Open Grave

by A. M. Peacock

  ‘What are you thinking?’ Watkins asked.

  ‘I’m thinking look into it and keep me posted.’

  ‘Surely this is below your pay grade?’

  ‘Let’s just say it’s piqued my interest,’ he replied. ‘I would imagine the break-in at the mother’s house was a coincidence.’

  ‘She doesn’t think so.’

  Jack shrugged. If the stalker had taken the time to break into her mother’s house, the odds were that he knew her prior to the reality show being aired. However, if she already knew the perpetrator, then surely she would have recognised him in the bar. He scratched at his ever-growing beard, lightly tapping the desk with a chewed biro. Either there were two stalkers, his theory on her knowing him was wrong or... no idea.

  He massaged his temples, trying to fit the pieces together. Was there something he wasn’t seeing? Either way, they had to investigate the break-in. Watkins could sort it out but, like he’d said, his interest had been piqued. Plus, the lack of headway in the double murder case was beginning to bother him. He needed the distraction.

  ‘I see police work still doesn’t agree with you,’ a familiar voice said. ‘You’ve aged about ten years since I last saw you.’

  Jack smiled. ‘Pritchard, it’s good to see you.’

  The stout criminal psychologist took his hand in a warm embrace, his eyes looking as alert as Jack had seen them for some time. By the end of his distinguished career with the Northumbria force, there’d been a distinct lack of life in the old man; in no small part down to the gruesome Newcastle Knifer case. Last time Jack had seen him, though, the profiler had been cultivating his own crop of vegetables. It seemed as though his time away from the force was doing him good. He’d put on a little weight, but he’d always been ‘big boned’ as he’d called it. His usual small, square glasses were perched on the end of his wide nose, cheeks a little redder than he’d remembered them.

  ‘Well, you know me, always wanting to help.’

  ‘Let me bring you up to date,’ he said, handing Pritchard a thick folder of documents once they arrived at his office.

  ‘I see you still like to keep things untidy,’ he replied, leafing through the contents.

  Jack motioned to the murder wall, as he called it, at the side of the office. Pictures of Travis Kane and Jessica Lisbie lined the whiteboard, pre and post death. Around them, he had made a plethora of notes, searching for some link between the two of them. So far, he’d had no luck. Just what did a twenty-six-year-old marketing graduate have in common with a thirty-one-year-old removal man?

  ‘We’ve had no leads, as such, so far.’ Jack forced his eyes away from the pictures of dead bodies. ‘That’s where I’m hoping you can come in.’

  Pritchard replaced his glasses and moved the folder contents aside. ‘Well then I’ll need to see the bodies.’

  * * *

  Jack was glad that Rosie had already completed the autopsies prior to them visiting the morgue. It wasn’t that he was unable to cope with the cutting up of dead bodies, merely that he didn’t want to have to spend his time there in awkward silence. The discomfort wasn’t lost on Pritchard, who had taken great joy in ribbing him about it on the way there.

  ‘Rosie,’ he greeted her, forcing himself to meet her gaze.

  ‘DCI Lambert,’ she said, emotionless. ‘Frank, it’s good to see you again, I’d heard you were coming back.’

  The profiler smiled. ‘Yes, it seems the force is lost without me.’

  You’re not wrong, Jack thought.

  The three of them pushed through the double doors into the examining room. The chronic smell of detergent and death created a potent mix, every surface seemingly scrubbed to within an inch of its life. As they approached the two bodies, Jack could practically taste the bleach.

  Rosie, suited and booted, pulled the pale, green sheets back to reveal the two victims. ‘I’ll cut to the chase,’ she said. ‘Estimated time of death was correct. I’d put it between three and four weeks ago from where we are now.’ She moved round to the other side of the table, facing the two of them. ‘Toxicology reports show nothing untoward. That doesn’t mean there isn’t something there, just that it’s not been detected so far. I maintain the cause of death was strangulation.’ She pointed to the neck of Travis Kane. ‘Judging by the nature of the bruising, I would say the killer used his hands. I say he, it could be a she, but the marks are consistent with a larger specimen. Given the lack of evidence under the fingernails, one can assume they were bound at the moment of death, which is confirmed by the ligature marks on both wrists and feet. It all looks very neat. The girl—’ she motioned to the corpse ‘—has a broken nose, but I’d say it was a fairly old injury; older than a few weeks, anyway.’

