Open Grave

  ‘I don’t know, about ten?’

  Jack sensed irritation creeping into his voice.

  ‘Please.’ He gestured. ‘Continue.’

  ‘The food arrived maybe half an hour later and we ate it.’

  Irritation gave way to sarcasm.

  ‘After that, we just sort of hung out.’ He flushed red. ‘At around three in the morning, I drove her back to hers. The paps usually give up before then and nobody sees us. I drove to hers and when we arrived I noticed a mess in the living room, through the window.’

  Jack paused, taking in all the details. He tapped a pen absentmindedly on the desk before proceeding further.

  ‘Where was the point of entry?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Had the intruder gone in via the front or the back door?’

  ‘The back door,’ he replied. ‘I opened the front door and we wandered through the house. It was clear somebody had broken in. The place was smashed up good and proper.’

  ‘Was anything stolen?’

  Armstrong shook his head. ‘Not that I could see.’

  ‘Do you know of anybody who would want to harm Miss Stevens?’

  The young man snorted. ‘Probably them damn paps. Or a crazy fan or something. Maybe that bloke from the bar the other week?’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Armstrong, that will be all for now.’

  Nell Stevens’ lover stood up, pulling his Barbour jacket from the back of the chair. ‘Just make sure you catch the bastard.’

  Jack smiled. ‘We’re doing all we can, sir.’

  * * *

  He spent the next half an hour questioning a visibly upset Nell Stevens, who was sure somebody was out to murder her, before finally finding time to hide out in his office. He still couldn’t quite reconcile the celebrity in the papers with the woman who had now visited the police station on multiple occasions. To him, she seemed a regular person; scared, yes, but nothing out of the ordinary. Hers wasn’t a lifestyle that held any appeal for him.

  ‘What do you think, then?’ Christensen asked.

  Jack placed his feet on his desk, which was becoming messier with every passing day. Taking a deep breath, he massaged his temples, trying to block out the tiredness that was almost overwhelming him.

  What did he know? Nell Stevens had won a reality singing show and became an overnight celebrity. She was splashed all over the papers on an almost daily basis. Just the other week, however, she’d reported a potential stalking, having been bothered in a nightclub. She’d also been sent threatening and explicit mail. Now, all within a short time period, somebody had broken into her home and trashed the place, stealing nothing.

  ‘We need to take a look at the house.’

  ‘Now?’ the DS asked.

  ‘As much as I would like to sleep, Edwards has his foot up my arse on this one, so it looks like we’ll have to. Besides, it’ll take my mind off this Open Grave fiasco.’

  ‘There’s a team already going over the house for fingerprints but, given the size of the place, it may take a while.’

  Jack nodded. ‘Let’s go.’

  * * *

  Darras Hall was a well-known area in the North East, home to a number of local celebrities and Newcastle United footballers, not that the latter deserved such dwellings given their current early season form. Pulling the patrol car into a space just down the street, he could see the technicians already at work, teeming around the property. They made for the driveway, Jack pulling his collar up to protect himself against the elements that were becoming ever colder. As they approached the giant structure he couldn’t help but wonder if the powers that be would organise themselves on this kind of scale for Joe Public. Who was he kidding? If the victim was Joe Public, a DCI wouldn’t even be aware of it.

  ‘Can I help you?’ A uniformed officer stopped them at the gate.

  ‘Yes,’ Jack replied, flashing his badge. ‘You can move aside.’

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ he stammered. ‘I’m new here.’

  The detectives continued towards the front of the house. As they gazed up, at least a dozen windows stood facing them. The red brick structure loomed over them like an angry school teacher. On the roof, various solar panels sat, no doubt searching in vain for some semblance of sunshine. The garden seemed nicely kept. Jack made a mental note to check up on who the gardener was. A bit cliché, but it wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility.

  ‘Jack, good to see you, mate.’ A tall technician approached, covered from head to toe in a white IB suit.

  ‘Bill,’ Jack greeted him. ‘What can you tell me?’

  Bill Ivey was an old hand in the force; reliable and straight talking. Before the Newcastle Knifer case, he’d often socialised with the man. Things were different now, though. They’d drifted, as if what had once held them together had been severed, like one of the Knifer’s victims.

  ‘Not a lot. I’ve got my team running over the house right now. It’s huge, really huge.’

  ‘It seems being a celebrity pays off.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he snorted. ‘Until you get yourself a stalker.’

  ‘If indeed she does.’

  ‘You thinking along other lines?’

  Jack shrugged. ‘I’m always thinking along other lines.’

  They continued their journey into the house, the smell of recently cut grass being replaced by an intense whiff of bleach. Jack scrunched his face up, his eyes watering against the onslaught.

