Open Grave

  With his detective sergeants seemingly having gone AWOL, he took the opportunity to nurse his shattered dignity over multiple cups of black coffee. He’d decided to switch to Edwards’ brand of brew after reading an article in the Chronicle about how milk was supposed to be bad for you. Today’s newspaper sat before him, a smiling Liam Reed grinning up at him with his arm around his girlfriend, Suzie. He briefly scanned the obituary; ‘family-orientated man, had a rough childhood but had turned his life around since he’d met Suzie – the love of his life.’ Little did the Chronicle-reading public know he was a hired hand for Dorian McGuinness. It always amazed Jack how many people came out to praise some of the worst people in society once they’d passed on.

  Still, Liam Reed didn’t strike Jack as a particularly bad bloke. It wasn’t like he was one to judge. He brought his mind back to the Open Grave murders as he folded over the paper. The killing of a gang member wasn’t quite top of the force’s agenda, compared to a serial killer with a penchant for the macabre. Still, despite that, he vowed to find out what had happened to Liam Reed. He owed Suzie at least that much.

  ‘Alright, guv?’ Watkins said, appearing in the doorway. ‘Jesus, you look like shit.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he mumbled.

  The DS took a seat. ‘Anyway, I’ve got some news to cheer you up.’

  Unless you have a time machine, I’m not interested, Jack thought. ‘What is it?’

  ‘We’ve got an ID on the two latest murders. When details of the discovery were released we were inundated with a whole host of calls. Obviously we had the usual crack jobs; there was this one guy...’

  ‘Cut to the point, Watkins,’ Jack interrupted.

  ‘Sorry, nervous habit,’ the DS replied. ‘Anyway, we looked at the missing persons list and narrowed down the possibilities before bringing the families in to view the bodies. We got lucky.’

  Jack winced at Watkins’ unfortunate use of words. For the parents, they most definitely weren’t lucky.

  ‘Show me.’

  Watkins tossed a grey folder onto the desk and Jack flicked it open, reading through the documents. Peter Rutherford, twenty-three, from Newcastle upon Tyne. For a moment, the smiling face of the dark, neat-featured, young man gave way to the gruesome image of his bloated corpse. Jack suppressed a shudder and read on. No known run-ins with the law but something told Jack he was no stranger to trouble. He had nothing with which to back up this opinion, it was simply a hunch. And more often than not his hunches proved correct. According to the details, Peter had been unemployed for six months, having previously worked for a cleaning company.

  ‘Interesting,’ Jack mused. ‘He seems clean, pardon the pun.’

  ‘As does the girl,’ Watkins said.

  He turned the page and read through the female victim’s details. Amy Drummond, twenty-seven, originally from Sheffield but living in Newcastle for the past three years. Former business student who now worked at a local doctor’s. Or ‘had’ worked, Jack corrected himself. Again, nothing to suggest she’d been involved with the law. She was strikingly beautiful, with piercing blue eyes. Jack noted the blonde hair, contrasting Jessica Lisbie who was brunette. So, the MO seemingly had nothing to do with physical appearance. It might have allowed him to rule out hair colour being a motivating factor, but it still didn’t give them any further clues. All they could count on so far was that the killer was most likely from Newcastle, given the backgrounds of his victims and where they’d been found. He’d have to get Pritchard in again at some point. Chances were he was sleeping off a hangover at the moment.

  He straightened. ‘We need to speak to the families.’

  Watkins nodded. ‘The FLOs are with both of them now; I sorted it out.’ The DS blushed as Jack raised an eyebrow. ‘I... she’s just...’

  ‘I don’t care who your girlfriend is, Watkins,’ Jack told him, remembering what Pritchard had said the previous night. ‘If it makes you a more efficient officer, I’m all for it,’ he said, smiling. ‘I say we start with Peter Rutherford’s mother.’

  * * *

  Peter Rutherford’s parents’ house was pleasant enough, certainly compared to the housing estate they’d given chase to Gary Dartford in. Gone were the mattresses left in front gardens, replaced by expensive-looking ornaments and well-cropped hedges. The whole area screamed middle-class suburbia.

  Jack rang the doorbell as a tiny set of wind chimes picked up next to them, small silver segments clinking together in syncopated beats.

