Open Grave

by A. M. Peacock

  Typical of Clifton, Jack thought; always flash. The lawyer was sitting with a briefcase in front of him and an expensive-looking Rolex on his left wrist. His hair was the same colour as his client’s, only natural. He had it perfectly combed over, much like a 1950s crooner. Stylish, square-rimmed glasses were perched low on his nose which gave him an air of faux-superiority over those who were around him. Jack wasn’t buying it though.

  Everyone on the force could vouch for their hatred of Casey Clifton. In fact, Jack was sure he hated him even more than David bloody Robson. He’d lost count of the amount of times the slimy solicitor had gotten a criminal off on a technicality. Just last year, he’d managed to get a well-known local druggie released from an assault charge. He’d attacked an off-duty police officer in a pub, breaking his jaw. Somehow, by the time Clifton had finished with him in court, it was believed that the policeman had not only instigated the assault but also had an alcohol problem. Although in his early thirties, he’d built up a fearsome reputation in the legal business. And the press loved him. None more so than Jack’s arch nemesis and constant pain in the arse, David Robson. He wasn’t the only duty solicitor who was used, but it certainly felt that way to Jack.

  He leaned forward. The only sound to be heard was that of Gary Dartford’s wheezing, and the churning of the recording equipment. ‘Gary, you’re here because—’

  ‘I swear I never touched her!’

  ‘Touched who?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Jessica.’

  Clifton leaned in and began whispering in Dartford’s ear before being shrugged off.

  ‘I’ve got nothing to hide so what’s it matter?’

  Jack resisted the urge to smirk at Clifton the way he had to him over the years.

  ‘If you’re happy to speak about this, Gary, why don’t we start at the beginning and you can tell me how you knew Jessica Lisbie.’

  Dartford ran a swollen hand over his puffy eyes. ‘Worked with her, didn’t I?’

  Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the cogs of Casey Clifton’s mischievous brain turning over, waiting to pounce on any irregularity.

  ‘Were you romantically involved with her?’

  Dartford’s fair-skinned face flashed red. ‘Nar.’

  ‘But you liked her, yes?’

  ‘She was alright.’

  ‘That’s not what I’ve heard, Gary. In fact, I hear you were very fond of her.’

  ‘Who the fuck told you that?’ he snapped, his eyes meeting Jack’s for the first time.

  ‘That’s a nasty temper you’ve got there. You should try to keep it in check. Do you often find yourself unable to contain your anger? Is that why you beat up your ex?’

  Dartford’s jaw dropped before Clifton tagged in. ‘That’s an outrageous slur. May I remind you that Mr Dartford is volunteering up this information and that there is no need to employ such a heavy-handed approach.’

  ‘No need?’ Watkins piped up. ‘The suspect has a history of violence towards women. I’d say it’s a fair point under the circumstances.’

  Jack decided to push further, ignoring the weak attempt from Clifton to disrupt his line of questioning. ‘You can’t control your anger, can you?’

  ‘Nar... I... it’s in the past,’ he spluttered. ‘Look, we sort of had a bit of a flirt and that, but it never went any further as such.’

  ‘And how do you know Travis Kane?’ Jack asked.

  Dartford frowned. ’I don’t.’

  ‘You could save us all a lot of trouble, Gary, by being honest.’

  ‘Fuck knows, man,’ he said, straightening. ‘He may have been in the bar once or twice but I don’t know the bloke, honestly.’

  ‘Did Travis Kane and Jessica Lisbie have a romantic relationship?’

  Dartford sighed. ‘Look, the truth is, I fancied her. We went out a few times and it didn’t work out. As for this bloke, I have no idea who he is.’

  ‘Does Crystal know about Jessica?’

  ‘Nar,’ he snorted.

  Jack noted the flash of fear in his eyes.

  The faint sound of scribbling cut through his thought process as Casey Clifton began making notes on an expensive-looking moleskin notepad.

  ‘Here’s what I think, Gary. I think you were jealous of Travis Kane because he started hanging around the bar, chatting Jess up,’ he stated.