  Jack moved around the table to get a better look, brushing Rosie’s arm by accident. In a flash, she jerked away, fumbling over some papers. Pritchard raised his eyebrows before gazing down over the victim.

  ‘Any signs of sexual abuse?’ Jack asked.

  The pathologist shook her head. ‘There’s nothing to suggest any sexual activity took place.’

  ‘Oh, there was definitely a sexual element to it,’ Pritchard said.

  ‘I’m sorry, Pritchard, but if there was, I’d have found traces.’

  The old man waved her away. ‘Not in that sense,’ he said. ‘But, our killer definitely derives sexual pleasure from this.’

  ‘Go on,’ Jack urged.

  ‘Well,’ he started, before his phone began ringing. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, fishing it out. ‘I have to take this.’

  Jack noted the look of panic on Rosie’s face as Pritchard left the room. As the silence grew awkward, he looked down at the almost peaceful-looking body of Jessica Lisbie, no doubt in stark contrast to the moments leading up to her death.

  ‘So, how have you been?’ he asked her.

  ‘Really?’ she sighed.

  ‘Well what am I supposed to say?’

  She shook her head. Truth be told, he had no idea what he wanted her to say. All he could muster in himself were feelings of regret at how things had turned out.

  ‘Just because things are bad between us, doesn’t mean I don’t still care.’

  ‘Well you have a funny way of showing it,’ she said, pausing. ‘Look at what you’ve done to me,’ she said, tears forming in her eyes. ‘This is what I’ve become.’

  He made to move towards her.

  ‘No!’ she shouted. ‘You don’t get to be that person any more. Besides,’ she said, straightening. ‘I’ve met somebody. He’s called Alan. He works in counselling and, more importantly, he’s not you.’

  ‘I...’

  A flustered Pritchard walked in, the look on his face telling Jack he knew he’d arrived at an awkward time. He cleared his throat, leaning over the edge of the table as Rosie turned away from them both. Jack was pleased she’d met somebody. She deserved to be happy. He couldn’t say the same for himself.

  ‘So, as I was saying, the killer derives sexual pleasure from this, for sure. The fact that he’s put them in a grave is suggestive enough. The fact that he has returned to dig them up proves he takes pleasure from it. He’s gone back to the scene of the crime to relive what happened.’

  ‘I’m starting to like this less and less,’ Jack said.

  Pritchard eyed him. ‘So you should. The neat nature of the killing and burial tells us he’s organised, calm, collected and clinical. I’d expect him to be of above-average intelligence and fully aware of what he’s doing, prior to doing it.’

  That was what Jack was afraid of.

  * * *

  Back in the MIR it took them less than ten minutes to fill everybody else in on the details, the information met with stony silence.

  ‘Remember,’ Pritchard told the assembled group, ‘we are most likely looking for a white man in his thirties or forties, and he’s probably got a job which holds regular hours through the day.’

  DC Gerrard raised her hand. ‘Why is that, sir?’

&n
bsp; Pritchard replaced his glasses and stopped twirling his eyebrow, legs rocking on the spot. ‘Two things. One, would you commit these crimes through the day, with a good chance of being caught, especially if you had a high level of intelligence? No, and the level of planning and execution involved, pardon the pun, suggests he has plenty of time around his work life. It may even be that he works part-time. This man is clever. My best guess is that he’s a weekday worker, with a normal to busy social life and higher than average IQ. I would hazard a guess that he stalks his victims, then either kidnaps or talks them into being alone with him, before committing the murder. I know it’s not ideal, but it’s the best I’ve got for now.’

  ‘And what about the second thing?’ DI Russell asked.

  Pritchard smiled. ‘The law of averages, my dear. It’s almost always a man in that demographic.’

