by M. J. Ford
The cause of death was listed as cerebral haemorrhage as a result of a depressed skull fracture just above the victim’s right ear. Vera Coyne had opened part of the skull to confirm. The speculation, supported by the crime scene examination, was blunt force trauma. There was a second injury though, supporting the same hypothesis – a lateral fracture of the ulna in Harry’s right forearm – plus bruising to the skin. It was listed as a likely defensive injury, and the fact there was subdermal haematoma confirmed one thing: Harry’s heart hadn’t stopped pumping blood around his body for a good while after the arm injury was inflicted. He’d not died quickly. Whether or not he’d been conscious was a question that couldn’t be answered.
A diagram noted the spot the poker had impacted upon Harry’s skull, and Jo didn’t feel the need to open any of the photographic images to be reminded in high definition or full colour how the wound looked. She noted the fact his blood alcohol level was zero, which led credence to the theory he’d gone teetotal. On any normal day, Harry would have had a least a couple of drinks by the early afternoon.
She guessed that Vera, having been in her post for several years, would likely have known Harry too. She wondered how it would have felt to have him laid out on the slab in front of her. Though macabre, that speculation brought an odd comfort. Harry would be looked after, at least in death. Seeing that the coroner’s office were happy to release the body, she sent an email to the funeral director appointed by Jessica Granger to pass on the details.
She next made a call to Mel Cropper. He sounded like he had his mouth full as he answered the phone.
‘Jo,’ he said.
‘No pressure, but have you got anything for me?’
‘We didn’t get any prints from the poker,’ he said, ‘but there were some on the fireplace surround, right beside the poker stand. They’re not a match for the victim. And we’ve hoovered up some skin cells from bedding upstairs. It’s going to be at least another twenty-four hours until we have anything concrete for you. Anything to share your end?’
Jo filled him in on the evolving picture of the young woman, and Vera Coyne’s observations, before asking about the removal of any alcohol-related evidence. There wasn’t any, Mel confirmed. Looking again at the injuries listed, Jo added: ‘Something’s bothering me, Mel. This girl – she’s tiny. It’s hard to see she’d have the strength to take Harry on. Especially if he saw her coming.’
‘He was over seventy, wasn’t he?’ said Mel.
‘Even so,’ Jo replied. She couldn’t square the ferocity of the attack with the waif-like girl in the supermarket footage. There were two blows, and both had broken bone. ‘Maybe there was someone with her. An accomplice.’
Mel was silent for a few seconds, and she imagined him chewing thoughtfully. ‘That might make sense of some of the prints we found.’
‘Go on.’
‘There are two other sets besides Harry’s – one set on a mug in the kitchen and the fireplace surround, and another distinct set in various locations, including the back-door handle. Did Harry have many visitors?’
‘Not that I know of. Maybe it’s a boyfriend of the mystery girl?’ Someone who was waiting behind the petrol station. Someone who wanted our girl to buy him some lager.
‘I’ll leave the detective work to you,’ said Mel.
* * *
Jo consulted with Carrick on the public appeal for the as yet nameless girl at the supermarket. On the latest findings, they decided between them to name her as a person of interest, rather than a suspect. It would go out on Thames Valley’s social media feeds, as well as the evening news. Jo was confident they’d have a name before the day was out. In this day and age, people couldn’t stay hidden for long.
She was writing up her notes when the front desk clerk came through. ‘Sorry, ma’am,’ he said. ‘There’s a gentleman just walked in. He wants to speak to you personally.’
‘Me? What’s it about?’
‘I’m afraid he’s intoxicated.’
Just then Jo heard an angry shout drifting through the station. ‘I just want to talk to her, for Christ’s sake!’
Lucas.
‘Great,’ she said.
Carrick had heard the shout too, and came out of his office. ‘Problem?’
Jo didn’t see much point in lying, and anyway, her boss deserved the truth. Her colleagues were too polite to display any curiosity about her private life, but given the past public nature of some of her relationship catastrophes, they might have guessed at the basics and why there was no father in Theo’s life. ‘My ex,’ she explained. ‘I can handle him.’
‘You sure? We can deal with it, if you want.’