  ‘I’ve not done nowt!’ he shouted, looking to his lawyer for help. The solicitor placed a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Let me guess,’ Jack continued. ‘You couldn’t handle Jessica seeing somebody else, so you exacted your revenge on them both. How’s my aim?’

  ‘Purely circumstantial at best,’ Clifton mumbled, allowing a small smirk. ‘At worst, your aim is worse than your detective skills.’

  Jack ground his teeth.

  ‘I didn’t do nothing!’ Dartford repeated, covering his head in his hands.

  Casey Clifton leaned forward, placing his notepad on the dimly-lit grey table. Jack glanced at it, to be met by what looked like a child’s portrait of two police officers in clown hats.

  ‘This line of questioning is over.’

  They exited the interview room some twenty minutes later. All Jack could do was clench his fists behind his back, so as not to lamp Casey Clifton across his smug jaw. The press would love that one. ‘Disgraced Police Officer Attacks Lawyer.’

  ‘Let me go!’ Dartford shouted as a uniformed officer guided him back to the cells.

  ‘Unfortunately for you, Gary, you assaulted a police officer. In most societies, that is what we call a crime,’ Jack informed him.

  ‘Detectives.’ Clifton motioned to them, straightening his jacket. ‘You will be hearing from me in due course. My client has been maltreated and you can bet your gold-plated pensions that I will not let that stand.’

  And with a wink, the lawyer was gone, gliding through reception.

  ‘Shit,’ Watkins sighed as they entered Jack’s office.

  ‘Shit indeed,’ he replied, slumping into his seat.

  ‘I hate that bloke.’

  Jack blew out a long breath, raised a cheap cup of coffee to his lips. It surged down his throat, thick with the taste of artificial sugar.

  ‘What do we do now?’ Watkins asked.

  ‘Make Dartford sweat. We’ve got him on a charge of assault. We have witnesses. Until then, we should see if there’s any link to the other bodies.’

  ‘Not likely, though, is it?’

  After having met him, Jack thought it highly unlikely that Gary Dartford was capable of such an intricate crime. ‘No, it’s not. Still, if we don’t chase it up and it turns out we were wrong, we’d be hung, drawn and quartered. Plus, given his link to Jessica Lisbie, there’s always the possibility that he might inadvertently know something that could help us.’

  Another headline flashed through his mind, causing him to shudder.

  ‘So, check it out but look elsewhere?’

  ‘Yes,’ Jack replied. He gazed at the young sergeant, a depressing understanding passing between them.

  Gary Dartford wasn’t an intelligent, calculating man. He didn’t fit the profile and he didn’t seem to be lying. He wasn’t their man.

  13

  Jack had done his best to shy away from the news, but on his entry into work two days later the desk sergeant took great pleasure in waving the daily paper in front of his face. Casey Clifton’s million-dollar smile was plastered on the front next to the headline:

  Police Brutality.

  It didn’t get any better once he’d stolen away to read it. By the time he’d finished the short article, his mood had darkened to a shade usually unknown to him. The top and bottom of the story was that DCI Jack Lambert and associates had attacked poor Gary Dartford, forcing him to defend himself as they hadn’t made clear who they were or why they were chasing him. Casey Clifton also alluded to the sense that the subsequent interview had been conducted in a shoddy manner, with his client unable to access medical care, despite being punched and sprayed
with CS spray whilst unarmed. As if that wasn’t enough, the name attributed to the story served to extend his fury, leading him to throw his coffee against the opposite wall.

  David bloody Robson.

  He grabbed his phone, fished through the contacts list.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘I’m going to kill you!’

  ‘Can I put that on the record?’ Robson replied, snorting.

  ‘No you bloody well can’t. Listen here, if you really do want to help the public, stop printing this bollocks.’

  ‘Come on, Jack, I’m only doing my job as a reporter.’

  ‘Bullshit. You’ll be getting nothing from me unless you clean up your act. And, before you ask, yes, that’s a threat.’

  Watkins came into the office, followed by Christensen. The look on their faces told him something serious had happened.

  ‘I’ve got to go now,’ he shouted the journalist down. ‘Police business.’