  ‘Potent,’ Christensen muttered.

  He noticed a large wooden staircase, to the right, heading straight up to the first floor. Down a long, grey-carpeted hallway an open door stood, looking into what must be the kitchen. He moved forward slightly and appeared around a doorway to the left, opening out into a huge living room complete with a smashed plasma TV and cracked wall mirror.

  ‘Where should we start?’ Christensen asked.

  He paused. ‘The boyfriend says the perp came in the back way. That’s where we’ll start.’

  Two hours of painstaking searching later, they were still empty-handed. Bill had informed them of the lack of fingerprint evidence and, with no CCTV in the house, things were looking bleak. One thing was for sure, though. Whoever had broken in wasn’t after money. They’d done a good job on the place. Photos, mirrors and TVs were all smashed, along with a number of clothes having been cut up. Everything pointed to a personal vendetta. Jack just hoped that he would able to find out who it was and stop them before things got out of hand.

  19

  Interview 1: Michael Rogers AKA Mini-Snoop

  ‘No idea, blood, ya get me?’

  Jack looked up from the documents that identified ‘Michael Rogers’ as a violent, drug dealing twenty-five-year-old pain in the arse.

  ‘No, Michael, I don’t get you,’ he sighed.

  Watkins leant forward in his chair, the springs screeching out in agony. ‘So you’re sure you’ve never heard of Peter Rutherford?’

  ‘Well, only in the press, you know? That dude got sliced up good, so I read.’

  ‘He wasn’t sliced, Michael, he was... anyway, never mind that.’

  The diminutive wannabe rapper tutted, bringing his tongue over his teeth for the hundredth time in the past twenty minutes. His fake gold rings clattered against the table as he drummed his hands to an invisible beat, gaunt features staring them down.

  ‘This is very important; do you know of anyone in your... circle who might want to hurt Peter? I’m told he owed money to someone.’

  ‘Not me, ya get me?’

  Jack ground his teeth together, resisting the urge to grab the dealer by his tiny white vest and drag him across the table.

  ‘Detectives.’ Casey Clifton interrupted his doodling to lean into the scene. ‘This is clearly going nowhere.’

  ‘Interview terminated.’

  Interview 2: Pauline Sketcher

  Jack settled back into the plush interview room he’d managed to wangle for the morning. Although it was nicely furnished with a large oak
table and a variety of office chairs, the lack of windows gave it a claustrophobic edge, and he had done away with his tie after finishing up with the rapper.

  ‘And here we go again.’ Watkins strode in, coffee in hand. ‘I don’t see why we couldn’t just do this off the record, rent a room in a hotel, apply a little pressure.’

  ‘Because I don’t want the press getting a whiff of us not doing something by the book.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘Plus, it’s quite amusing keeping Clifton here all day.’

  As if on cue the smartly-dressed lawyer sauntered in, his client trailing behind him.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Sketcher,’ Watkins greeted their guest.

  The huge thirty-year-old pulled the seat out opposite them, her skin-tight black leggings showing far too much of her leopard print G-string. Watkins seemed transfixed. She settled down, her V-neck top revealing enough cleavage to warrant a public indecency charge. Her greased-back hair looked like it had been glued to her head, massive gold earrings completing the profile.

  ‘Here, it’s miss now, right? The bastard left me.’

  I wonder why? Jack thought.

  ‘Do you know why we’ve asked you here?’

  ‘Because pigs have nowt better to do,’ she spat, a giant hand reaching into her garish pink bra to rearrange herself.

  ‘Do you know who Peter Rutherford is?’

  ‘I know lots of people.’

  Judging by her extensive dealing history, she was probably right.

  ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘Can’t remember.’ She shrugged her shoulders. This was going to be a long day.

  ‘Here is a picture of him,’ Watkins said, holding out a mugshot for her to look at.

  ‘He’s the one in the press. I didn’t do it.’

  ‘We’re not saying you did, Pauline.’

  ‘Then why am I here?’

  Jack didn’t have to look over to know Casey Clifton was smiling.

  ‘He owed money to a local drug dealer. We think it might lead somewhere.’

  ‘Well I don’t do that sort of thing, detectives.’

  ‘Pauline, I know you deal in weed, coke and even a little heroin. For once, though, I’m not here to arrest you on that. I simply want to know if you knew Peter Rutherford or anybody who might want to hurt him.’

  She shifted in her seat. ‘I sold him a little weed a while back, alright? Is that a crime?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Aye, well...’

  ‘Did he owe you money?’ Jack asked.

  ‘No, not really.’