  ‘One second,’ a faint voice called from inside.

  Moments later, the door opened to reveal an attractive middle-aged woman. She smiled at them both, brilliant white teeth beaming out. Her red puffy eyes spoke of an intense sadness, though.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Rutherford,’ Jack said, ‘I’m DCI Jack Lambert and this is DS Stephen Watkins. If it’s okay, we’d like to speak to you about Peter?’

  The woman bit a quivering lip and dabbed a small withered tissue at her eye. ‘Of course, officers. Please, come in.’

  Edith Rutherford sat them both down in the living room, disappearing momentarily to make a cup of tea. Taking the opportunity to inspect his surroundings, Jack noticed it was plainly decorated, but neat and tidy. A peach-coloured carpet complemented the darker-shaded wallpaper. Various family photos were dotted about the room, mainly placed on the mantelpiece of the faux-fire, opposite where they sat. A mixture of exotic-smelling spices wafted around the room causing his eyes to water.

  ‘There we go,’ Edith said, placing a small tray on the table in the centre of the room.

  ‘We’d just like to ask you a few questions.’

  Peter Rutherford’s grieving mother stared out of the window. ‘What? Oh... yes, of course.’

  ‘Peter lived here, yes?’

  ‘Yes, he does... did. He moved back in a year or two ago, once his father left and my health deteriorated.’

  Jack motioned to Watkins, who began scribbling details down. Another father missing in action. Jack couldn’t help but wonder what the cause of their breakup was. ‘If you don’t mind me asking, what is wrong with your health?’

  ‘MS,’ she said. ‘It’s been getting progressively worse for years. I had to give up work earlier this year.’

  ‘Where did you work?’

  ‘I worked at a local pharmacy.’

  ‘And your husband?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘What is his job?’

  Edith Rutherford’s face scrunched up at the mention of her former partner. The attractive woman who’d answered the door seemed to disappear before their eyes, replaced by a wife scorned. ‘He’s a doctor. He lives on the other side of the city now... with his new woman.’

  So that was why. ‘I see. And Peter?’ Jack looked to his notes. ‘Did he know an Amy Drummond, to your knowledge?’

  She paused. ‘If he did, he never mentioned her. He was always pretty open with me. We had a close relationship. I’m sure if he had been dating somebody, I would have known about it.’

  Jack nodded. ‘Do you know if he was in any kind of trouble?’

  ‘No, Peter wasn’t like that,’ she answered a little too quickly.

  It was an obvious lie.

  Jack paused, watched her trying to hide her squirm. ‘Edith, you do realise that any information we can get now may help lead us to finding out who did this to your son?’

  ‘I... it was nothing, really. He had started smoking marijuana lately. I had no idea until he came to me one day. He was upset, crying. He told me he owed somebody money and he couldn’t pay them. It was only about a thousand pounds, but he told me they’d already doubled the amount because he hadn’t paid up and that they were beginning to make threats.’

  ‘So what did you do about it?’

  ‘I gave him the money, of course. He promised me it was just a one-off and that it would never happen again.’

  ‘And when was this?’

  ‘About three weeks ago.’

  Alarm bells started ring
ing in Jack’s head. Drug dealer. Money owed.

  ‘Why didn’t you mention this before?’

  ‘Because it doesn’t matter, does it?’ She straightened up. ‘He paid them back.’

  Jack nodded. ‘Do you mind if DS Watkins and I take a look at Peter’s room?’

  She shrugged, her face impassive. ‘Go ahead.’

  They were led to the top of the stairs, every few steps being greeted by a different, abstract piece of replica art on the wall. The spicy smell had been replaced by something different now. Something Jack instantly recognised.

  ‘It’s the first door on the left there.’ She motioned to it. ‘I’ve not touched anything.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘We won’t be long.’

  As soon as she left, Watkins turned to him. ‘Jesus! Let’s get some air in here.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  Jack marched over to the other side of the room, navigating his way through a sea of junk, and thrust the window open. He turned to Watkins, who was holding his nose between thumb and forefinger.

  ‘He promised it was a one-off,’ the DS imitated Peter’s mother.