Jo stood from her desk. ‘Let’s see how it goes,’ she said.
Carrick nodded, still looking doubtful, and Jo followed the front desk clerk through booking, and out into the reception area. At first she thought it was deserted, that Lucas had done a runner, and she’d breathed half a sigh of relief before she saw him. He was standing in one corner, leafing through the pamphlets on a stand. As he turned towards her, she was shocked. The top of his nose was cut, with an angry-looking scab, and one eye was surrounded by a dark bruise, the white a mess of broken capillaries. His hair, the thick golden locks that had always smelled of a sun-kissed beach, were straggly and unwashed. One hand was wrapped in a dirty bandage.
‘What happened?’ she said. Some vestigial affection made her move closer, and reach out.
‘So there you are!’ he said. Even though he was several feet away, she could smell the booze.
Jo was aware of the stocky front desk clerk moving from her back to her side. Nigel wasn’t a tall man, but she knew he was ex-services, and perfectly capable of dealing with any problems that might arise.
‘Your face,’ she said.
‘Just a bash,’ said Lucas, with a dismissive wave. ‘Anyway, how are you?’
His speech was slurred, his gestures theatrical. It was as if some alien personality had taken over. He’d been honest with her about his historic problems with alcohol, but the reality of it had always been comfortingly remote while he’d remained dry. Confronted now with this version of the man she’d known was almost heart-breaking. He looked a shrunken version of himself. Like his lights had gone out.
‘I’m fine, Lucas,’ she said gently, ‘but I’m working.’
‘Aren’t you always?’ he said. He tried to slot the leaflet back into the stand, and ended up dropping it to the floor.
‘You can’t come here like this,’ she said. ‘Not when you’ve been drinking.’ He nodded slowly, pouting like a child, and his body sagged further. ‘It’s all right Nigel,’ she said. ‘I’ve got this.’
‘If you’re sure, ma’am,’ said the clerk. He stepped back through the gate, walking to his counter. He didn’t take his eyes off Lucas though.
Jo approached. Lucas was wearing workclothes, and she hoped that meant he still had a job to go to. He’d been a gardener, at several of the colleges. One of his shoelaces was undone, which added to the overall effect of vagrancy, but she happened to know it wasn’t a symptom of inebriation at all. Even back when they were a couple, it had been a frequent occurrence.
‘Lucas, we can talk later,’ she said.
‘Can we?’ he said. ‘I don’t have your number. And no one will give it to me. I don’t even know where you live.’
‘We can arrange to meet somewhere,’ she said.
He gave her a suspicious glance. ‘You won’t show up.’
‘I will,’ she said. ‘I promise. How about …’ She thought for a moment. She wanted somewhere neutral, but nowhere near her home. ‘What about the Botanical Gardens? You can tell me about the plants.’
‘Don’t patronise me,’ he said, and his eyes flashed with bitterness.
‘I’m sorry. If you want to go somewhere else, that’s fine.’
As she said it, he nodded, taking it in. The tension seemed to dip a fraction, and she was hopeful the episode was coming to an end.
Then he asked, ‘How’s Theo?’
‘He’s fine,’ said Jo. ‘Really good actually.’
‘Can I see him?’
Jo reached out, and touched Lucas’s shoulder. She spoke softly. ‘Not when you’re like this. You understand why, don’t you?’
He looked at her, very directly, and in his eyes, even the damaged one, she saw the man she’d once loved. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I just wanted to see you.’
‘I know that,’ she said. ‘And we’ll talk properly. I can’t do today, but Saturday is good.’
Jo heard the gate open behind her. It wasn’t Nigel though. Andy Carrick was holding a phone. ‘Sergeant, I need you,’ he said. From his tone, she didn’t think this was just a ploy to rescue her.
‘Lucas, I’ve got to go,’ she said. ‘What time shall I see you on Saturday?’
But her ex was already pulling open the door, and half stumbling on to the street outside. She took a half step after him.
‘Jo, it’s George,’ said Carrick. ‘We’ve got something serious in Stanton. More bodies.’
