest feeling tight.
It was quieter this time of the evening than when I usually ran home, around half-five, and I relished the relative solitude. I found it easier to get lost in the rhythm of the run when I didn’t have to weave my way around the queue at a bus stop, to watch out for students cycling on the pavement, or for other people walking home or into town for a bit of late-night shopping.
I put all of my stress and worries into the run and wound up at my apartment block sweaty, jelly-legged, and panting. I put my hands on my knees as I caught my breath, before stretching my legs off and kicking the mud off my trainers where I’d run through puddles or across grassy verges.
Tired as I was, I didn’t take much notice of the figure standing across the street, in front of the terrace houses clustered there. The fizzy orange glow of the streetlight caught the figure’s outline, and I saw them raise their phone, to take a picture of themselves, I assumed absently before I turned and headed inside, climbing the stairs slowly up to my flat.
It wasn’t until ten minutes later, when I was warming up under the fierce, hot spray of the shower, that it occurred to me that the phone had been pointed towards me. Perhaps they hadn’t been taking a photo of themselves at all. Despite the heat of the water steaming up the bathroom mirror, I thought about the threat that had been sent to Hewford and felt suddenly cold.
Eleven
I’d predicted that the chilly November night would bring frost, but I woke to a couple of inches of snow. Drinking my coffee as I looked out at it, I had to admit to myself that it was quietly beautiful. It muffled the city’s noise, smoothed over its flaws and leant a monochromatic artistry to the haphazard, ancient cityscape. My flat wasn’t far above the level of the surrounding rooftops, but I was high up enough to see the view, and I lingered a moment to appreciate it.
I could see from the window that the pavements outside didn’t seem to have been gritted. I couldn’t risk an injury, so running to work was ruled out for today. I knew that I was due a rest day, and it wasn’t a bad thing to have to take one today, but the fact that it had been enforced upon me by the capricious weather put me in a grump.
I gave myself ten extra minutes to enjoy my coffee and read a chapter of the book I was on, before I set out. As I drove, I thought about the flooded river, its banks still massively swollen even though it had been over a week since the water first rose, and how this snow wouldn’t help either as it melted into slush and ran into the river.
Moving from my warm car, through the chilly morning air, and into the still-cold station made me shiver. My drive hadn’t taken as long as I’d thought, and the station’s heating hadn’t properly kicked into gear yet. I kept my coat on as I went through into the break room for another coffee and found a tray of biscuits left out on the table from yesterday, alongside today’s papers, presumably put out by the cleaning crew.
I chewed on a slightly soft biscuit as I flicked through the paper, coming to a stop on an article about a minor local celebrity, a chef who’d written a Yorkshire-based cooking book and done well for himself. But what caught my attention was the fact that it was the very same person whose house Robbie Adams had visited when we followed him and, there, in small print at the top of the article, was Robbie’s name.
“Well, look at that,” I said quietly to myself. I read the article over idly, but it wasn’t of much interest to me, barring who it had been written by, and I folded the local paper back up. I was in the midst of making myself a mug of coffee when Keira walked in, carrying her own mug.
“Morning.”
“Hi.” She looked up, her eyes slightly glazed, like she hadn’t registered that I was there until I spoke.
I looked at her as she washed out her cup, wondering if she was alright.
“Your brother’s-” I started, nodding towards the paper on the table.
“My brother?” Keira interrupted me before I could finish, her head coming up sharply. “What about him?”
I moved to pick up the paper and turned to the right page. “His article’s in the paper, that’s all.”
Her forehead was tight with a frown as she scanned over the article, before passing a hand over her eyes, looking tired. I hesitated over whether to say anything, but the slump of her usually proud shoulders prompted me to speak.
“What’s wrong?” I asked gently.
She shook her head silently and went back to making her drink, closed off and distracted. She was worrying me, frankly, and
I was trying to think of what to say when she broke her silence.
“It’s my brother. It’s still Robbie.” She stirred milk into her tea, her gaze focused on the small window on the opposite wall. “He’s cancelled his triathlon race.” She glanced at me briefly. “He lives for those events, he’s been training for months, and he wouldn’t even explain why. He avoids my calls and texts.” She let out a strained little laugh. “God, I’m on the verge of calling his boss, just to get some answers.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I went with the only thing I could. “I’m sorry.”
“I have no idea what it is, either.” She shook her head. “When I’ve managed to see him, he doesn’t look strung out. I’m worried that it’s a mental health issue, anxiety or schizophrenia even.”
I felt a spike of alarm. “Has he suffered from that before?”
“No. I just can’t think of what else could cause him to change like this. A month ago, we were thick as thieves.” She glanced over at me, and I caught the moment that she realised how much she’d told me and regretted it. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say, well, any of that.” She avoided eye contact, clearly embarrassed.
“You don’t need to apologise. I’m just sorry we couldn’t help before. Is there something we could do? Do you want us to sit outside his house again?”
She gave me a watery smile, looking very far from her usual, proud self. “I appreciate the offer. I don’t know how much good it would do now.” She picked up her mug of tea and bid me a hurried goodbye as she left.
I frowned after her, worry curling in my stomach. I wished that I could do something more for her, but we were in the midst of this case, and a lapse of focus could have awful consequences for whichever poor soul the killer was targeting next. I had to hope that Robbie Adams could resolve whatever he was struggling with, or that he’d confide in his sister.
Later, sitting side by side with Stephen at our desks, an email came up with the long-awaited toxicology report for the first victim, Martin Johnson.
Snakes in the Grass (A DI Mitchell Yorkshire Crime Thriller Book 5) Page 11