  ‘Wait, no... what’s happ—’

  The demeanour of his officers suggested something serious was going on. Christensen’s usual posture seemed sagging, with Watkins tugging nervously at his collar, as he often seemed to do in stressful situations.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘A body’s been discovered.’

  The words hung in the air, weighing Jack’s shoulders down. Bodies were discovered all the time. But, with the Open Grave case sending people into hysteria, the last thing they needed was something like this. At least it wasn’t a double body discovery this time.

  ‘Give me the details.’

  Christensen stepped forward. ‘Vague at the minute but the description matches that of McGuinness’s former employee, Liam Reed.’

  His relief was cut short.

  They drove to the river in silence. Jack sat shotgun as Christensen manoeuvred around the busy city centre at an infuriatingly calm pace. Only the whites of the squat policeman’s knuckles belied any underlying tenseness.

  Wind blasted him in the face as they approached the police cordon. The sound of excited nervousness was all around him as a small crowd had gathered, not far from the bank of the River Tyne. A glance at his watch told him it was 2pm. A little early for the drinkers to be out, bar the stag and hen parties. Newcastle, and the Quayside in particular, was a hotspot for soon-to-be-married folk looking for a place to celebrate. He looked upwards; a swarm of seagulls were screeching, seemingly waiting for an opportune moment to swoop down for food. Jack suppressed a shudder at the thought of hungry birds pecking away at the dead body of Liam Reed.

  ‘Detective,’ a PC greeted him, motioning them through towards the tent.

  He gave the officer a curt nod before heading down the embankment towards the edge of the river. Looking around, he took in the scene. The river itself was less like water and more of a deep green sludge. Welcome to Newcastle, he thought.

  The smell of Rosie’s familiar perfume greeted him before she did.

  ‘What have we got?’ he asked, suiting up.

  ‘A dead body,’ she replied, avoiding his gaze.

  ‘Obviously,’ he muttered.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  He stepped past the pathologist to view the body. He wasn’t in the mood for any more confrontations. The bloated remains of Liam Reed were laid out at the edge of the river. Having dealt with the Open Grave murders, he found the smell of this particular corpse mild by comparison.

  Jack bent down to get a closer look at him. He was fully clothed, a pair of expensive but now ruined jeans clinging to his slender legs. He wore a dark grey Diesel T-shirt. A quick glance to his feet showed one shoe missing. It was the face that he looked to last, and for good reason. The small, dark features of what was obviously Liam Reed gazed up into space, his mouth twisted into a painful grimace. His eyes were open, suggesting he’d been awake when they’d tortured and killed him. Although conjecture to a point, the fact that he had three fingers missing from his left hand and two from the other seemed to rule out death by natural causes. Jack fished out the photo that Liam’s partner Suzie had left with them. Yep, definitely him.

  ‘McGuinness isn’t going to be happy.’ Watkins peered over his shoulder.

  Jack nodded. ‘Unless he did it.’

  ‘Unlikely though,’ Christensen chimed in.

  He agreed. ‘Yes, if McGuinness had done it, he wouldn’t leave the evidence on his doorstep. If I had to guess, I’d say either Liam found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time, or it was a message to a certain aquatic shop owner. I’m willing to bet my prized Led Zeppelin records on Dorian McGuinness being involved in some way, though.’

  The silence of the two officers confirmed their agreement.

  ‘Who found the body?’ Jack asked, straightening up.

  ‘Me, sir.’ A young man stepped forward from the back of the tent. ‘I’m a PC, but off-duty today.’

  ‘Fill me in.’

  ‘I was just walking down the Quayside, with some friends, when I thought I noticed something in the water. I moved closer and saw it was a body.’

  ‘Why were you walking down the Quayside?’ Watkins asked.

  The man’s already small eyes narrowed further. ‘My mate’s stag do.’

  ‘Alright,’ Jack cut in. ‘Watkins, I want you to make the call to Liam’s fiancée, we’ll need an official ID of the body. Rosie,’ he said, turning to the flame-haired pathologist, ‘we can get the body moved now. Keep me updated on anything you find.’ He turned to his DS. ‘Christensen, you come with me.’

