Tethered to the Dead: DS Lasser series volume three (The DS Lasser series. Book 3)

by Rob Roughley

  Tethered to the Dead - Rob Roughley

  Published on Amazon 2014.

  Copyright Rob Roughley 2014

  TETHERED TO THE DEAD. ROB ROUGHLEY

  1

  She has no idea that he watches her, no inkling he’s so near.

  He stands wreathed in shadow beneath the trees, relishing the thrill of concealment, the inherent beauty of illicit observation.

  Closer and he will be able to see the comb glide through her hair, watch the sparks fly as she gathers the tresses, teasing and untangling the waves and curls, bringing order to chaos. The thought leaves him feeling drunk with wonderment.

  Her home backs onto dense woodland, part of an exclusive gated community. Gleaming four by fours stand like inert sentinels on block-paved drives, alongside jet-skis and quads – playthings of the rich. This is a haven for the professional elite arriving home to their fragile ecosystems, pointing key fobs at the iron gates that keep out the undesirables. Barricaded behind high walls, protected by CCTV cameras, safe and secure in their high-tech enclosure.

  Not for them the empty house with damp crawling up the walls like a filthy black cancer.

  As the light begins to fade he creeps slowly down the embankment, crouched low, moving furtively between the shadows, his worn shoes dislodge earth and leaves forming a mini cascade that whispers down the steep incline.

  Her bedroom light is on, the blinds open wide.

  When you live in a house like this – an area like this – you become complacent, cocooned from reality because daddy earns a six-figure salary. You live in a protective bubble of private schools and state-of-the-art intruder alarms. Eventually, you begin to see yourself as untouchable, somehow separate from the rest of the sprawling human race, moving unscathed through a life mapped out for inevitable success.

  His grin appears more like a snarl in the fragmented half-light; he knows the truth of the matter, the fragility of her existence, the ease at which he can pry unseen into her rarefied world.

  He melds himself against the trunk of a gnarled oak and watches as she flits back and forth in front of the window. Lifting up the camera he focuses and begins to add to his collection. She appears, wrapped in a white bath towel, her glorious hair cascading across her narrow shoulders. The man shivers in anticipation, this is going to be life affirming, he can feel it with a certainty that thrums through his body. The camera whirrs and clicks – a small mechanised sound at odds with the twilight birdsong. Though all he can hear is the hiss and sigh of blood rushing through his head, a sound reminiscent of a wave rushing up a pebbled beach before retreating to the sea. Pressing the button again, he captures her image for eternity. Applying lipstick, she pouts, lips drawn together as she studies her reflection in the full-length mirror.

  It never fails to amaze him how ‘knowing’ young girls seem today. She holds herself in a way that hints at knowledge way beyond her sixteen summers, knowledge and understanding of the mesmeric hold she has over others.

  He has passed her in the street, followed her surreptitiously on shopping trips around town – her and her friends with their designer handbags and Ugg boots – unaware of the heads that turn to watch as they saunter past.

  Pulling out credit cards like a card sharp deals the deck, confident in the knowledge that they will never be confronted with the words ‘insufficient funds ’.

  She appears again, he raises the lens and frowns, and just for a moment he feels swamped with confusion, as if time is unravelling in the still evening air. The girl is wearing a dress that he has not seen before, tie-dyed cheesecloth, multi coloured and hitched tight at the waist. She dips her head and puts on a pair of long feathered earrings that follow perfectly the curve of her slender neck. When she slips a vibrant daffodil into her mane of dark hair, he pulls the third eye away and blinks in bewilderment. By the time he gathers himself she has vanished from view.

  When he hears the steady clatter of the approaching van the illusion of time warped out of shape is complete. An old VW camper draws to a halt in front of the huge iron gates. Painted in shocking pinks and purples, a multitude of gaudy flowers stencilled along the side, pale blue smoke seeps lazily from the exhaust. Through the lens, he sees the side door slide open; a blond-haired girl leaps out dressed in low-slung bell-bottom jeans sporting a caftan and sunglasses. He begins to snap off one image after another, his finger stabbing at the button in mounting frustration. Her laughter rings aloud as she approaches the intercom, a moment later the gates glide open and she clambers back inside as the van putt-putts out of sight.

