Open Grave

by A. M. Peacock

  Jack leaned back and began tapping his pen on the table. It wouldn’t be the first time somebody famous had attracted a stalker. Most of the time it came down to jealousy. Sometimes it was just a bloke with a crush. His eyes glanced back over the paper on his desk.

  ‘So,’ Watkins continued, ‘what do you say?’

  ‘What do I say about what?’

  Watkins rolled his eyes. ‘Can I do the questioning?’

  ‘Yes, but I’ll sit in with you.’

  ‘Oh aye,’ Watkins eyeballed him. ‘I mean... sorry.’

  Jack waved him away, aware that the disclosure about his sexuality was still a topic most of the force were struggling to get their heads around. The two detectives left the office and entered the reception lobby, only to be greeted by a gaggle of flashing cameras.

  ‘What’s this all about?’ he asked the desk sergeant.

  ‘They followed her in,’ she said, motioning towards a small entourage that was sitting waiting near the front window.

  ‘I can see that,’ he snapped. ‘Get them out of here.’

  Blushing, she stood up. ‘Right, you lot!’ she screeched. ‘Out! Now!’

  Jack was impressed. Smiling, she sat herself back down as the media scrum waddled out with their cameras between their legs.

  ‘Hello,’ Nell Stevens greeted him, pale, penetrating eyes searching his. ‘I’m sorry about that, it’s an occupational hazard.’

  It was hard to believe he was looking at the same person who he’d just seen in the newspaper. For starters, she was wearing clothes; but her expression didn’t match the smiling, happy Geordie girl from the tabloids. Dark rings circled her eyes, her gaze flitting its way across the room in nervous starts.

  He smiled. ‘If you’d like to follow me I can take a statement from you.’

  They settled into an interview room on the first floor of the station. Nell Stevens sat, hands fiddling with a bright red handbag. Her nails looked immaculate, reminding him of his ex-wife’s fascination with nail polish. Clearing his throat, he pushed the image to the back of his mind.

  ‘Why don’t you start at the beginning and tell me what’s been going on?’ Watkins suggested, switching the recording device on.

  ‘Okay, Mr?’

  ‘Stephen Watkins.’

  ‘It’s Detective Sergeant Stephen Watkins,’ Jack interrupted. ‘Let’s keep this professional.’

  ‘Stephen,’ she continued. ‘I was invited to the Quayside the other weekend...’

  ‘Date?’

  ‘No, it wasn’t a date.’

  Watkins smiled. ‘I mean, what was the date?’

  ‘Oh,’ she blushed. ‘November tenth.’

  ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘I was dancing in Blue Bamboo, with some friends, when this bloke shoved into me, like...’ she began, a tremor in her voice. ‘He started getting a little hands-on and my security guards had him tossed out.’

  Jack raised his eyebrows and resisted the urge to roll his eyes. ‘You have security guards?’

  Nell Stevens shrugged. ‘You can never be too careful.’

  Apparently not. ‘Did you get a look at him?’

  ‘Not really,’ she said. ‘It was dark and it all happened so fast.’

  ‘I see,’ he said. ‘What leads you to believe that he is the one who has been sending these threatening letters?’

  Her gaze met his. ‘It has to be. I had no trouble until after that.’

  Jack sat back. There were a number of possibilities. Could be a scorned ex. Could be a deluded fan. Could be Mr Hands-on from the bar. Still, he felt it was a long shot to link the two instances. Though he was well aware that you could never rule anything out.

  ‘I’ve brought the letters here for you to read,’ she said, fishing about in the expensive-looking handbag.

  ‘Thank you,’ Watkins said, taking the small bundle from her. ‘There’s a few here.’

  ‘I’ve been getting one every day,’ she said, her eyes taking on a pained look. ‘Please help me, I’m not making it up. I’m scared, Stephen,’ she said, placing her hand on his arm.

  ‘It’s still Detective Sergeant, Miss Stevens,’ Jack stated.

  ‘We’ll do our best, miss,’ Watkins spluttered, his face going almost as red as his hair. ‘Meanwhile, if anything else happens, don’t hesitate to contact us.’ He offered her his contact card.

