Open Grave

  The FLO placed a hand on her shoulder and Lynn smiled, taking a deep breath.

  ‘What about her sister?’ Jack asked, motioning to the mantelpiece.

  ‘Ruth is working abroad on a placement,’ Lynn told him.

  Jessica Lisbie’s father stood, moved over to a side cabinet, and poured another glass of whisky. ‘I want to see her,’ he said.

  ‘I...’

  ‘Now!’ he thundered, smashing the tumbler against the living room wall.

  Jack started, shocked by the sudden outburst. Christensen sat, unruffled, as whisky dregs crawled down the wall.

  ‘Paul!’ Lynn shouted. ‘Just stop it.’

  * * *

  Having concluded their inquiries, they’d taken a look at Jessica’s old room, which now seemed to be used for storage. All in all, the trip had proved fruitless for the investigation though. Jack swallowed the disappointment at not having found out more but clung to the hope that her other residence – and flatmate – might prove more useful. Paul Lisbie had made a mumbled apology and left the room following the whisky incident, returning afterwards to see them out. After saying their goodbyes, the FLO had remained with the family to co-ordinate a visit to view the body when the time was right.

  Away from the stifling atmosphere of the house Jack glanced up at the sky. The clouds were moulding together into a thick, grey sludge, reflecting his own mood. Sighing, he took out a cigarette and lit up.

  ‘Thought you were going to give those up?’ Christensen said.

  ‘You my nurse now?’ he replied, offering him one.

  Rain began pitter-pattering on the pavement as Christensen waved him away and fished out one of his own. Jack pulled up his collar to battle against the elements as they set a quick pace back to the car, the DS limping ever so slightly.

  ‘What do you think then?’ Christensen asked.

  ‘Don’t know yet,’ Jack said. ‘The father has a temper though… and I wonder what happened for their relationship to break down.’

  ‘You think he’s implicated in some way?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ Jack said. ‘He might have a short fuse, but that doesn’t mean he’s a murderer.’

  Christensen nodded, taking a long drag on his cigarette. ‘Wonder if Watkins had any luck with Kane.’

  ‘Let’s get back to the station and find out,’ Jack said, buckling himself in. ‘Meanwhile, I want to get a search of Jessica’s flat sorted and try to question her flatmate. She may well have been the last person to see her alive.’

  They began the short journey back to Northumbria HQ, the city centre traffic becoming hectic as people finished work for the day. Jack took the time to reflect on what had happened so far. There was always the hope that Watkins had uncovered something when talking to the Kane family. Still, doubt was gnawing at his insides, adding to the growing concern he had over just about every aspect of the case so far. Something told him they were going to be in for a difficult time.

  6

  ‘He’s been missing for days now,’ she said, hands playing with a sodden handkerchief.

  She’d been hysterical since arriving at the station over half an hour ago. Jack would have given the task to somebody else but Watkins’ lack of information from Travis Kane’s family had caused a lull in the investigation. It turned out Travis wasn’t close with his family either. As for the link between the victims, his estranged parents had no clue as to who she was. He’d not been reported missing and his employers just thought he had done a runner, given he had a penchant for being unreliable.

  Realistically, he could have done with some time to sort out his mounting paperwork, even if only to satisfy Edwards. Not that he ever got on top of his own. Still, policing to him wasn’t about ticking boxes, it was about solving crimes. He’d deal with the fallout later.

  ‘Miss Willis...’ he began, dragging a calloused hand through his unkempt hair.

  ‘I haven’t come here to exchange pleasantries,’ she spat. ‘Just get out there and find him!’

  She folded her arms, covering a swollen belly. Despite the baby weight, Jack got the impression she wasn’t leading the healthiest of lifestyles. Dark rings circled her eyes, jet black hair having been scraped back into a ponytail, complete with a bright pink scrunchie.

  ‘Has he disappeared before?’

  ‘I’ve already told you this, no!’

  ‘Had you argued?’

  She shrugged, sallow eyes on anything but him. ‘No more than usual.’

  ‘Was he ever violent to you?’

  She shifted in her seat. ‘No, my Liam is a canny lad.’