  The man can feel the shake in his hands; sweat oozes from his stale pores making his skin crawl. He can sense his plans fragmenting and drifting away, the blood in his head now a constant roar. Hidden in the gloom a magpie laughs, a harsh clacking sound that scythes through his brain. Unscrewing the lid from a small bottle he takes a long gulp of tepid tap water, trying to calm his senses, trying to regain control of his bewildered mind. Looking forlornly at the closed window he sighs, inevitably the light has been extinguished leaving nothing but a black mirror that reflects perfectly the sepia image of the ancient trees.

  2

  DS Lasser peered around the packed incident room; absently scratching at the nicotine patch on his forearm, his jaw clenched as he stifles a yawn.

  The place is heaving; backsides of all shapes and sizes are wedged into uncomfortable plastic chairs as they wait for DCI Bannister to make an appearance. Like a groom that’s having second thoughts on his wedding day, he’s already running twenty minutes late.

  PC Steve Black leans over and whispers something inaudible into his ear; the overpowering stench of garlic makes Lasser grimace in distaste.

  ‘What are you turning away for?’

  ‘Because you stink, that’s why.’

  Cupping a hand to his mouth, Black exhales and then sniffs. ‘I can’t smell anything.’

  Lasser wafts a hand, ‘Garlic.’

  Black grins in understanding. ‘Oh right. I had spag bol last night and I think I went overboard with the garlic crusher.’

  ‘Well, if this is what you smell like first thing in the morning then it’s no wonder your wife buggered off and left you.’

  Black folded his arms across his barrel like chest. ‘That’s a bit below the belt, boss,’ he sulked.

  Lasser shrugged before turning away, the way he was feeling he didn’t give a toss about Black and his delicate ego.

  It had been half past one that morning before he turned out the light and climbed the stairs of his empty house, to his empty sodding bed. It was amazing how quickly he had fallen into the old routine. It was six months since Cathy had walked, and in that short space of time he had reverted to sitting blankly in front of the television. Resigned to watching any old shit whilst knocking back one cut-price can of lager after another with the bin bag lodged at the side of the sofa, a ploy used by all serious drinkers, drop the empties into the sack as if it were a hole leading straight to the centre of the earth. In the morning, you dragged it surreptitiously to the wheelie bin like a serial killer disposing of a dismembered body.

  Lasser looked up as the room fell silent. Bannister pushed through the double doors, his hair shaved up at the sides military style, a flattop of black and grey, his face set in a sour frown, a man on a mission. According to rumours he’d been to Thailand for a three week holiday, one or two said it was to shop for a new wife. Despite the deep tan, he looked worn out, pewter coloured smudges had set up home beneath his solemn eyes, he had the h
unted look about him, a look as if someone from above had chewed him a new arsehole.

  The room fell silent as he strode to the desk and pulling a laptop from his man-bag he began to set up.

  Lasser yawned. Great, another pointless PowerPoint session.

  Half a minute later, Bannister straightened his shoulders and cleared his throat. ‘Good morning, team,’ he jabbed a sausage like finger at the keyboard and a chart appeared on the overhead projector – Lasser tuned out.

  ‘As I am sure you’re all aware the borough of Wigan has now officially been declared an area of social and economical depravation. Now I know this is no surprise to any of us, though inevitably it means less money in the pot for front line services.’ Groans and sighs from the captive audience, Bannister flapped a hand for quiet. ‘Which will no doubt impact on the service we provide.’

  Pressing another button the unexplained chart disappeared, replaced by an image of a young girl with a flowing mass of dark hair. She was smiling for the camera; head tilted slightly, an inquisitive expression on her pretty face.

  Lasser could hear the buzz of confusion as people sat up straight, craning their necks to see the image.

  Bannister pointed at the screen; though his eyes swept around the room, checking to make sure that everyone was listening.

