Open Grave

  The Nell Stevens issue wasn’t even on his radar.

  ‘Knock, knock.’ A far too chirpy Pritchard entered the office, coffee in hand.

  ‘I thought you were only coming in part-time,’ Jack said, taking one for himself.

  The psychologist shrugged and took a seat. ‘You know me.’

  He was right, Jack did know him. He also knew that his inability to let a case go had led to him practically having a heart attack just over a year ago.

  It was as if Pritchard could read his mind. ‘You’re not my minder, Jack.’

  ‘Of course not, I’m sorry.’

  They settled into an uneasy silence as they continued their review of the case documentation. By the end, Jack found that the words had all blurred into one.

  ‘We need the roommate,’ Pritchard said.

  He concurred. Surely she could offer something. So far, though, they’d been unable to track her down. The horrible thought that the killer had taken her as well momentarily ran through his mind. He dismissed the idea, for now.

  ‘Sandra Beck,’ Jack said, leafing through her profile. ‘Moved down here from Edinburgh; has no local family.’

  ‘That helps,’ Pritchard quipped.

  Jack was about to respond when Watkins came hurtling through the door, his face redder than usual.

  ‘I’m here,’ he spluttered.

  ‘You’re late,’ he said.

  ‘Only five minutes,’ he replied. ‘Plus, I brought us bacon butties.’

  The DS was instantly forgiven. ‘Sauce?’

  ‘Brown.’

  ‘Good man, pull up a seat.’

  Watkins dished the food out and Jack hungrily chowed down on the sandwich. It was crispy, just how he liked it.

  ‘Look, I’m glad I caught you in a good mood,’ Watkins said.

  The pork instantly soured in his mouth. ‘What is it?’

  Rather sheepishly, he pulled out a local tabloid, placing it across from Jack. He dumped the butty, looked down at the front page spread.

  Open Grave Murderer Still on the Loose

  ‘Are you kidding me?’

  Pritchard chuckled. ‘It is rather inventive.’

  Yeah, the press had named the killer the ‘Open Grave Murderer,’ on account of the bodies having been in an open grave. Really inventive.

  ‘This is Robson’s lot,’ Jack fumed.

  They’d used an old image of Jack’s from a couple of years ago as well. It wasn’t his finest pose. No doubt Robson had fished it out to try and embarrass him. It didn’t get much better as he read on.

  * * *

  The whole region shuddered at the horrific events of the double body discovery in Cleadon, South Shields, nearly two weeks ago. This paper can offer an official exclusive into the ongoing investigation. Fearing further attacks, the police are upping their numbers, clearly nervous at what could happen next. DCI Jack Lambert, known primarily for his role in the drawn-out saga of the Newcastle Knifer case, currently remains SIO. Lambert, formerly touted for the top, has a long road back after the calamitous events of just over a year ago, almost succumbing to local psychopath, Leonard Watson, in a knife attack. Worries remain about the mental state and competence of the detective after he let one of the most dangerous criminals in recent times slip through his fingers, leading to disastrous consequences. So far, police have not been able to secure any firm leads.

  ‘What the hell!’ he shouted, flinging the newspaper against the murder wall.

  ‘What’s the plan then?’ Watkins asked.

  Jack leaned back in his chair, massaging his temples. He could already feel another headache coming on. ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘But, whatever we do, we have to move quickly.’ Glancing once more at the crumpled paper, he added, ‘And I want to know who that damn mole is before I have to kill David bloody Robson!’

  ‘Jack?’ came a cold voice from the doorway. ‘We have a situation.’

  DI Russell didn’t need to give further information before he knew. ‘A body?’

  ‘No,’ she said, stony-faced. ‘Two.’

  * * *

  The drive to the location was spent in sombre silence as Watkins navigated them out of the city centre. Jack was restless, tapping his fingers on the dashboard as they burst through the heavy traffic towards Gateshead. As if a second discovery wasn’t enough, the fact that they had somebody leaking details to the press would lead to widespread panic once the words ‘serial killer’ were bandied about.

