by M K Farrar
Ryan perked up. “Tell me.”
“Fifty-two-year-old Alan Walsh was driving back from work. He passed the shop at five twenty-six and so he must have seen this literally moments after.”
“Seen what, Detective?” Ryan said, getting frustrated.
“He saw someone stopped on the side of the road, just past our crash site. He said he swore under his breath at them because they were pulled over right on the narrow part and it wasn’t exactly easy or safe to pass. There were three men around the car.”
“That sounds like the people we’re after. I want to speak to Mr Walsh myself. Have you got an address for him?”
“Sure do, boss. Here.” She handed him a printout.
Ryan grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair and got to his feet. No time like the present.
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, he was at Alan Walsh’s home, sitting on his sofa after having turned down the offer of a cup of tea from Mrs Walsh. Mr Walsh was a short, skinny man with a hooked nose and eyes set too deep in his face, but he seemed amiable enough and was trying to do everything he could to help.
“Thank you for talking with me,” Ryan said. “Your information could be vital in us apprehending a very dangerous man. What time did you say you saw the car blocking the road?”
“It was about half past five. I drive by there at the same time every day on my way home from work.”
“I don’t suppose you managed to see what type of car it was?”
He wrinkled his nose. “It was red. A Honda, I think. An old one.”
“What about the licence plate number?”
“Sorry. I didn’t pay that much attention.”
Ryan ignored the dip of disappointment in his gut. Even a fraction of the licence plate would have given them something more to go on, but the colour and make of the car would help.
“Can you give me a description of the people you saw?”
Walsh nodded. “They were all men. Two were middle-aged, a bit younger than me, I suppose. Maybe more your age. The other one was younger, in his twenties, I’d say. I think he was the one who was driving.”
Ryan showed him a photograph of Douglas Lloyd. “Would you say this was one of the men you saw?”
He frowned and twisted his lips. “Could be, yes.”
“What about this one?” He showed him a picture of Russell Mabry.
He shook his head. “Possibly, but it’s really hard to say. I literally caught a glimpse, and I was more concerned about the fact they were stopped in such a dangerous spot than anything else. The two older ones got into the back seat, or at least it looked like one of them had to practically haul the other one in. I thought they were most likely drunk.”
Ryan wished Walsh could have given a more definite ID since ‘could be’ was unlikely to get them a prosecution.
“Did they appear to be hurt at all?” Ryan asked.
Walsh twisted his hands together in his lap. “There was blood on one of the men’s faces, and I think he was limping.”
“But you didn’t think to call for help?”
Alan Walsh shrugged and glanced away guiltily. “I assumed they had everything under control. I didn’t know there was anything bad happening. I didn’t really process what was happening until later. I was more annoyed that some idiots had stopped in the middle of a narrow road than anything else.”
Ryan did his best not to let his frustration show. If only Mr Walsh had called in what he’d seen, they could have apprehended the suspects within an hour of Elizabeth and Keira Lloyd losing their lives.
“That’s okay. The description of the car you’ve given us will be a great help.”
Walsh leaned forwards, his face creased with concern. “I really hope you find whoever killed that woman and her little girl. It’s hard to imagine what would drive someone to do such a terrible thing.”
It certainly was, but people did terrible things every single day. That was why Ryan did the job he did—to make sure people like that ended up in the only place they deserved to be. Behind bars.
Chapter Fifteen
ERICA’S PHONE RANG, and she answered the call.
“DS Swift.”
“My name is PC Robertson. I’m phoning because we’ve located a vehicle that you’ve got an alert out on. A black 2018 Mercedes-Benz A-Class. It was located parked a couple of streets away from the double murder your team has been investigating.”
She was already on her feet, gesturing at Ryan, who had only just walked back into the office after talking to a witness who’d spotted the car that might have picked up Lloyd.
“Don’t touch it,” she said to the officer on the phone. “We need to get SOCO onto it. It’s potentially linked to that murder.”
“Understood. I’ll make sure no one goes near it until you get here.
“Thank you.”
“We’ve found Russell Mabry’s company car,” she told Ryan before he could sit down. “It was only a couple of roads away from the Lloyd house.”
He pressed his lips together, nostrils flared. “Damn. How did we miss it?”
“We didn’t know we were looking for it until we linked Mabry to the murders.”
“True. I don’t suppose there’s any sign of Mabry himself? Or Lloyd for that matter?”
She shook her head. “No, and he’d have to be an idiot to go back to it, but you never know.”
“Come on, I’ll drive,” Ryan offered. “The engine’s barely cooled yet anyway.”
Within fifteen minutes, they reached the location of the car. Already, a crime scene tent had been erected to prevent the search from being watched by the gathering groups of pedestrians that were curious about the growing police presence. Houses lined both sides of the street, the upper floors giving everyone a good view down onto the car. The tent also helped protect what was now a crime scene from the weather, and there was rain threatening. Once they’d done their initial check of the car—in particular making sure there were no people, living or dead, inside it—they would load it onto a recovery vehicle, and it would be taken to a secure covered compound where a full forensic search would be carried out.