  ‘Kelly Ramsey. Aged sixteen, missing since eleven o’clock last night. She set off with two girlfriends to attend her school prom,’ he paused, ‘for those of you over the age of forty that means the school leavers disco.’

  Lasser did a quick scan of the room; he could see DI Fletcher blushing, close to sixty he resembled the headmaster of some old boys’ school, like a distant relative of Mr Chips.

  Fletcher frowned. ‘I might be clocking on, boss, but I still know the lingo.’

  Lasser smiled, Bannister raised an eyebrow. ‘I don’t doubt it, Bob. Now, the prom took place at Haigh Hall and there were over a hundred and fifty students from various schools in attendance. We have an official sighting of Kelly Ramsey at twenty-three hundred hours, after that – nothing.’

  Lasser stuck up his hand.

  ‘Yes, Sergeant?’

  ‘This official sighting...?’

  Bannister nodded. ‘One of the teachers, a Mr Fulcom, he saw her heading outside and according to him she was alone and appeared fine. Now, there were kids from three different schools who attended this event, which makes tracking them down a right ball ache, but the Headmasters have supplied us with a list of student names and I want these kids interviewed, and I want it done properly...’

  ‘But if this was a leavers’ prom then some of them might have gone on holiday straight after, I know my granddaughter did.’ Bob looked around the room, as if waiting for someone to verify the possibility; blank faces stared back at him.

  ‘Well, if that’s the case you find out where they’ve gone and get in touch, by phone or email, but don’t just leave it.’

  ‘Now a search of the grounds has already begun, DIs Cooper and Chadwick will be extending that search and I expect it to be carried out in a professional manner and that doesn’t mean strolling around the grounds like an extra from Pride and Prejudice. Keep these open at all times,’ he pointed at his eyes. ‘And keep these,’ he grabbed his ears and flapped them back and forth. ‘Pinned back.’

  DIs Cooper and Chadwick nodded like a synchronised tweedledee and tweedledum.

  ‘Now let’s get this sorted,’ spinning away he closed the lid of the computer with a snap, the image on the white board vanished.

  DI Cooper stood up and turned to address the room, for a moment Lasser thought he was going to start clapping, ‘three cheers for our exalted leader.’

  Bannister picked up the laptop and slid it back into the bag before heading for the doors, as he drew level with Lasser he stopped. ‘A word, Sergeant.’ Without waiting for a reply he strode past and carried on toward the door.

  Steve Black grinned. ‘Oh he doesn’t look happy,’ an evil glint of satisfaction flickered in his eyes. ‘He doesn’t look happy at all.’

  Lasser glared at his colleague. ‘Why don’t you just piss off, Steve,’ he hissed.

  Black’s grin widened as Lasser hurried for the door.

  Bannister was waiting in the corridor; his tanned face matched the beige walls – a camouflaged DCI.

  ‘Come on, Sergeant, let’s grab a brew.’

  Lasser followed him into the deserted cafeteria. Beryl the Peril was absent from the serving hatch where she normally dished out second-rate food at first-rate prices, the square in the wall resembled an empty picture frame.

  ‘So, what do you make of it?’ Bannister asked as he fed loose change into the drinks machine.

  ‘All those teenagers in one place, throw in the booze and the possibility of dodgy drugs, it’s a recipe for disaster.’ Lasser replied.

  Bannister grunted. ‘I knew I could rely on you to take the pessimists view. Now what are you having?’

  ‘Number forty-three,’ Lasser replied.

  Bannister punched a couple of buttons and the plastic cup dropped into the slot, both men watching as liquid sludge whooshed from the machine. ‘I know the family involved, Sergeant,’ Bannister said as he handed the drink over.

  ‘Nice people?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘So what do you want me to do?’

  ‘I’m on my way to see them now and I want you with me,’ he scratched at his chin. ‘Under the circumstances, I think it best to have someone present who can keep a clear mind.’

  Lasser frowned at the choice of words. ‘Whatever you think best.’