  ‘Nearly there,’ Watkins said as they passed over the green structure of the Tyne Bridge.

  To their left, the Norman Foster-designed Sage building lay like a giant slug on the Quayside. It played host to a plethora of folk and pop music acts; Jack was more of a hard rock fan but had still found the time to go and visit the place. There was no denying it was impressive.

  Veering left, they passed the Baltic campus of Gateshead College, heading along the country lane. The smell of horse manure hung heavy in the air as they parked up and waded through the muddy terrain, still wet from last night’s rain. Clouds were gathering, threatening another downpour at any moment. The walk to the tent seemed to take forever as the hill grew steeper, each step growing more and more difficult as he approached. DI Russell had gone ahead with Gerrard, and they met up now, before suiting up outside the scene of the grave. The event passed in silence, as if they were attending the funeral of a friend.

  ‘Through here, sir,’ a tall, uniformed officer greeted them at the entrance.

  They pulled on their white protective suits before heading over to where Rosie and a number of other workers were investigating the scene. It wasn’t always general practice for Rosie to be there, but the serious nature of the crime had deemed it necessary. Behind him, Jane could be heard barking orders at anybody within earshot. As they moved forward, the unmistakable stench of death displaced the country air, a grim prelude to what he was about to witness.

  ‘Rosie,’ he greeted his former lover. ‘Show me.’

  She gave him a curt nod and motioned towards the centre of the tent. Her lack of eye contact told him she wasn’t best pleased with his presence, but Rosie had always been a professional. In a situation like this, there was no one else he’d rather have there.

  He tuned the rest of the world out as he approached the open grave. A cordon had been set up on the other side of the tent, indicating possible footprints. Jack noticed a distinct lack of action on that side, it would lead to less contamination. Anything in the way of a footprint or DNA would be a godsend right about now.

  Watkins appeared by his side, his face staunch and expressionless. The two detectives moved forward, bringing the grave into view. Jack exhaled, a small shiver working its way up his spine, the familiarity of the scene all too similar to be marked off as coincidence.

  ‘Looks identical,’ Watkins said, hunching down.

  It wasn’t the image that was particularly disturbing to him. It was the smell. Nobody could train you to deal with the putrid stench of the dead. Jack had to concentrate to make sure he swallowed the acidic water that was working its way up his throat. He moved to the opposite side of the grave to try out a different angle. As before, both bodies had been stripped naked and placed into a ditch around six foot deep. He looked closer, could see the arm of the woman draped around the man’s midriff, just like last time. The all-too-familiar bruising on the neck was prevalent and – judging by the smell and look of the bodies – the time of death was in line with what they’d previously seen.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ DI Russell said, hunching down next to Watkins. ‘You do know what this means, don’t you?’

  Jack met her gaze and nodded.

  ‘It looks exactly the same as last time, Jack,’ Rosie told him. ‘Still, I don’t want to pander to guessing games before I thoroughly investigate both bodies.’

  He thought as much. Moving to his right, he looked at the footprints that had chewed up the earthy ground.

  ‘Could be anybody’s,
’ Watkins said.

  ‘Could be his,’ he replied.

  ‘This guy is sick,’ Watkins said. ‘Digging up the graves so we would find them. Who does that?’

  ‘You sure it’s a he?’ DI Russell asked.

  ‘Oh, it’s a he.’ Pritchard stepped forward, speaking for the first time since they’d arrived. The group turned to him. ‘Call it the benefit of experience,’ he added.

  Jack moved into action. ‘Watkins, I want a team to start making enquiries nearby.’

  ‘On which doors?’

  He was right, the area was so sparsely populated that the chances of somebody having seen something, especially when it was so easy to slip in and out with the scenery, was very slim. Still, they had to try. ‘Just do it.’

  ‘Call me if you discover anything, Rosie... eh… Dr Lynnes,’ he stuttered, stepping away from the scene.