“Let’s get it open,” Ryan said, putting on a pair of protective gloves.
They broke into the vehicle. Erica was relieved there were no bodies hidden in the boot, or anywhere else. Neither was there any sign of the murder weapon. A couple of clear plastic boxes containing leaflets, branded pens, and other items clearly linked with Russell Mabry’s job. It was the weapon they were after, however, something tangible to link him to the two murders and Douglas Lloyd’s disappearance. Quickly, they went through the boxes, taking photographs of anything that might be relevant, then they took the boxes out of the boot and set them down.
Erica tore up the boot carpet to expose the items that replaced a spare tyre these days—a pump and a tyre repair kit. She lifted them out, and as she did so, a part of the side of the boot moved with it. She frowned. The plastic casing had been tampered with. It no longer covered the metal shell of the car but had been pulled away.
“Boss, look here.”
Ryan moved to see over her shoulder.
She carefully worked out the piece of boot casing to reveal a plastic-wrapped block of white powder.
“Well, this just took a turn I didn’t see coming,” Ryan said.
“I’d take a good guess at it being cocaine.”
He nodded. “That’s most likely, but we’re going to have to get narcotics in.”
“Russell Mabry worked for a pharmaceuticals company, didn’t he, and Douglas Lloyd sold medical equipment?”
“They’re similar job roles,” Ryan said. “Both would be driving around the country visiting hospitals.”
Erica raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think these are the kinds of drugs they’re supposed to be selling.”
“I’d say not, but I think we’ve finally got our motive.”
She glanced over at him. “You think the mother and daughter were murdered because of d
rugs?”
“Seems that way to me. Maybe Douglas Lloyd did something to upset the people he worked for and this was their payback.”
“And how is Russell Mabry involved?”
“Maybe he’s the one Lloyd has been working for?”
Erica frowned. “Wait a minute, we only have drugs in Mabry’s car, not Lloyd’s. There’s no proof that Lloyd has had any involvement with drugs.”
“What about his company car?” Ryan double-checked. “Was anything found in there?”
“Nothing like this, but I’m not sure it was tested for narcotics.”
“Looks like it’s going to need to be tested again.”
Chapter Sixteen
PHILLIPA LOWRY HAD felt bad about sending Conner off to his dad’s that morning, but not bad enough to keep him home. He’d done his best to make her feel sorry for him, saying how he’d had a late night after not getting back from the police station until almost eleven and then hadn’t been able to sleep and had bad dreams all night. She hadn’t bought it, though. Conner was tough, and she highly doubted a little blood and a crashed car had bothered him much. He’d probably enjoyed all the excitement. She loved her son, but he could be a bit of a handful. When she’d first broken up with Conner’s dad, she’d thought she’d hate the weekends where Conner went and stayed with him, but over the years she’d come to look forward to having a bit of quiet time to catch up on everything. At least when Conner had been smaller, she’d had her evenings to herself, but now Conner basically went to bed at the same time she did. True, he did tend to hide away in his room, but it still wasn’t the same as having the house to herself.
She walked around, picking up the numerous t-shirts and socks and boxer shorts from the floor.
“Jesus, Conner,” she muttered to herself. “The basket is right outside your door. Is it really so hard to throw them a couple of feet?”
Why did she bother? It wasn’t as though he could hear her.
She guessed she should be happy he was changing them, at least. At some point over the last few months, he’d gone from her having to nag him just to get in the shower, to him taking forever in there and wanting all the male skin and haircare products he could get his hands on.
Despite all the washing, the room still had that stale odour of teenage boy—even though he hadn’t even hit that age yet—that no douse of air freshener or open windows seemed to shift. That didn’t stop her opening the window, though. She glanced at the crumpled sheets on his bed and wrinkled her nose. They needed changing, too. If she got them in the wash now, she could have the same ones back on before he came home again tomorrow morning, and then he’d never know. He always complained when she came in his room, even if it was just to tidy up.
She pulled off the duvet cover and dropped it to the floor, then did the same to his pillow. Then she leaned across the single bed to yank out the corner of the fitted sheet. As she pushed her hand down the side, her fingers came into contact with the crinkle of empty crisp packets.
“Oh, for goodness sake, Conner!” she exclaimed, climbing half onto the bed to see down between the bed and the wall.
She was greeted by a medley of chocolate bar and crisp wrappers and empty cans of Coke. She loved her son, but he was a filthy little bugger at times.
There was no way she could leave all this mess, though she was tempted to. She grabbed his completely empty wastepaper basket off the floor and pulled a face as she scooped out handful after handful of rubbish and dumped it into the bin. She’d almost reached the floor when her fingers curled around something solid and cold. Curious, she drew it back up with her and glanced down at what lay in her hand.
Her stomach plummeted, feeling as though she’d been punched in the gut, her breath expelled from her lungs.
A knife—a kind of switch blade—the handle plastic, with metal nestled beneath.