  ‘Can you think of any reason why he might have gone missing?’

  She shifted again, her gaze falling upon him. ‘Look, he’s been hanging out with a pretty rough crowd. I’ve told him hundreds of times before that he needs to get out of that stuff, especially with a baby on the way...’ Her voice trailed off.

  She was barely eighteen, but something in her face told him she’d lived more than most people twice her age. Lines had already begun making their appearance well before their stage cue. He’d heard this story many times before. Chances were, the bloke had grown sick of the arguing, gotten cold feet, and left. Still...

  ‘Which crowd?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m not supposed to say,’ she tensed.

  ‘Suzie, how am I supposed to help you if you can’t be honest with me?’

  ‘I don’t want any trouble.’

  ‘Nobody does. But if Liam is caught up in something then we need to know about it.’

  She bit down on a heavily-manicured fingernail, seemingly weighing up her options. ‘He works for Dorian McGuinness.’

  ‘Ah.’

  * * *

  ‘Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse,’ Jack said as Watkins manoeuvred the car through the city centre.

  ‘I thought you two were friends?’ the DS quipped.

  He snorted. Jack had what you might call a ‘professional’ relationship with Dorian McGuinness, aquatic shop owner and local gangland boss. Back in his younger days, when he was bouncing, he’d come across McGuinness and done some work for him. Once he’d decided to join the force, though, he’d been keen to avoid all of that, not wanting to ruin his chances of a successful career. He’d been honest with him and Dorian had offered to keep the job open should he ever decide police work wasn’t for him. In fact, he even once offered to stick him on the payroll. Jack had politely declined and made it clear that he wasn’t to be asked again. As it was, his ties with the McGuinness crew had made him the unofficial go-between when questions needed to be asked. It was this uneasy arrangement with which Jack was wrestling as they neared their destination.

  ‘Look, if you want to keep your bollocks, let me do the talking. You just stand there and look hard.’

  ‘Me, hard?’ Watkins squeaked. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he can smell fear. And, trust me, he’ll use it against you.’

  ‘Could you not have brought Christensen?’

  ‘No, he’s busy. Just think of this as useful training.’

  They left the car down a grubby side street, not far from the Gate, a central hub in Newcastle’s boisterous nightlife. It was also a central pain in the arse for most of the police who had to work the area on a weekend. Jack shivered against the elements. He’d read they were in for a tough winter this year. He could practically hear Watkins’ teeth chattering as they approached the shop. The DS was right, Christensen probably would have been a better choice, but he was busy following up an incident near Central Station which had occurred the previous night.

  Cheap, wooden, wind chimes rang out as he opened the door to ‘McGuinness Aquatics.’ The smell of fish food hung heavy in the air, mixed in with the unmistakable scent of potent marijuana. The drugs were an issue they could deal with another time. Right now, they had more serious things to discuss. As they made their way inside, two aisles greeted them, both leading to a small serving counter at the back. A man sat ther
e leafing through The Sun newspaper, shaved head appearing above the pages.

  Arnold ‘Tank’ Mohan, complete with cheap aftershave.

  Jack cleared his throat as they approached, squeezing past a plethora of tropical fish. Tank didn’t look up.

  He decided to try a more direct approach. ‘Hello, Arnold.’

  The man grunted and dropped the paper on the desk, leaving a double-paged spread of Nell Stevens gazing up at them. The headline read:

  Stunner Stalked as Police do Nothing!

  ‘What do you want, pig?’

  Jack stared him down.

  The man known as ‘the Tank’ glared at him, each eye a different colour. Stubble lined his square jaw, a faint knife scar visible on his left cheek. Nobody was certain how he’d gotten the nickname, but Jack had heard it was due to his explosive temper, which had led – amongst other things – to him storming a local gym and beating a rival gang member half to death. He’d been a key cog in McGuinness’s inner ring for as long as Jack could remember.

  ‘Who the fuck is that?’ Tank motioned to Watkins. ‘Looks like a ginger rat.’

  ‘Hey!’ Watkins started.

  ‘I’m looking for Dorian,’ he cut in.

  ‘Who?’