  ‘From the smell in here, I’d say it was epidemic. Either she has no sense of smell, or she’s got her head so far buried in the sand that she can’t see what’s right in front of her,’ Jack said.

  They set to work. In the centre of the room lay a queen-sized bed, complete with plain black bedding. Above the wooden headboard, a poster hung of Brandon Lee in The Crow. Jack had never seen the appeal; a vigilante taking the law into his own hands. To the left of the window, a small, cheap-looking wooden wardrobe stood. Jack moved over to it and threw the doors open. Considering the mess in his room, the contents of the wardrobe were unusually neat. Jack noticed how the array of band T-shirts and other casual clothes were hung up in colour order. Likely a mother’s touch.

  Watkins held up a set of soft porn mags. ‘I wonder if Peter’s mother knew about these?’

  Jack shrugged. ‘He was an adult.’ He took the magazines from the DS. ‘Albeit one with a distinct lack of taste.’ He placed them down and turned back to the task at hand.

  After about an hour of wading through various bits of dirty underwear, empty cigarette boxes and a bong with a Yoda head attached, Jack felt like his head was about to explode. Plus the fumes were making him sick.

  ‘Right, come on, I need some fresh air,’ he sighed, knees cracking as he got to his feet.

  ‘Are you sure I can’t trouble you for some curry? I make it especially for the local market,’ Edith Rutherford asked as they trundled down the stairs.

  Watkins beamed. ‘Well, I am a bit hungry...’

  ‘No, thank you, Mrs Rutherford,’ Jack cut in.

  They left Peter Rutherford’s mother to mourn the loss of her son in peace.

  ‘Now what?’ Watkins asked.

  Jack eyed him. ‘Start with what we know. Let’s find this drug dealer.’

  * * *

  ‘Please tell me you have good news.’ Edwards turned to him, his huge body wobbling from the effort.

  Jack looked around the people in attendance; Jane Russell, Watkins, Christensen, Gerrard and Edwards, all no doubt wondering why he’d called the impromptu meeting. The room itself was much plusher than what Jack was used to, on account of Edwards having sorted it. Tea and coffee were already prepared on entry, and the table they now sat round was complete with an overhead projector and office swivel chairs. One of the perks of being a DSI in the Northumbria force, he thought.

  ‘It depends on your definition of good news.’

  ‘For God’s sake,’ Edwards boomed, ‘get on with it.’

  He swallowed his irritation and turned to DI Russell. ‘Jane, any luck today?’

  The detective paused, took a sip of her black coffee and straightened out her suit jacket. ‘No.’

  ‘Same here.’

  ‘Great,’ Edwards said. ‘So you called me out of an important meeting to tell me you’ve got bugger all to go on?’

  ‘I think we have been barking up the wrong tree,’ Jack cut in.

  ‘What do you mean?’ DI Russell peered over to him.

  ‘I mean, we’ve been focused on what connects the victims.’

  ‘Which is procedure,’ Christensen said.

  ‘Indeed. But DS Watkins and I paid a visit to Edith Rutherford’s house today. We didn’t find a lot, just some porn mags and empty tab boxes. However, we did find out that Peter recently owed money to a local drug dealer.’

  ‘That doesn’t necessarily mean anything,’ Russell said.

  ‘Alright,’ Edwards sighed. ‘So what tree should we be barking up?’

  ‘So far, we’ve questioned families, friends and work colleagues – now, unless there’s a cover-up of epic proportions going on, I think it’s safe to say that the victims do not know each other.’

  The room seemed to collectively groan at once. If they didn’t know each other, the killer might prove even harder to find.

  ‘Now,’ he continued. ‘Watkins and I will chase up the lead regarding the drug dealer. I’ve got someone pulling together all local known dealers as we speak. I would suggest, though, that we focus not on how the victims knew each other, but how the perpetrator knew them. It could be a place, event or, God forbid, completely random.’

  ‘Please explain to me how this is good news, Jack?’ Edwards asked, massaging his temples with a giant paw.

  ‘It gives the investigation a new focus, which is sorely needed.’

  ‘I agree,’ Gerrard interjected. ‘We’ve had nothing to go on so far. We’ve got nothing to lose by shifting our focus at this point.’

  Watkins stood. ‘So, what are my orders?’