It wasn’t a small knife either. When she hit the button to open it, the blade was at least five or six inches. Dark brown smeared the blade and more spots on the handle.
Was that what she thought it was? Why did Conner have a knife covered in blood?
Her hand shook, and she dropped the blade onto the half-unmade bed. Her face burned while she felt as though all the blood had dropped to her feet. Her first instinct was to get on the phone to call his mobile and demand to know what he was doing with it, but then she hesitated.
What if Conner had done something terrible? What if he told her something awful that would change their lives forever?
No, she forced herself to think this through properly. He was eleven years old, and maybe he could get into a bit of mischief, but he wouldn’t do anything as stupid as hurting someone else. He’d picked up the knife from somewhere, and after yesterday’s events, she had a good idea where from.
Though she knew this to be true, it didn’t loosen the knot in her stomach or stop her hands shaking. She needed to give Conner the opportunity to explain himself, and then she’d call the police. One of the detectives had given her a card the previous day, which Phillipa had put in her handbag. She could call the number on that. But first she would speak to her son.
Leaving the bloodied flick blade on the bed where she’d dropped it, she crawled back off the mattress and left the room in search of her mobile. She couldn’t get her thoughts to straighten, and her mind was completely blank as to where she’d left it. In the kitchen? In her handbag? Beside her bed? She couldn’t get the image of the blood on the blade out of her head.
Her gaze landed on her phone on her bedside table.
She snatched it up and swiped the screen to bring up Conner’s number. What would she do if he didn’t answer? She’d go crazy if she couldn’t talk to him.
But he did answer. “Hi, Mum. We’re in McDonald’s. Dad bought me two burgers.”
For once, she didn’t care about what he was eating. “I found the knife down the side of your bed, Conner. Want to explain that to me?”
Her son fell silent.
“Conner?”
“It’s not mine.”
“Good. Then I suggest you tell me whose it is.”
“It was on the passenger seat in the car we found yesterday. The car door wasn’t shut properly, and I just slipped my hand through the gap and took it.”
She sank to the edge of her bed. “Jesus Christ, Conner. What the hell were you thinking?”
“I don’t know, Mum. It looked kinda cool. I wanted to have something to show everyone at school on Monday ’cause I thought they wouldn’t believe me.”
She wasn’t even going to get into the fact her son thought it would be a good idea to take a knife into school. Sometimes it felt like he had no common sense whatsoever.
“You’re going to have to tell the police,” she said. “I’m phoning that detective now.”
“No, Mum, please! I’ll get in trouble.”
“I really don’t care if you’re going to get in trouble, Conner. Maybe it’ll make you think twice before you do something so utterly stupid next time.”
“Mum, ple—”
But she cut him off. “Put your dad on the phone.”
“Come on, Mum, please don’t tell him.”
Her voice was unusually hard. “Now, Conner!”
There was a rustle and a sighed breath as the phone was handed over. Phillipa always did her best to only speak to her ex when it was absolutely necessary, and it appeared now was one of those times.
“What is it, Phillipa?”
Harvey’s cool tone wasn’t going to affect her today.
“Your son came across a car accident yesterday that is linked to the murder of a mother and her little girl, and I think he stole what might be the murder weapon from the inside of the car.”
“Fucking hell.” His voice faded slightly. He must have turned his mouth from the phone to address Conner. “Is that true?”
She didn’t hear Conner’s reply, but it wasn’t as though he could deny it.
“I’m calling the detective
who’s dealing with the case. I imagine they’re going to want to talk to him, so I suggest you put the remains of your lunch in the bin, or bring it with you, and get him here right away.”
“Yes, right. Okay. I’ll bring him home now.”
Phillipa ended the call, exhaled a long breath, and dragged her hand through her hair, then she got up and went to find her handbag to dig out the detective’s business card.
Chapter Seventeen
ERICA HUNG UP THE CALL and then went to track down Ryan at the coffee machine.
“We need to get down to Conner Lowry’s house.”
He took a sip from the plastic cup of still steaming coffee. “What’s happened?”
“His mother has just called. She found a knife covered in what looks like dried blood hidden down the side of the boy’s bed.”
Ryan’s blue eyes widened, and he dropped the full coffee cup into the bin nearby. “I had a feeling the boys had opened the car door. The SOCO report showed fingerprints on the door handle. I meant to talk to him myself.”
“You’ll get your chance now. The boy’s mother says her ex-husband is bringing Conner home right away. He should be there around the same time we are.”
“I don’t want to think about what damage the kid’s done to any evidence we might have got off the blade,” Ryan said.
“Hopefully, there will be enough left that we can convict whoever killed that poor family.”
They left the office and drove to the Lowry residence.
Erica climbed out, rounded the car, and opened the boot. She took out the evidence collection container—a plastic tube for the knife—and slammed the boot shut again. Ryan had climbed out as well, and he hit the key fob to lock the doors. Erica approached the house, only to realise the DI wasn’t with her. She turned back to discover him checking the car door to make sure it was locked, even though he’d already done it. She’d noticed him doing things like that a lot more often recently.