Chapter 8
Stanton St John was a quintessentially English postcard village. Houses of thatch and pale Cotswold stone, many over three hundred years old, lay spread along a crossroads surrounding a grand Norman church, and across the road, a low-ceilinged public house – the sort of place hung with pictures of the area’s rural past, polished horseshoes and old farming equipment on display. There wasn’t a soul around as they drove through, in convoy with another squad car.
The house called Copse View was situated a couple of hundred metres from the church, its private drive branching from the country road and overhung with ancient trees. Dimitriou’s car was parked up outside the Tudor cottage of twisted timbers and small mullioned windows, alongside a Land Rover. Jo spotted Alice Reeves standing on the doorstep, sucking on a vape pen, which she hastily put away as they came to a halt on the gravel. She looked pale.
‘Boss,’ she said, on seeing Carrick.
‘George still downstairs?’ he asked.
Reeves nodded. ‘Through the kitchen.’
They all donned protective footwear and entered. The house might once have been beautiful – expensive-looking classic furniture was placed with an eye to interior design, modern art on the walls rubbed shoulders with the occasional sculpture – but someone had ransacked the place, throwing open dressers and cupboards, leaving the contents strewn across the rugs and stone floors. Jo saw two staircases leading to the upper floor, the balustrades hand-crafted from oak. They passed into a surprisingly expansive country kitchen opening on one side to a view across a tiered garden and woodland beyond. Like the rooms they’d already seen, the kitchen had been torn apart, leaving smashed crockery and glass everywhere. One door opened to a boot room, but a second one, ajar, led down a set of steps. ‘Oh Jesus,’ said Heidi.
A split-second later, Jo’s nose caught the familiar smell – like the worst bin truck you’d ever walked behind, rotten and pungent. Her eyes watered, and Carrick clutched his tie to his mouth.
Dimitriou appeared at the top of the stairs. He’d removed his jacket, and a sheen of sweat covered his face and made his moustache glisten. ‘It’s not pretty,’ he said.
Jo was no stranger to dead bodies, yet still felt a deep trepidation as they approached the door, doing their best to avoid the detritus strewn across the kitchen floor. They descended in single file. The foetid air was uncomfortably warm, and Jo knew if she breathed it in too deeply, she’d probably pass out. The cellar was lit by a strip light with a tiny flicker, and revealed well-ordered shelves containing DIY equipment, paint pots, and the like. There was a large, oil-fired boiler, which explained the temperature.
The air was thick with flies, buzzing in a concentrated mass around two bodies lying on the stone-cobbled floor. Large puddles of dried blood radiated beneath their throats. Their hands, tied behind their backs, were grey and bloated, and the cords used to tie them had disappeared into the sloughing flesh of their wrists. From her angle Jo could see their faces had leaked considerable fluids through the orifices, making them unrecognisable, and if it weren’t for the fact that they were in their underwear, sex would have been indeterminable. Her stomach protested, but she held in the nausea as she stepped over a spillage from what looked like a can of engine oil at the bottom of the steps.
‘Going by the mail on the doormat upstairs, this is Mr and Mrs Bailey,’ said Dimitriou quietly.
Jo glanced at Carrick, who was shaking his head as if genuinely distraught. His eyes lingered on the prone corpses, then he turned back to the stairs. ‘Heidi, call in another uniform car, and get in touch with SOCO. Dimi, get two cordons up. One at the end of the drive, one around the house, then speak to the neighbours either side. See what we can find out about Mr and Mrs Bailey.’
‘Can’t Alice take care of that?’ said Dimitriou. ‘I’d rather—’
‘Just do as you’re told,’ said Carrick.
Dimitriou looked a little taken aback. ‘Sir, this has got to be Matthis. We need to get the word out.’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Jo.
‘We’ve got his phone pinging right here,’ said Dimitriou. ‘He’s prime suspect in another murder. I’d say on the balance of probabilities, we need to treat him as a credible and serious threat to life.’
‘The phone call from here was three days ago,’ said Jo, recalling the file. ‘Those flies wouldn’t have had time to hatch.’
‘Maybe he killed them and came back later to look for something,’ said Dimi. ‘They didn’t slit their own throats.’
She resented the condescending tone. ‘You think a sixteen-year-old dealer from Blackbird Leys ties people up and does that?’ she said.
