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

by Rob Roughley

  ‘Can you tell me, Mr Harper, why did he leave the job?’

  Harper looked sorrowful. ‘I am afraid he had some health problems.’

  ‘Physical or mental?’

  The head teacher threw him a sharp look. ‘None of us knew it at the time but he suffered from severe depression and unfortunately it got to the stage where he could no longer function.’ His lugubrious face seemed to elongate in sadness. ‘Of course I offered to try and get him some help, but he was a very private individual.’

  Lasser could certainly vouch for that. ‘Did you ever have any problems with him and the students?’ he asked.

  ‘Certainly not, Marshall was a first rate worker. I won’t deny he was a quiet man but that’s no crime, Sergeant. In fact, I think the world would be a better place if more people behaved like Marshall Brooks.’

  Lasser rubbed a hand across the back of his aching neck. ‘How was he treated by the kids?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, I know what children can be like, especially when they come across someone different...’

  Harper snorted. ‘Marshall wasn’t different, he was decent, and the students got along with him just fine.’

  Lasser thought back to the state of the house, the stink of the place. ‘Can you tell me if you ever saw Mr Brooks in a private capacity?’

  Harper picked a pencil from his pocket and slid the end into an old fashioned sharpener attached to the desk and then he began to turn the handle feverishly, after a couple of seconds; he pulled it free and blew the shavings onto the threadbare carpet. ‘No I didn’t but whilst he was here, he was never less than fully committed to doing a first rate job.’

  ‘Just out of curiosity, what was his job?’

  ‘Gardener, odd job man, he kept the playing fields pristine,’ Harper looked out of the window as if peering back to a better time.

  ‘And when did he leave?’

  ‘Oh, it must be nearly ten years ago now,’ he shook his head. ‘How time flies. I do remember calling at his home once, you know, just to see if he needed anything.’

  ‘What did you think of his surroundings?’

  Harper raised an eyebrow. ‘What an unusual question.’

  ‘Humour me, Mr Harper.’

  ‘Well, to tell you the truth I didn’t actually go into the house. I knocked on the door and when there was no reply, I went around the back,’ he smiled at the memory. ‘Marshall was busy cutting the grass, though to be honest it didn’t look as if it needed touching to me, but he was always very particular, very organised. That’s one of things I liked about the man, you never had to chase him up to do anything, if something needed doing then he would see to it immediately.’

  Lasser remembered the ancient rusted mower buried beneath a mound of weeds, like an epitaph for the man who once used it so diligently, the slow erosion of time gradually destroying the essence of who he was. Marshall Brooks had probably struggled his whole life with depression until eventually it had swamped him. The only thing that had kept him from going completely insane had been his little hobby, his secret pleasure.

  ‘Do you know if he had any hobbies?’ Lasser asked.

  Somewhere in the building a bell sounded. ‘I wouldn’t have thought he had the time, he was always busy mending something or doing a favour for the neighbours. In fact, after he cut the grass he helped a man from next door. He was trying to load some building equipment into the back of a van and Marshall was there getting his hands dirty as usual.’

  ‘Do you know if he happened to do any work for this neighbour?’

  Harper tapped a bony finger to the side of his bulbous nose. ‘Off the record, I think he helped with the odd bit of pointing, bricklaying that kind of thing. I mean, Brooks could turn his hand to almost anything. Anyway, when they’d finished Marshall made us all a pot of tea, we sat in the back garden and chatted for a while, it was a lovely day and...’

  ‘You said he made you all a drink?’

  Harper tested the sharpness of the pencil on his thumb. ‘Well yes, there was me and of course Marshall and Mr Metcalf...’

  ‘Metcalf?’ Lasser sat forward in his seat.

  ‘Yes, he was the man who lived next door, the builder.’

  ‘David Metcalf?’

  Harper hitched up his shoulders. ‘I’m afraid I never knew his first name, but he seemed like a pleasant chap and Marshall appeared to like him. I do remember he had his little daughter with him, in fact, she ended up coming to this school.’