  Sporadic drops of rain had started to fall by the time they’d made the five-minute car journey to the centre of Dorian McGuinness’s underground empire. Jack left Watkins to co-ordinate things back at the scene, having rung Edwards to inform him of what they’d found. He hadn’t stayed on the phone long enough to listen to the DSI’s inevitable rage.

  ‘What’s the plan?’ Christensen asked as they stepped from the car, wincing as he put weight down on his leg.

  ‘We’ll just give him the news and see how he reacts.’

  ‘Before next of kin?’

  Jack shrugged. ‘It’s not like he’ll go running to the press… besides, I want to look into the whites of his eyes when he denies any involvement.’

  The warmth of the fish store came as a welcome relief from the wintery weather outside. At the end of the shop, a rough-looking bald customer was milling around by the till. Something told Jack he wasn’t there for fish food. He sighed, removed his police badge and held it up. The man paused and rolled his eyes before making a heavy-footed exit.

  ‘You scaring our customers away again?’ Tank asked, shuffling behind the counter.

  ‘Isn’t that your job, Arnold?’

  The man, who was known to be the main muscle behind McGuinness’s business exploits, shrugged. ‘Whatever.’

  ‘I’m looking for Dorian,’ Jack said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Do we have to do this every time?’

  ‘Losing your temper, Lambert?’

  ‘Is he here or not?’

  Tank turned away from him, fiddling about with a small wooden shelf behind the counter. He paused to inspect a tub of fish food before turning back to the policemen.

  ‘He might be.’

  ‘Arnold, isn’t it?’ Christensen stepped forward.

  Tank’s eyes narrowed. ‘What’s it to you, pig?’

  Christensen shrugged and stared him down. Jack could feel the tension rising and braced himself. Tank had never attacked a police officer as far as Jack was aware, but he knew he had it in him. The wild look about his eyes suggested he was about to make an exception today.

  ‘What’s all this about?’ The sound of Dorian McGuinness’s voice rose through the commotion.

  Jack unclenched his fist as the crime lord sauntered through from the back with one of his other goons. The next ten seconds would determine whether or not this was going to get out of hand. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the faint hin
t of a smirk from Tank. Christensen seemed unmoved. He could feel the sweat beginning to form on his brow as his heart rate increased. He didn’t want to but, if forced, he was prepared to get his hands dirty.

  Just like the old days.

  ‘You should really be more careful of who you hire,’ Jack said, his voice steady. ‘Tank here has been most unhelpful.’

  McGuinness turned on the thug. ‘Surely not, Arnold? DCI Lambert and I are old associates. I’ve told you before that you should treat all guests, especially the police, with the utmost respect.’

  Tank snorted.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Dorian cut in, his voice taking on a more sinister tone. ‘Is something funny?’

  * * *

  Tank started. ‘No... not at all, boss.’

  ‘Boss, that’s right. Now be a good chap and fetch me a coffee with Barrel here.’

  ‘You sure?’ he asked, eyes dancing over Christensen.

  McGuinness ignored him. Jack watched as the two men slumped from the shop, noting that Barrel’s name was befitting of his appearance.

  ‘Please, detectives, come through to the back and we can talk.’

  Although Jack was glad of the time alone, he still felt uneasy in Dorian McGuinness’s presence. Echoes of his past rebounded around the walls of his office every time he stepped into it. It wasn’t a DVD he much fancied replaying.

  ‘It’s about Liam Reed,’ he began. ‘A body has just been discovered by the side of the River Tyne.’

  McGuinness straightened up, his eyes narrowing behind his glasses. Looking to the table, Jack noticed his hands clench into fists before releasing. Once composed, he offered a strained smile.

  ‘And you think it’s Liam?’

  Jack nodded. ‘We’re bringing his fiancée in for an ID as we speak. Early signs seem to indicate torture, although the body was probably dumped in the river after he was killed.’

  He studied McGuinness’s face. His cool exterior gave nothing away. Still, something in the glint of his eyes told him that he wasn’t best pleased. Jack didn’t think for one minute that it had been McGuinness’s handiwork, but he still had to check. He knew fine well that he was walking a thin line with regards to giving away details of a sensitive murder of this kind. However, on balance, it was to serve the greater good.