  Jack cornered Watkins afterwards. ‘You take the lead on this one but keep me informed. I’ll let you do the hard yards,’ he said, motioning to the bundle of letters.

  ‘Will do, guv.’

  ‘And let your head lead you, not your...’ he said, motioning to Watkins’ groin.

  ‘Of course,’ Watkins replied, smiling.

  Jack left him to it and decided to grab a drink in the canteen. It was empty, save for a couple of PCs. He made his way to the counter where Doreen, a wrinkled chain smoker from Aberdeen, greeted him with a grunt. Her weathered face was almost as haggard as the upholstery.

  ‘Aye?’ she asked.

  ‘Orange juice and a brownie, please.’

  She eyed his stomach. ‘That’s three quid,’ she said, planting his food onto a grey, plastic tray, complete with food stains.

  ‘Someone call the police,’ he joked. ‘There’s been a robbery.’

  Blank face. ‘What?’

  He left her to it and found a seat at the far edge of the canteen. Pulling out a stool, he sat himself down, taking a large bite out of his chocolate brownie. It was dry, but it’d do. The diet can start another day, he told himself.

  ‘Mind if I sit here, guv?’

  ‘Sure.’

  DC Gerrard sat down opposite him and placed a bottle of Sprite on the table. ‘Is it true Nell Stevens was just here?’ she asked, taking a gulp of her lemonade.

  ‘Yes, she’s got herself a stalker apparently,’ he replied, motioning towards her drink. ‘I thought you were all about jasmine tea and boiled water?’

  She shrugged. ‘Just because I do yoga and run twenty miles a week doesn’t mean I can’t allow myself a treat once in a while. What’s your excuse?’

  She had a point. ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘So, how’s things with what’s-her-face?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Ginger lass.’

  ‘Rosie? I don’t know, how would you feel if your partner left you because he was gay?’

  ‘I’d be supportive,’ she replied.

  Something told Jack that wasn’t strictly true. ‘Anyway, don’t concern yourself with my private life, focus on the case.’

  ‘I’m a woman, Jack, I can do both.’

  ‘Is that not a bit sexist?’

  She took another sip of lemonade. ‘Not when it’s empowering towards women.’

  He pushed his brownie to one side. Suddenly he didn’t feel so hungry.

  ‘Look,’ she continued. ‘I’m only telling you this for your own good. You look like shit.’

  ‘Don’t hold back.’

  ‘Thanks, I won’t,’ she continued. ‘It’s like you aren’t even bothered any more. When was the last time you had a shave? And don’t get me started on your lifestyle. Brownies and cigarettes?’

  He bashed the table. ‘That’s enough. I’m too busy trying to solve murders to think about pruning myself. I’ll hear nothing more on it.’

  ‘Fine,’ Gerrard said. ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

  He tried to change the subject. ‘We any further forward on those IDs?’

  ‘Don’t think so,’ Gerrard said. ‘Last I heard, DS Christensen was still putting the frighteners on the lab techs. It’s a grim situation, like. Reminds me of the Knifer case.’

  He didn’t need further reminding about the Newcastle Knifer. The slow progress of that investigation had probably cost the lives of at least two innocent victims, not to mention the prospect of Jack ever being promoted into the top job. Those scars would heal in time but the ones on his chest would be there for life. It wasn’t enough that it had forced Pr
itchard into retirement and put Jack on the sick for six months.

  ‘That David Robson is a right twat, isn’t he?’ Gerrard said. ‘I saw the press conference. He well and truly set you up, guv.’

  She was right. Nobody Jack knew had a good word to say about the journalist, even his own colleagues. Still, he always seemed to get the jump on the rest of the press when it came to issues involving the Northumbria police force. He’d have to remember to pay the man a visit at some point.

  ‘I...’

  ‘Boss!’ Christensen came barrelling into the canteen, papers in hand. ‘I’ve just got off the phone with the lab.’

  ‘Tell me we have some news,’ he said, pushing his juice to one side.

  The DS nodded. ‘We have an ID.’

  5

  Jack assembled the group together in the MIR and motioned for Christensen to break the news to them.