  The room nodded in collective approval, no doubt impressed with Pritchard’s straight-to-the-point approach. Looking to the corner of the room, Jack saw that Edwards had slipped in unnoticed. The DSI glared at Jack, rolled his eyes, and left.

  Yep, definitely old school.

  Jack concurred. He’d made the connection, himself, when having first witnessed the grave. Disorganised killers more often than not killed out of some form of passion or mental instability. Organised killers were a much more sinister bunch. The Newcastle Knifer had been the former. He’d not gone to great lengths to cover his tracks, but they’d still made a hash of catching him. Judging by what he’d seen so far, they were dealing with somebody completely different now.

  ‘None of this is good news to me, Pritchard,’ Jack said.

  ‘Oh, it gets better,’ he replied. ‘You want to hope he had a personal vendetta against them, otherwise it’s clear to me that we’ll be dealing with...’

  He didn’t need to say it. They all knew

  9

  ‘You came!’ Watkins greeted him.

  ‘It’s a Friday, isn’t it?’ Jack said, pushing towards the bar as Watkins moved through the crowd.

  Truth be told, he didn’t much feel like doing anything. Back in his early twenties, he’d been one of the first to the bar. Nowadays, he preferred to drink in solitude.

  ‘What’ll it be, mate?’ a young, spiky-haired barman asked.

  ‘Becks.’

  Looking about the bar for the rest of them, it seemed to Jack that Pilgrim Street was quite the place for young people with square-framed glasses and tweed jackets. The smell of aftershave and sweat clung to him as he attempted to wade through the sea of trendy folk, towards people he knew.

  ‘Hello, stranger,’ a familiar voice greeted him.

  ‘DC Gerrard.’

  The policewoman rolled her eyes. ‘Really, guv?’

  He rolled them back. ‘Really.’

  He followed the DC away from the bar, noting how different she looked out of uniform. She was wearing a black pencil skirt and a loose, red top. She’d tied her hair up and had put on some crimson lipstick. There was no denying it, Claire Gerrard was an extremely attractive woman. At one time, he might have convinced himself that he fancied her. He was surprised Watkins hadn’t already made a play.

  ‘There he is,’ Watkins said, a little too loudly.

  Jack pulled up a seat. ‘Here I am,’ he said.

  ‘I need a good drink with all this Open Grave Murderer business.’

  ‘Open Grave Murderer?’ Jack asked.

  Watkins turned to him. ‘You should read the papers more; that’s what they’re calling him.’

  Jack wasn’t surprised. They loved a good nickname for their killers. ‘Did Christensen not come out?’

  Watkins snorted. ‘You having a laugh? The Scandinavian Cyborg never comes out.’

  ‘You should say that to his face,’ he said.

  Watkins coughed, sending a spray of blue WKD all over the table. ‘You mad? He’d break my neck.’

  ‘Can we please not talk about work,’ Claire said. ‘I want to have a good time tonight.’

  Jack shrugged and took another sip of beer. In his experience, these social events often turned into off-the-record work meetings.

  ‘Been anywhere nice on your afternoon off?’ Watkins asked.

  Jack shrugged. He’d spent the day poring over paperwork. ‘Not really.’

  ‘Oh, by the way,’ Watkins said. ‘You know Megan, right?’

  Jack noticed the young woman sat next to Watkins, who seemed to not mind the fact that the DS had his hand on her knee. ‘The FLO?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘Sorry we didn’t get properly introduced before, you know...’

  Jessica Lisbie’s body flashed through his mind. He forced the image away and took another drink. So much for a night away from the job.

  ‘Well, when I’m outside of work, I’m Jack,’ he said, shaking her hand.

  ‘Nice to officially meet you, Jack,’ she giggled.

  Claire brought his attention away from the happy couple. ‘So, rumour has it you used to be quite the drinker.’

  ‘Oh really?’ he said, casting a cursory glance over to Watkins.

  ‘Well,’ she said. ‘I’ve had a rotten end to the week with the Bulldog so I want to get drunk and have a good time. How does that sound?’

  ‘That sounds fine to me,’ Jack said. ‘Except… Watkins and I are in work tomorrow so we won’t be having a late one.’