‘So you’re a profiler now?’ said Dimitriou.
‘Enough, you two,’ said Andy. ‘Leave the CSI to Mel and his team. They’ll give us facts not speculation. Jo, grab Alice from outside. Make sure she’s okay, then see what you can find in the house. I want to know what these two possibly did to warrant being butchered in cold blood.’
Jo was glad to leave the confines of the cellar. Upstairs, she went out through a boot room hung with jackets and hats, a stand holding umbrellas, and what looked like a long walking stick, the embossed end in the shape of a bird of prey’s head. She opened the unlocked back door, then walked around the side of the house. There was another car parked there – a brand new Mini Countryman. Whoever had killed Mr and Mrs Bailey could have taken one of the two cars, but had left them both. Maybe the Blake Matthis hypothesis was right after all – she doubted very much he was legally permitted to drive, or that car theft was his thing.
Back at the front, Alive Reeves was seated on a stone bench, head bowed.
‘You okay?’ asked Jo.
Reeves looked up, breathed heavily through her nose, and shook her head. ‘Not really.’
‘First one?’ said Jo.
‘First one like that.’
‘They’re all different,’ said Jo. ‘If it makes you feel better, I almost puked.’
Reeves offered the thinnest of smiles.
‘Listen, the gaffer wants us to recce the house.’ She relayed Carrick’s instructions, and offered Reeves a hand. ‘You up to it?’ The younger woman took her hand, and got to her feet.
While Dimitriou stalked past to speak to the uniforms, Jo and Reeves entered the house once more. The smell was still in the air, but Jo was already getting used to it.
‘You take upstairs,’ said Jo. ‘Holler if you find anything.’
There was post on the dresser inside the front door, and more paperwork in the drawers. The Baileys’ names were indeed on several items. Rachael and Mark. She was listed on several items as ‘Dr’, but Jo couldn’t find any evidence of a specialism. The lounge was ripped apart – furniture looked like it had been attacked with a blade, the cushions’ innards exposed. An enormous TV remained untouched. At the rear was a study, and Jo flinched back as she entered. A dead dog lay on the g
round. Fuck. No, it wasn’t a dog. What the hell was it?
Relief flooded her veins as she realised the corpse was a toppled piece of taxidermy – a badger. She moved it aside with her toe. The filing cabinets and drawers had been turned out, and a whole bookshelf toppled, contents spilled across the floor. A number of bound editions caught Jo’s eye, titled European Journal of Paediatrics. There were a number of other titles on children’s health and psychology. Certificates on the wall showed that Dr Bailey was well regarded in the field of paediatric oncology. Hanging over the computer was a large crucifix, complete with a dying Christ. Jo wasn’t a religious person by any means, but the irony of the so-called saviour looking on was still upsetting. One of the drawers contained two passports, and she took a moment to absorb their faces. Mr Bailey, whose age was fifty-two, was slight of face, clean-shaven, with neatly parted fair hair. His wife, the doctor, was a couple of years older, and looked rather elegant. The contrast between the photos and their mortal remains couldn’t have been more striking.
She left the room, and headed for the stairs. A cupboard beneath had been rifled through, and among the board games were items of sporting equipment. A cricket glove and bat, tennis rackets, a yoga mat. For the first time since arriving, Jo realised Mr and Dr Bailey likely had children, maybe even grandchildren. In her mind, she constructed images of their contented middle-class life – Sunday lunches en famille, skiing holidays, good school results. On the stairs hung several pages that looked to be from some fishing almanac – the various species of freshwater fish, accompanied by vivid illustrations and their Latin names. Halfway along was a smeared bloody handprint, as if someone had steadied themselves on the way down. There were a few drops on the stair carpet too.
The first floor was a different story to the carnage below. Here, the house seemed undisturbed aside from a few more drops of blood on the landing. The first bedroom she entered evidently belonged to a young man with a passion for rugby, if the shelf of trophies, and the signed and framed British Lions shirt on the wall were anything to go by. There was a team photo – all young men – and it read ‘St Cuthbert’s First XV, 2018’. The bed was neatly made.