  Christensen stood in front of Jack, like the first kid finished in an exam, waving his paper around. ‘The man is Travis Kane, thirty-one, works for a local removal company. He’s on the database. Nothing major, but enough to have his DNA on record.’

  Jack looked around the room. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Jessica Lisbie, aged twenty-six, a local girl who was reported missing a few days ago by her mother. She matches the picture,’ he said, holding up a printed photo of a smiling young woman. ‘We’ll have to get the parents in to view the body, though.’

  ‘Why was Kane on the system?’ Jack asked.

  Christensen shuffled through his notes. ‘Assault on a drunken night out.’

  ‘So, other than that, seemingly squeaky clean,’ Watkins mused.

  Christensen nodded. ‘So it seems.’

  ‘You not sure?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Just seems to me, boss, if somebody has been done for assault, then they aren’t what I’d call clean.’

  Jack smiled. Christensen hadn’t earned his reputation on the force by accident.

  ‘There must be a link between the two of them.’

  ‘Lovers?’ Gerrard suggested.

  DI Russell scoffed. ‘Unlikely.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  The Bulldog motioned to the picture. ‘Have you seen him? No, he’s definitely not her type.’

  ‘Who knows what her type was?’ Jack said. ‘But there has to be a link somewhere. Find it.’

  DI Russell cast him an icy stare. ‘If that’s what you think.’

  Jack dismissed her. ‘It is. We need to move, now.’

  * * *

  Jack stared at their photos once more as he was getting into the car. Jessica Lisbie seemed an attractive woman; slim build, dark hair, pretty features. Travis Kane, on the other hand, looked like a thug who put a lot of thought into how he looked. The mugshot the police had of him showed him to be broad-shouldered with a number of visible tattoos. At first glance, Jack wouldn’t have placed them together. Still, what did he know about love? His track record didn’t exactly qualify him as an expert.

  ‘Is the FLO on route?’

  ‘Yeah, she’s meeting us there,’ Christensen said, pulling out of the station.

  ‘Good.’

  Family liaison officers were a detective’s best friend in a situation like this. If you got a good one, they could be a godsend when a relative of the deceased lost their composure. Grief did strange things to people. Jack could understand that; he’d suffered his own losses over the years.

  Not through murder, though.

  They spent the majority of the journey in silence and Jack found himself able to watch the Newcastle scenery in peace. The bustle of the city centre, complete with multiple stag dos and drunken youths, thinned out into a leafy suburb as they headed to Lawson Street on the outskirts of the city. Gripping the edge of the seat, he dropped the window a notch, and mentally prepared himself to break the worst news a parent could ever wish to hear. Having a young daughter of his own, despite the limited access he had, made him acutely aware of how horrific this would be.

  ‘Any word from the pathologist?’ Christensen broke the silence.

  Jack shook his head. ‘Not yet. I’ll probably pop in after here and put a rush on it.’ He was sure he saw a twitch of a smile on the DS’s face. ‘Something funny?’

  ‘No, boss.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Just... good luck with that one.’

  Ignoring him, he stared out of the window. When it came to Rosie Lynnes, he’d need more than luck.

  As they pulled up outside twenty-seven Lawson Street, they were greeted by a young-looking FLO. The lack of lines on her face suggested she was a recent recruit, with an assortment of freckles and a well-styled brown bob adding to her pixie-like appearance.

  Jack introduced himself.

  ‘Megan ,’ she said in a mouse-like voice. ‘Nice to meet you. Nasty business all this, isn’t it?’

  Indeed it was. Despite having done this numerous times before, Jack still hadn’t found the magic formula for delivering bad news. The best he could do was to be open and honest, offering his own condolences.

  The Lisbie property was a modestly-sized semi-detached house. A silver Renault Mégane sat on the drive, various ornaments decorated a tidy-looking garden, which looked like it had been mowed recently. A large bay window sat at the front, at the right of a bright, red front door. Two windows stared down at them from the second floor, blinds closed on both. At the top of the house, a small, circular window perched from the rooftop, looking out from what must have been some kind of attic space.

  ‘I’ll do the talking,’ Jack said as they made their way up the path.