  ‘Zoe?’

  Harper smiled. ‘That’s the one, do you know her?’

  ‘Of a fashion.’

  Harper stood up and walked to the window, flicking it open he poked his head through the gap. ‘No running, please!’ he bellowed.

  A couple of first year students stopped and looked sheepishly at the headmaster, before shuffling away. Harper closed the window. ‘Zoe was a delight, very bright and well mannered, one of our successes and believe me, Sergeant, we could all do with a few more of those.’

  Lasser grunted. ‘Couldn’t we just.’

  65

  Bannister looked at Sally Wright, his temper fizzing like an effervescent tablet in a glass of iced water.

  ‘And you didn’t think to ask her where she was going?’ he rasped.

  Sally stood; hands clasped behind her back, feet apart, the blush creeping up from the collar of her white shirt. ‘I tried but she just ignored me and drove off.’

  ‘Why didn’t you report it to me?’

  Sally swallowed; Bannister looked awful, his skin stretched tight, like a face-lift gone wrong. His complexion sallow, three days’ worth of stubble covered his chin.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, but I didn’t know what to do. I mean, technically she hadn’t done anything wrong and...’

  ‘It’s not a question of her doing anything wrong,’ Bannister spat. ‘She’s lost her only child for God’s sake and then she finds her husband face down in the bloody hot tub!’

  Sally looked down at her feet; she could feel his eyes boring into the top of her head. ‘I just thought...’

  ‘But that’s just it, you didn’t think, did you?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  Pushing himself up from the chair, he walked around the desk. Sally could hear his breathing, it sounded as if he were trying to draw air through thick mud. ‘Did she say anything, anything at all?’

  Sally glanced up at him. ‘She said she was going to conduct her own investigation.’

  ‘And you thought it best to keep that information to yourself?’

  ‘With hindsight, I should have informed you sooner I realise that now. It’s just that...’ she paused as if she’d lost the thread of what she was trying to convey.

  ‘Come on, Wright, spit it out.’

  ‘It’s just that when you left the house you seemed upset. I mean, I thought I heard you arguing with Mrs Ramsey and when she came out of the house it seemed as if I must have been mistaken.’ She looked back at the ground, unable to meet his gaze.

  ‘Explain,’ he snapped.

  ‘She seemed fine, well, not fine exactly but she seemed in control.’

  ‘Are you a doctor, PC Wright?’

  ‘No, sir,’ she mumbled.

  When the knock came at the door he ignored it, Sally could feel the tension in the air, tightening like a blood pressure cuff around her head, another tap at the door, sounding louder this time, somehow more urgent.

  ‘Come in!’ Bannister shouted.

  When Sally looked up, she was surprised to see Bannister back behind his desk, his face waxy and devoid of any expression. She glanced over her shoulder as Lasser walked into the room.

  ‘Get out,’ Bannister said in a tired voice.

  She turned back to her boss in confusion, unsure if he was addressing her or the sergeant.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, do you mean...?’

  ‘Out!’ he leapt to his feet, his face suddenly erupting into life, eyes manic, his teeth barred.

>   Sally Wright turned and literally ran from the office, Lasser raised an eyebrow as she shot past and dashed out into the corridor. Closing the door quietly he turned to look at Bannister.

  ‘Brooks left Hindley High ten years ago, he was the gardener...’

  ‘What about that bastard Fulcom?’

  ‘They worked there at the same time; apparently Hindley was Fulcom’s first teaching job, he went there straight from training college.’

  Bannister narrowed his eyes. ‘So they knew one another?’

  ‘Harper said that Fulcom was initially a games teacher, and considering Brooks was in charge of the playing fields...’ he shrugged, the rest was self-explanatory.

  Bannister stalked across the room and slammed the window open, before pulling out a pack of cigarettes. Lasser watched in astonishment as his boss lit up, blowing smoke through the gap. Turning, he tossed the pack, Lasser caught it and slid a cigarette free.