  Watkins pouted. ‘Ah come on, Jack.’

  Gerrard tutted. ‘Well I’m not, so here’s to me!’ she said, sipping her red wine with an air of mock sophistication.

  Jack downed the rest of his drink and stood to go back to the bar. ‘Another drink?’ he asked her.

  ‘Yes, I’ll come with you.’

  ‘I see you’ve combed your hair,’ Gerrard said once they were out of earshot.

  ‘Well I can’t have you having another go at my appearance.’

  ‘You know,’ she said, eyes resting on him. ‘I have friends who are into the gay scene. I could introduce...’

  He held his hand up. ‘Thanks, but I’m not interested. I’m happy to comb my hair from time to time but I don’t need relationship advice right now. I’m not ready for that.’

  The barman served them their drinks and Jack made to head back.

  ‘You still haven’t shaved, though.’

  ‘It’s winter,’ he told her. ‘It keeps me warm.’

  ‘It keeps you old.’

  ‘Thanks, you are doing wonders for my self-esteem.’

  ‘Well somebody needs to look out for you,’ she said. ‘You don’t seem happy.’

  He turned away from her. He’d never been one to discuss his feelings. That was part of the reason he and Rosie had broken up. Only a small part, of course. Ironically it was his being honest about his sexuality that had finally put paid to their affair. Gerrard was probably right but he had more important things to worry about than his love life.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ he told her.

  ‘Well, just so you know, I’m on your side.’

  ‘Are some people not, like?’

  She grinned. ‘Well the Bulldog certainly isn’t.’

  ‘No comment.’

  As the night wore on, he found himself having an alright time. He even had a joke around with Watkins in between the sergeant necking on with his new lass – his words, not Jack’s. When a couple of young PCs arrived, Jack felt it best to call it a night.

  ‘Right, I’m off, early start tomorrow.’

  ‘Okay everybody, off to World Headquarters.’ Watkins ignored him, slamming his pint glass down in a drunken state.

  ‘I once saw a man throw up on himself in there,’ Claire said, then, turning back to Jack. ‘You sure you don’t want in?’

  ‘Not for me,’ he told her. ‘I don’t recover like I used to.’ He leaned in towards Watkins. ‘I’ll see you in the morning, don’t be hungover or I’ll have to breathalyse you.’

  The DS was seemingly having too much of a good time to listen to his warning.

  * * * />
  He’d been watching them for some time now. Sitting across the bar within eyeshot was giving him a thrill. Sipping his gin and tonic to take the edge off, he saw his target, DCI Jack Lambert. The bulky officer leant over and whispered something to the ginger detective before grabbing his coat. It seemed he was leaving. He took one of the ice cubes into his mouth, rolled the cold ice around his gum before crunching down on it. Not once did his gaze leave him. Jack Lambert was the one who was heading up the investigation, according to the press. The great Jack Lambert – conqueror of the Newcastle Knifer. Even a killer that useless had managed to escape the law for the best part of two months. The furore surrounding the case had been borderline ridiculous. He smiled. His plans would bring things to a whole new level.

  He finished the drink, barely registering the tang of the alcohol. Yes, Jack Lambert had caught his attention. Without him here, though, there was no point in hanging around. He’d already found what he was looking for.

  10

  The next day Jack was sure he was coming down with something. He’d barely slept and felt the annual Newcastle cold coming on. The morning passed in a blur as he dosed up on an array of cheap medicines. First of all, he’d received a phone call from the hospital telling him that his father was showing promising signs, having regained some of his previous appetite. He’d thanked the nurse, felt guilty about going out the previous night and promised to visit early the following week.

  He’d got over the gnawing in his stomach by fuelling up on Lucozade, poring over the double murder case files and thinking about what to do about Liam Reed. The lack of anything on either case was troubling him. With Jane Russell champing at the bit to get SIO status, he’d have to start getting some results soon. Christensen had chipped in during the morning, with Jack spending his time between the MIR and his own office. So far, he’d managed to avoid Edwards, but that wouldn’t last forever.