  Once he’d reached outside, he was glad to be back with the manure. As he approached the car, he began making mental notes of everything he needed to do. First port of call would be to get back to the station and update Edwards on the situation. He was looking forward to that.

  The shrill ring of his mobile phone brought him out of his trance.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Jack, it’s David Robson here...’

  ‘Look, I can’t be arsed to get into anything with you, right now, David. In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m a police officer,’ he said, sidling into the passenger’s seat.

  ‘That’s just it,’ he replied. ‘After what you have just discovered, I can imagine you are pretty busy.’

  Jack paused, hand gripping the device. ‘If you are following me, Robson, I swear...’

  ‘Relax,’ he replied. ‘Suffice to say, this is big news, wouldn’t you agree?’

  ‘How much do you know?’

  ‘You’ve found two bodies in Gateshead. Identical situation to two weeks ago. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say we have a...’

  ‘Don’t say it, Robson!’

  ‘I don’t need to, Jack. The paper will say it all tomorrow.’

  ‘Don’t you dare print—’ The phone line went dead.

  He let out a groan and dug his fingers into the seat.

  ‘What’s up with you?’ Watkins asked, starting the engine.

  ‘David bloody Robson just rang me. He knows.’

  ‘What the hell?’

  ‘Jesus, we’ll be in a fire storm.’

  ‘Now what?’

  ‘I have to go and tell Edwards what’s going on.’

  ‘Glad I don’t have to do that,’ Watkins said.

  ‘If I don’t solve this thing soon you could be the one calling the shots before long.’

  Jack saw Watkins gulp, bony knuckles gripping the steering wheel.

  Pritchard lumbered into the backseat and pulled out a chewing gum. ‘You do realise this could very well escalate now?’

  Jack merely nodded. As they pulled away, he looked over the crime scene, seeing every colleague as a potential enemy. If they didn’t close the information source down soon, Edwards would have no choice but to throw him off the case. As for the killer, unless they could track him down, whoever had committed the murders would have more surprises in store for them in the near future. They needed to refocus.

  Lives depended on it.

  11

  ‘I just can’t believe it.’

  Jack took a seat opposite Sandra Beck, who had the vacant look of somebody in shock. Watkins had just informed her of Jessica Lisbie’s death. A neighbour had given them the call that someone had returned to the flat. It didn’t take a genius to work out which housemate it was. It turned out Sandra didn’t watch a lot of news. She’d been on a trip to Paris with her boyfriend; a last minute job, hence the lack of knowledge with regards to her whereabouts. University had seemingly tamed her Scottish accent, with only the odd word standing out as strange to his ears.

  ‘I know this must have come as a big shock,’ Jack said.

  The diminutive redhead sniffed, bringing a neatly-manicured nail to her mouth. ‘I was just speaking to her a few weeks ago. We’ve been sharing this flat for over a year now.’

  It was a nice flat, too. Jack wondered who had decided on the decor. It had a fairly minimalistic feel, with the obligatory flat-screen TV mounted to the far wall and coffee table complete with family photos. He noted the photos were of Sandra’s family, not Jessica’s.

  Although conscious of the need to tread carefully, Jack needed information. ‘I’m sorry to have to question you like this, Sandra,’ he said. ‘But a killer is on the loose and we need to stop him.’

  She took a deep breath, composing herself. ‘What do you need?’

  A suspect, he thought.

  ‘Any information you might think useful to the investigation.’ He fished out the mugshot of Travis Kane. ‘Do you recognise this man?’

  The young girl scrunched up her face. ‘I... don’t think so.’

  He paused before continuing. ‘This man was found alongside Jessica. Look again; is there any way Jessica may have known him?’

  Watkins stopped scribbling, leaving the tick of the clock as the only sound in the room.

  ‘Well, Jessica had recently started working at Blue Bamboo, in the city centre.’

  That was news to Jack. ‘I thought she worked in marketing.’

  ‘She did,’ Sandra replied.