  Jack sighed. ‘Come on, Tank, we can do this the easy way or the hard way.’ He hoped it’d be the former; sure, he could handle himself, but a fight with Arnold Mohan on enemy lines wasn’t something he fancied right now.

  ‘What you want the boss for?’

  ‘Some fish, obviously.’

  The squat man snorted, thumping a heavy fist down on the table. Anybody who cared to think about it knew the fish shop was just a front for the local mobs’ array of activities. They’d spent years trying to tie Dorian McGuinness down to something, but nothing would stick. Edwards had known about Jack’s loose affiliation with the gangster and had hoped to exploit it. However, McGuinness was too smart for that.

  ‘Supposing he was out?’ Tank sneered.

  ‘Then I’d come back with a warrant and drag him in for questioning; and he’d most definitely find out whose fault it was,’ Jack told the heavy.

  ‘Wait here,’ he grunted, heading through a blue drape.

  ‘Why do they call him Tank?’ Watkins asked.

  ‘No idea,’ Jack said. ‘And why are you whispering?’

  The DS cleared his throat. ‘Dunno.’

  Seconds later a scraping sound could be heard from behind the drape. Jack tensed. He made to warn Watkins but was too late as the giant Rottweiler hurtled through the curtain and lunged for him. He’d forgotten about the guard dog.

  ‘Get it off me!’ Watkins shrieked, crashing to the floor.

  ‘Lucy, come!’ Tank shouted, reappearing in the doorway. ‘Seems you brought along your own bitch,’ he chuckled, dragging the salivating dog back by a heavy chain.

  ‘So, is Dorian in or not?’

  ‘Aye, he’s through the back; you know the way.’

  The two detectives headed through into a dusty corridor laced with numerous wooden crates. Jack loathed to think what was in those boxes, but thought better than to check; at least not without backup.

  ‘Detectives, how can I help you?’ Dorian McGuinness greeted them as they entered his dark office laced with cigar smoke and various pieces of expensive art.

  Apart from the smog, however, it was remarkably tidy. A small window sat to the left with iron bars cut across it. Dorian was sitting at a large oak table, glasses perched on his long nose, flanked by two heavies, one of whom was holding a joint.

  ‘Hello, Dorian,’ he said. ‘I have a few questions to ask you.’

  ‘Jack, I’ve not seen you in weeks. You don’t call, you don’t write, what’s a man to think?’

  The heavy to the left snorted and Dorian turned his stare upon him. He didn’t take long to compose himself.

  ‘I’ve been busy catching criminals.’

  The mob boss let out a booming laugh before straightening down his suit jacket, which covered a purple dress shirt that was open halfway down his hairy chest, a gold medallion finishing the picture. His jet-black hair was slicked back from his massive forehead, giving him a distinctly seventies disco look. Dorian McGuinness certainly wasn’t like most crime lords in the area. First of all, he maintained a fairly public persona, even campaigning to be a local councillor at one point. He almost won, too. McGuinness also happened to be an openly gay man in a world that wasn’t exactly socially liberal. Still, nobody was likely to hassle him about it. Jack had heard stories about one rival who’d been brave – or stupid – enough to have a go at him. Rumour had it, Dorian had chopped off his manhood, and fed it to him, remarking that they now, ‘both eat cock.’

  Jack could well believe it.

  ‘So, tell me, why are you here?’ His eyes narrowed, pleasantries seemingly finished with.

  ‘Liam Reed.’

  Jack sought to look for any trace of reaction from the man. If he did know something, Dorian McGuinness was far too well versed to give it away.

  ‘I know Liam, he does the odd job for me.’

  ‘Delivering fish?’

  The booming laugh came back. ‘Something like that.’

  ‘He’s gone missing, is all; still, I’m betting you already knew that.’

  His tone darkened. ‘I sincerely hope you are not pointing the finger in my direction, Detective.’

  ‘When did you last see him?’

  McGuinness shrugged. ‘A few days ago, maybe a week.’

  ‘Do you have any idea what might have happened to him? His fiancée is very distressed.’

  ‘Ah, Suzie, she is a nice girl. Punching above his weight, I’d say.’