  ‘Right, so, we know Fulcom and Brooks spent time together and we can now assume they shared the same hobby,’ he pulled hard on the cigarette, cheeks hollowed. ‘Although, I still find it hard to imagine someone like Fulcom would want to associate with a nonentity like, Brooks.’

  ‘I realise that but all this was ten years ago...’

  Bannister eyed him through a cloud of smoke, ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Back then Fulcom was just another bog standard teacher, he wasn’t the deputy head of some fancy private school, and Brooks was holding it together. According to Harper, he was a model worker, clean, tidy, never off sick; nothing was ever too much trouble. We have to think how he was back then, I mean, it sounds as if when he lost his job he started to lose the plot.’ A sudden image flashed into his mind, is that how he would end up if he ever found himself out on his arse? Sitting at home in an empty house with sod all to kill the time except drinking and smoking, while his mind began to unravel through sheer boredom. He could imagine how easy it would be to sink deeper into a mire of paranoia and self-delusion, while you cocooned yourself away until fantasy and reality became blurred. When he looked at Bannister, he realised his boss had spoken and was waiting for an answer.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that.’

  Bannister fumed. ‘I said, what about Sinclair?’

  Lasser felt baffled by the sudden change in direction. ‘I don’t follow.’

  The DCI dropped the cigarette out of the window and slammed it closed. ‘You said you suspect he’s having a sexual relationship with his stepdaughter?’

  ‘Well, I’ve no actual proof and Sinclair’s hardly going to admit it, but there’s definitely something going on between those two.’

  ‘And the one thing they all have in common is Hindley High school.’

  Lasser nodded. ‘Well yeah, but Brooks had left long before Rachael Sinclair went there.’

  ‘But Fulcom hadn’t.’

  Lasser pursed his lips. ‘Right, so what are you saying exactly?’

  Bannister pulled out a pack of extra strong mints and popped one into his mouth. ‘We need to find Fulcom, he’s the weak link in all this and if there was anything going on at that school then we need to find out what it was.’

  ‘There is one more thing.’

  Bannister sighed. ‘I thought there might be.’

  ‘Harper told me that when Brooks finished at the school he did some building work on the side for his neighbour, who just happened to be David Metcalf.’

  Bannister looked at him blankly.

  ‘He’s the father of Zoe,’ Lasser explained.

  Bannister crunched the mint into oblivion, ‘The girl who was with Kelly on the night of the prom?’

  Lasser nodded.

  ‘So what’s that got to do with anything?’

  Lasser took a moment trying to get his mind into some sort of order; he could feel Bannister getting more frustrated by the second, his anxiety filled the room. ‘David Metcalf used to be Brooks’ neighbour, Harper said they got along well,’ he paused. ‘Metcalf has done a lot of building work for the Ramsey family...’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake, Lasser, you sound like a bloody conspiracy theorist, this is all bollocks and you know it...’

  ‘Hang on, I haven’t finished.’

  Bannister’s mouth clacked shut, his eyes bulging in disbelief.

  Lasser felt the sweat break out on his forehead, and ploughed on regardless. ‘Say Brooks helped Metcalf when the Ramsey’s were having the work done...’

  ‘Those houses have only been up for three years...’

  ‘But if he had helped with, say, the new conservatory, then maybe that’s where he first saw Kelly. I mean, you should check it out with Suzanne, maybe she could tell you if Brooks had ever been to the house.’

  Bannister placed his knuckles on the desk, his hands bunched into fists. ‘If I could find her then I would, Sergeant.’

  By the time he’d finished explaining about Suzanne leaving the house, Lasser understood exactly why Sally Wright had been getting a roasting.

  ‘Maybe I should go and have a word with Metcalf,’ Lasser said.

  ‘And why would you want to do that, I mean, how does that get us any closer to finding my daughter?’ Bannister swallowed and grimaced as if he had something sharp lodged in his throat.