  ‘Then why work at a bar too? Did she have money issues?’

  She shifted in her seat, her hands lightly tapping her thigh. ‘Look, she didn’t earn much but she had been having a hard time. I don’t know if you’ve met her family but her dad is a grade-one nutjob. She was a really private person but anybody who knew her knew not to bring family up.’

  Jack nodded. ‘It had come to my attention.’

  Sandra’s face hardened. ‘Yeah, well, because of him Jessica was kind of messed up, you know? She’d been drinking a lot and hadn’t been coping well. I think she may have even sought help for her issues, I don’t know. Anyway, she got the job there to take her mind off things in the evening. If she was at work, she couldn’t get pissed, right? She wasn’t big on hanging out with people, more of a lone wolf. But she was always looking for things to occupy her time. I could tell she was unhappy.’ Her eyes began clouding over again.

  They finished up speaking to Jessica Lisbie’s flatmate and left her to mourn in peace. They might not have gotten the Travis Kane link that they were after, but they had received a piece of potentially important information. Nobody had alerted them to the fact that Jessica had been working at Blue Bamboo.

  Jack fished his mobile out and rang through to the MIR. Christensen picked up on the third ring, his voice betraying no emotion as Jack filled him in on the details. He agreed to meet them at the bar.

  Securing a link between the two victims would be the key they needed to unlock this mystery. Numerous potential scenarios were running through his mind. Had Jessica known Travis Kane through her job? Had they been lovers? Was it a crime of passion? If so, how did that explain the new discovery? Unfortunately for them, there were far more questions than answers at this point.

  ‘How do you want to play it?’ Watkins asked.

  ‘I’ll speak to the bar staff, see if I can get a rota or something,’ he replied, checking his watch. It was early but hopefully somebody would be there.

  ‘There might not be many people around at this time.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ Jack said. ‘I want to get straight in on this, leave nothing to chance. We’ll take a team down at a later time to scout the place out on an evening. If it’s the venue that proves to be the commonality, we may need to go undercover at some point.’

  ‘What do you make of the flatmate?’

  Jack shrugged. ‘She seemed genuine. Her eyes certainly lit up when she spoke about Jessica’s dad. I guess she must have disclosed some stuff in the past. It might be worth speaking with the family again at some point. Also, I want Sandra’s boyfriend checked, ju
st to check her whereabouts and rule them out.’

  They spent the rest of the journey in eager silence. Watkins pulled the car into a space and they crossed the road towards the bar. At the door, Christensen stood, bomber jacket open against the elements. The man was hard as nails. He’d been in the force for as long as Jack could remember but had never moved up the ladder. He couldn’t help but wonder why. He was a damn fine policeman and everyone respected him. Originally from Denmark, he’d moved to Newcastle as a young boy and had picked up a unique melded Scandinavian-Geordie dialect. Given that he was almost as wide as he was tall, people didn’t tend to mess with him. Stories had been circulating about his history for years now. For Christensen’s part, he neither admitted nor denied them. He also had a habit of calling everybody boss, whether it be a superior officer or young subordinate.

  Jack had never been to Blue Bamboo before, chart music wasn’t his thing. Granite walls loomed over him as he looked the building up and down, a bleak welcome. During the day, pubs had a way of looking depressed as if punters’ hangovers had stretched to their very foundations. A sign above the main entrance stood, unlighted, indicating they were closed. He’d take his chances inside. Jack pushed through a set of double doors, the unmistakable smell of cheap shots and teenage sweat hitting him like a kick to the gut.

  A heavyset bouncer approached them as they made their way inside, multiple ringed fingers raised into the air as a warning. He was sporting a closely-shaved round head with a tattoo high up on his neck. A mammoth belly was straining against his black suit jacket, tie undone.

  ‘Police,’ Jack said, showing him his ID.

  His eyes narrowed. ‘The bar staff are through there,’ he motioned, his voice thick with the mucus of excessive smoking.