  The charm was lost on Jack.

  ‘So you don’t think much of him?’

  ‘I never said that.’

  Jack studied the crime boss. ‘I don’t suppose you’re going to help me out on this one, are you, Dorian?’

  McGuinness raised a large hand to his designer-stubbled chin and scratched, light reflecting from the small window off his gold rings. ‘Liam’s disappearance has been brought to my attention.’

  ‘Maybe he wanted an out.’

  ‘Detective, you offend me.’ He grinned. ‘If any of my staff wish to leave, they need only ask.’

  ‘Did Liam ask?’

  ‘He might have.’

  ‘That can’t have pleased you much.’

  ‘Not at all, as long as an employee works his period of notice. Liam understood that. I was happy for him to leave. Fish selling isn’t for everyone,’ he added, smiling.

  ‘Well, if you hear anything, you have my number,’ Jack said, turning to leave. ‘Oh, and I notice you’ve had a pretty large delivery. Business booming, is it?’

  McGuinness smiled, showing an assortment of gold teeth. ‘My business always booms, Detective. You see, there’s just no competition left.’

  They were back in the car before Watkins spoke. ‘What do you think?’

  Sporadic splotches of rain had begun landing on the windscreen as Jack pulled out a cigarette. Gazing at the nicotine stick, he decided against it. McGuinness’s office had given him a weekly fix. The wind had picked up, sending litter flying across the road from where they’d parked. A council worker, struggling with his luminous hood, went scuttling after it.

  ‘He’s an excellent liar, but my gut tells me he hasn’t done anything to the bloke.’

  ‘That’s a relief.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Well perhaps he’s just run off,’ Watkins said. ‘Maybe the pregnancy put the frighteners on him?’

  ‘I hope so,’ Jack sighed, popping another paracetamol. ‘Because if somebody else has done something to him, you can bet Dorian McGuinness isn’t going to let it lie. He’ll be conducting his own, private investigation. And you can bet your house on him dishing out his own particular brand of justice.’

  Jack just hoped that they could get to them first, before the war started.

  If it hadn’
t already.

  7

  It was 6.30am when the phone rang. Throwing the covers back, he tried to recall what he’d been dreaming about. His usual Newcastle Knifer dreams had been replaced by a new set of dark visions. Since the discovery of the two bodies in the ditch nearly a week ago, he’d not been able to scratch the images from his mind. He’d lost count of the amount of times he had woken up in a cold sweat, dead bodies reaching up out of the ground to pull him down.

  ‘Hello?’ He yawned into the receiver.

  ‘Jack, it’s Louise.’

  If Louise was ringing him, it must be bad. Having started a brief relationship when they were both in their early twenties, they soon found out she was pregnant. Although they both knew they weren’t right for each other they had made an effort because of Shannon. Then he’d met Rosie and he thought that was what he wanted. He could still remember the night he broke the news to her; she’d merely nodded and left, taking their daughter with her. They’d been amicable since then but rarely had any conversation outside of family matters. Deep down, though, it had all been a charade. He just wished he hadn’t pulled Rosie into it.

  ‘What’s happened?’ he asked, suddenly alert.

  ‘It’s your father,’ she replied.

  After fishing for the details, he replaced the receiver and threw last night’s clothes on. He brushed his teeth with a newly-bought electric brush, quickly adding some spray before heading downstairs. Ten minutes and one scalding cup of coffee later, he was outside in the crisp morning air, heading over to the Freeman Hospital. Pushing through the slow, automatic doors, he felt his chest tighten as memories of his mother’s long illness came flooding back.

  ‘Hello, Dad,’ his daughter greeted him on the ward.

  ‘Shannon, honey, it’s good to see you,’ he said, offering her an awkward hug.

  He noticed the tenseness of her body. Pulling away, he looked her over. She’d grown up so much in the last year, he thought, and he’d missed most of it. Sure, the job was demanding, but he had to do better before it was too late. Her usual bright pink clothing had been replaced by a more Gothic look and, judging by the colour of her cheeks, she’d started wearing make-up too; at eleven years old.