  Christensen pressed the doorbell and, seconds later, yelping could be heard in the passageway. A shadow appeared through the frosted glass, before the door flung open, revealing a middle-aged woman holding on to an aggravated West Highland White.

  ‘Can I help—’ She stopped short when she saw Jack’s ID badge. ‘Paul, come down here!’ she shouted up the stairs, before turning back to them. ‘Oh my God, what’s happened?’

  Jack cleared his throat. ‘Hello, Mrs Lisbie, my name is Detective Chief Inspector Jack Lambert, may I come in?’

  Lynn Lisbie directed them through to the living room where they broke the news to her. They sat in silence for what seemed an age before she eventually spoke.

  ‘Would anybody like a cup of tea?’

  ‘Mrs Lisbie, are you okay?’ the family liaison officer asked. ‘You’ve just been given some shocking news.’

  The mother of Jessica Lisbie merely smiled before straightening her cardigan and heading through to the kitchen. Jack motioned to the FLO, who took leave to follow her through. Paul Lisbie had sat stony-faced as they broke the news that every parent must dread hearing. Only a slight tremor in his leg betrayed any emotion within him.

  In the silence, Jack took the opportunity to look around, noticing numerous picture frames dotted about a mahogany mantelpiece. Upon closer inspection, he surmised that Jessica must have had a younger sister. Near the front window, a huge, widescreen TV was mounted to the wall. A busily-patterned cream wallpaper design greeted him from every side of the room, a spotless chestnut-brown carpet finishing the picture. The silence stretched on as Jack shifted on the leather three-piece he was now perching on.

  ‘Mr Lisbie,’ he began. ‘I’m...’

  ‘For goodness’ sake, woman!’ he erupted. ‘What are you doing?’

  Moments later, Lynn Lisbie returned, shaking hands placing a small tea tray onto the coffee table. The FLO followed suit, bringing in a tin of assorted biscuits.

  ‘Paul here likes his tea black, but I prefer milk and sugar,’ she fussed.

  ‘Mrs Lisbie...’

  ‘Jessica, though, she loves... loved...’ She began to sob.

  ‘I’m so very sorry,’ Jack said.

  ‘Don’t make a scene,’ the father said.

  Jack noted Paul Lisbie’s temper and his wife’s inability to look him in the eye. He swallowed his anger and grasped the seat.

  ‘What happened?’
Lynn asked.

  ‘There’s no easy way of saying this,’ Jack began.

  ‘It’s the bodies from the ditch, isn’t it?’ She clattered her cup onto the saucer, sending a stream of tea over the edge.

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘There were two of them,’ Jessica’s father said, his icy gaze piercing through him.

  ‘Yes. The other body was a... Mr Travis Kane,’ Jack said, bringing out his notepad. ‘I’m sorry about this but it’s important that we talk to you about Jessica. Any information we can put together may help us catch the person who did this.’

  Jessica’s father nodded, reaching over with tattooed hands to pick up his cup. His red pallor suggested he liked to indulge in something stronger than tea. Lynn sat, dabbing her eyes with a cotton handkerchief, her own features bearing a striking resemblance to those of her daughter.

  Jack leaned forward. ‘Mr and Mrs Lisbie, do you know who Travis Kane is?’

  ‘Never heard of him,’ Paul grumbled, rising to grab a half-full bottle of whisky from the corner cupboard, and pausing to throw back a generous helping.

  ‘She never mentioned him at all?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not,’ Lynn said.

  ‘Do you know if Jessica was in a relationship?’

  ‘Not that we know of.’

  ‘Were you close?’ he asked.

  ‘She’s our daughter!’ Paul thundered. ‘Was...’ he tailed off.

  ‘How long did you wait before reporting her as missing?’

  ‘I don’t know, a few days. Jessica doesn’t live here any more,’ Lynn began, eyes flitting over to her husband. ‘She wanted her own space. For the past few months she’s been renting somewhere in Jesmond with a friend.’

  Christensen, who had been furiously scribbling notes down, spoke. ‘Do you know who this friend is?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, I’m sorry. You don’t think they...’

  ‘There’s nothing to suggest that,’ Jack said. ‘We just need to get as full a picture together as possible.’