  ‘Get me that list of drug dealers – we’ve got a long week ahead. And, you better cancel any leave you had.’

  ‘What? I’m meant to be taking my lass away on Friday.’

  ‘Correction, were meant to. I need you here because, believe it or not, you can actually be quite useful.’

  Watkins straightened up. ‘Thank you, Jack.’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘You can’t take it back now,’ he said, turning to leave.

  ‘Oh, and, Watkins?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘That’s DCI Lambert to you.’

  The team sprang back into action, apart from Edwards, who had slumped off before the meeting adjourned. There was no doubt in Jack’s mind that the team needed a new focus to the investigation. Hopefully this would be it. He was sure that the link was not that the victims knew each other, but that the killer knew them or where they were. Jack just hoped that they could find the crucial link before the Open Grave Murderer struck again.

  16

  ‘How’d you manage to get the go-ahead from Edwards for this?’

  ‘Edwards hates Dorian McGuinness. He practically jumped with glee when I suggested it,’ Jack said.

  ‘I didn’t sign up for this when I joined the force,’ Watkins yawned.

  ‘Nobody is forcing you to sign up for anything,’ Jack replied, adjusting the mirror on the unmarked car they were now sitting in.

  ‘I was just kidding.’

  He shrugged him off. Gone were the days when Jack had lived for a good eight-hour stakeout. They’d been sitting outside McGuinness Aquatics for over an hour now and the cold was beginning to give him a crick in his back. Still, to catch these boys out, they would have to make some sacrifices. Jack just hoped that this was as bad as it would get.

  ‘What the hell is wrong with this thing?’ Watkins said, jabbing the heater button.

  ‘It’s broke, only gives out cold air.’

  ‘No wonder I’m freezing my nuts off. And to think, I could have been at home with my lass.’

  ‘Pity for her.’

  ‘Hey!’

  He ignored the moaning DS and looked out of the window. Thick wisps of white air billowed out of people’s mouths as they walked by. Not that there were many people around at this time. Another glance
at his watch told him it was getting on for 7pm.

  This could be a long night.

  ‘Why can’t criminals just go about their business through the day?’

  ‘They do,’ Jack sighed. ‘But we’d be much more visible then and they aren’t stupid. Dorian McGuinness makes sure he runs a well-oiled machine.’

  Even if it wasn’t well-oiled, they’d be dicing with danger if they staked them out through the day. Jack still bore the scars on his leg from a tussle with a local drug gang a few years back. The then DI had signed off on a 3pm stakeout at a warehouse down the A1. Needless to say, the shit hit the fan and they had been left short. Once the press got wind, the detective didn’t last much longer, going on the sick for over a year before handing in his resignation.

  Watkins began rustling about, fishing out a Greggs jam doughnut. Jack, not-so-subtly, brushed the sugar from his leg as he began munching on a makeshift packed lunch.

  ‘Want one?’ Watkins asked.

  ‘No,’ he said, ignoring the pleas from his stomach. He’d taken a long look in the mirror that morning and decided enough was enough. He needed to cut out the rubbish and lose some weight.

  Was that movement? Jack’s arm shot out, silencing his partner. His eyes scanned through the darkness, his vision slipping past the dim street lights that illuminated the cobbled side street.

  Just a cat.

  ‘Jesus, Jack, you scared the shit out of me,’ Watkins said, spraying doughnut over the interior.

  ‘Just keep your focus.’

  ‘I prefer to stay relaxed.’

  ‘I’ve noticed,’ Jack said, eyeing his ginger companion as he slurped sugar from his fingers.

  Watkins was right, Jack was edgy. He was sure McGuinness was up to something. He didn’t know what, but he was sure as hell going to find out. If somebody was muscling in on his operation, Liam Reed’s death had to be connected somehow. The lack of movement on the Open Grave case had given them an opportunity to check out what was going on with Newcastle’s favourite crime lord. Friday nights were always ‘business night’ when Jack was on the books. Watkins had done a good job of pulling together the names of a number of local known drug dealers and they’d be pulling them in for questioning soon. Jack hoped they’d be able to shake something loose from one of them regarding Peter Rutherford. For now, though, McGuinness was his focus.