  ‘The father is Jonathan Ramsey, a successful accountant and before you ask, no, he doesn’t have a record and as far as I am aware, all his business dealing are legitimate ones.’ He peered at Lasser over the rim of the plastic cup. ‘His wife Suzanne works part time at Claremont School, the same one her daughter attends.’

  Lasser blew on the hot drink. ‘Can’t be easy for a sixteen-year-old, having your mother watching your every move?’

  ‘Probably not, though these are decent people and I want them treated as such.’

  ‘Does Kelly have a boyfriend?’ he asked.

  Bannister took a sip of his drink and grimaced before dropping it into the flip-top bin. ‘Why don’t we go and find out, Sergeant.’

  Lasser thought he knew the town, every back alley and every leafy lane. Therefore, he was surprised when Bannister turned right opposite the hospital and continued down a narrow road that weaved beneath huge oaks, a long cool tunnel of dappled green and brown trees. After the harsh winter, potholes like acne on a teenager’s skin had broken out on the surface of the road. Lasser followed behind as Bannister’s car weaved from side to side in an effort to avoid the deep furrows. When they reached a mini roundabout, the Audi in front zipped left, the narrow lane shrinking to a single-track road with passing places dotted every now and then. Everything appeared vibrant; ferns grew in abundance at the roadside, swaying dramatically as the cars swept past. The lush scent of late spring, turning to early summer drifted in through the open window. When a set of huge gates appeared at the end of the lane Lasser frowned in surprise. He could see the houses beyond, huge new builds set around a vast block-paved circular drive.

  Drumming his fingers on the wheel, he watched as Bannister climbed from the car and moved to an intercom attached to the gate. Ten seconds later, his boss gave the thumbs up and drove forward as they swung open. Lasser followed, counting eight detached houses, each constructed in a different style, though they all had the same double garage and landscaped gardens. Bannister pulled up behind a gleaming black Range Rover, Lasser eased alongside. The first thing he noticed when he climbed from the car was the sound of the crows; he could see them perched amongst the trees, dark smudges against the green canopy of leaves.

  They were half way along the drive of number eight when the front door burst open, a woman in her late thirties ran towards them, her dark hair streaming behind, a crumpl
ed wad of tissues clasped in her right hand, her eyes stark and haunted.

  ‘Oh, Alan, you have to find her!’

  Bannister opened his arms and she rushed headlong into his embrace like a demoralised marathon runner crossing the finishing line. Mascara slithered down her cheeks, mingling with tears of anguish. Lasser looked on in surprise, when Bannister said he knew the family, he thought he meant in a rotary club kind of way, dodgy handshakes and dinner dances.

  ‘It’ll be OK, Suzanne, try not to worry...’

  ‘But she’s been gone over twelve hours and it was so cold last night and...’

  ‘Come on, let us get you inside.’ Bannister’s face creased with concern, easing her around, he led her back to the house. Lasser glanced at the other properties; there were no concerned neighbours on the doorsteps, no twitching curtains.

  The house was everything he had expected it to be, the hallway long and wide with half a dozen doors left and right, a staircase of light oak ran up the centre, no doubt leading to at least five or six bedrooms. The lounge, huge and open plan was filled with expensive furniture that definitely hadn’t been purchased on a weekly payment plan.

  ‘Is Jonathan at home?’ Bannister asked as he led the woman to an oversized cream sofa.

  ‘No, he’s up at the Hall, trying to find out what actually happened,’ she dabbed at her eyes with the tissue and frowned when she saw the black stain. ‘I must look a mess?’

  Bannister slipped in beside her and gave a nod to Lasser who plonked himself into a marshmallow chair that sank down before slowly rising as it adjusted to his weight; he felt like a Bond villain, all he needed was a Persian cat on his knee.

  ‘I mean, she’s been looking forward to the prom for months,’ she sniffed. ‘You know what she’s like, Alan, pretending it was no big deal, but I knew, I knew she couldn’t wait and now this...’ She started to cry, shoulders hunched, her breath coming out in short ragged bursts.

  Bannister patted her hand. ‘Listen Suzanne, the more you can tell us the easier it’ll be to find her and bring her back.’