  Smoke still drifted in the room, the smell making Lasser gag for another cigarette. ‘OK, we have images of Kelly and Sophie in the albums that we found at Brooks’ house, plus three other girls that we can’t as yet identify. But what if Metcalf has worked at their houses and Brooks had been with him, it would offer him a perfect opportunity to get to know the people, to...’

  Bannister shook his head wearily. ‘Kelly is sixteen years old, Sergeant, the same age, give or take, as the other girls in the albums. According to Brooks’ doctor, for the past eight years, the man has struggled even to get out of bed. He found it nigh on impossible to function, he was a virtual hermit, and yet you think he’s been hod-carrying and building bloody walls all over town.’ Bannister glared at him across the desk, sweat patches spreading on his dark blue shirt.

  ‘He might have been ill; but it didn’t stop him from going out with the camera, did it?’

  Bannister’s eyes snapped shut. Lasser tried to imagine what he was going through, every minute that ticked by, diminished the chances of finding Kelly alive. Every avenue seemed to lead to ifs and buts, and the truth was, they were still clueless and no one knew that more than Bannister.

  When he opened his eyes, Lasser met his gaze; it was hard to witness the anguish that Bannister could no longer keep hidden.

  ‘Go and see, Metcalf, check it out.’

  Lasser didn’t bother with a reply, turning, he left the room.

  66

  When Fulcom saw Mrs Foxtrot heading across her front lawn, he quickly closed the car door, beeped the alarm, and hurried toward the front of the house, his mind in uproar.

  ‘Christopher!’ he saw her from the corner of his eye, waving at him. Fulcom ignored her and quickened his pace, desperate to get inside the house so he could think through the wreckage of his life.

  ‘Christopher, wait!’ she popped through the hole in the privets and Fulcom realised he wasn’t going to be able to escape.

  Plastering on a sickly smile, he turned. ‘Sorry, Hannah, I am in a bit of a rush,’ he pulled the keys from his pocket and searched through the bunch desperately trying to find the one that fitted the front door. His normally ordered mind was starting to malfunction, starting to betray him.

  ‘But where have you been?’ she looked flustered, her hair awry, her slippers on the wrong feet. ‘I mean, is everything all right, I’ve been so worried?’ she absently brushed a couple of privet leaves from her blue rinse, ringing her hands together, the anxiety imprinted onto her wrinkled face.

  ‘Everything’s fine, Hannah, now if you’ll excuse me...’

  ‘It’s just that I feel terrible, Christopher, absolutely terrible.’

  Inwardly he g
roaned, this was all he needed, his life was coming apart and the stupid old bitch looked as if she were ready to have a coronary. ‘Are you ill?’ he sighed. ‘Would you like me to call a doctor?’

  Mrs Foxtrot flapped a hand at him. ‘Oh no, it’s nothing like that. I mean, it’s been playing on my mind all day...’

  Fulcom gritted his teeth and slipped an arm around her shoulder. ‘Calm down, Hannah, and tell me what’s bothering you?’ he smiled down at her, lips draw back over his teeth in a rictus grin.

  Hannah pulled a crumpled tissue from her apron pocket and dabbed at her eyes. ‘You see I didn’t know what to do, he said he was a friend of yours, so I didn’t see the harm.’

  Fulcom gave her arm a comforting squeeze. ‘Who are we talking about?’

  She looked up at him her watery eyes doleful. ‘That’s just it he didn’t leave his name, he said you were expecting him, he came to fix the computer and I didn’t see a problem in letting him in, but...’

  ‘What did he look like?’ Fulcom suddenly snapped.

  ‘Christopher,’ she gasped. ‘Mr Fulcom, you’re hurting my arm!’

  Fulcom blinked and then slid his arm from her shoulder. For the first time, Hannah Foxtrot looked at her neighbour with a hint of fear in her eyes. ‘He said he tried to get you at the school and that you weren’t there, so he called back here hoping to catch you in. I mean, he didn’t take anything away with him, I made sure of that.’

  Fulcom looked up at the sky, he could feel the alarm bells going off inside his head, not one, but several, clanging and battering the inside of his skull.