  ‘We have a witness who says he was being threatened by a local drug dealer.’

  ‘Well it wasn’t me,’ she screeched, spittle flying over the desk. ‘Since our lad left, I’ve got no muscle anyway. What can I do?’

  Something told Jack that she could handle herself just fine.

  ‘So you have no idea as to who we might be looking for?’

  She shifted again, and he saw something flash across her eyes.

  ‘I don’t do much dealing now. Comes through somebody else.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I don’t want to say.’

  Jack sighed. ‘Pauline, if you can’t cooperate I can always search your premises, see what you’ve got to hide.’

  ‘That is out of order, Detective,’ Clifton cut in.

  He ignored the lawyer. ‘Does this have something to do with Dorian McGuinness?’

  She snorted. ‘Nah, he’s washed up now. Anybody who knows anything knows that.’

  ‘Is that the word on the street?’ Jack asked.

  Fear flashed across her eyes. ‘I... no... well it’s not me saying it, okay? I never said that.’

  ‘So somebody is muscling in on his territory, then?’

  She shifted in her seat. ‘Look, they call him the Captain, that’s all I know.’

  ‘The Captain?’

  ‘Aye, man. Nobody knows his real name but he’s a big deal and an even bigger dealer. Most stuff goes through him now. That’s all I know, honest.’

  ‘So—’

  ‘I’m refusing to say anything else.’

  Interview 3: Andy Owens

  ‘Fuck off. I’m not saying a word.’

  Interview 4: George Haddon

  ‘You sure this is a drug dealer?’ Watkins whispered.

  Jack looked up from his notes at fifty-five-year-old George Haddon, complete with green tank top and park ranger shorts. His glasses sat far too low down on his nose, his face a sea of red, veins having exploded over his skin. He’d come quietly and was now sat smiling a toothless grin at them.

  ‘This is the guy.’

  He glanced down once more at his paperwork. George Haddon, drug dealer, knock-off watch distributor and owner of indecent images of children.

  ‘I can assure you, detectives, that I have done nothing wrong. Those pictures were an accident,’ he squeaked.

  ‘You’re not here about that, George.’

  ‘I swear—’

  ‘Alright,’ Jack said, trying not to lose his temper. ‘It’s about a drug dealer.’

  The man, sat before them, exhaled. ‘So I deal a little weed from time to time, is that a crime?’

  ‘Yes, George, it is.’

  * * *

  Three hours, four coffees and twelve interviews later, they’d finished for the day. Jack sat back in his chair, loosening his top button as evening began to set upon them.

  ‘I could murder a pint after dealing with that lot,’ Watkins sighed.

  ‘I’m tempted to join you on that.’

  ‘What you reckon then?’

  Jack patted his pocket, searching for a cigarette. Old habits die hard.

  ‘The Captain.’

  ‘She could have been talking utter bullshit. Nobody else seemed to know anything about a Captain.’

  He paused, stroked his chin and leaned forward. ‘No, but that doesn’t mean that they don’t know anything. They were all nervous to some degree. Could be the situation. Could be because somebody is putting pressure on local dealers.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘I want the word put out that we are looking for this Captain bloke. Let’s see if our people on the ground can give us any information.’

  ‘You do know who else might be able to give us some info?’

  Jack dragged a palm across his aching forehead. ‘Of course I do, but right now we’re watching McGuinness to try find out what happened to Liam Reed. I don’t want anything complicating that.’

  ‘More important than the Open Grave murders?’

  ‘No,’ Jack admitted. ‘But he deserves some justice, nevertheless.’

  ‘Fair enough. I hope you know what you’re doing.’

  Jack had the exact same thought.

  20

  It was just after 3am when he awoke. Heavy breathing suggested another bad dream had occurred, but he couldn’t remember it. Darkness engulfed his bedroom, the faint sound of middle-of-the-night traffic just about audible. Shifting position, Jack lay on his side, closing his eyes.

  That’s when he heard it.

  The intruder was seemingly at pains to move quietly, but Jack knew every creak within his house. And this creak was different. The short squeak of the living room door opening confirmed his suspicion.

  He glanced to his phone, considered ringing the station, but the noise would give him away. Best to make them think he didn’t know. Plus, he knew how to handle himself.

  Footsteps. Growing louder. Making their way up the stairs. Jack stood slowly, pulled on his jeans, and weighed up his options. He could throw himself from the window or face the intruder.

  As he edged closer to the door, one of the floorboards let out an ear-piercing creak. Jack paused, listening to the sounds from outside. There was a pause, as if they were trying to decide whether it was just a house noise or not. He could feel the sweat beginning to trickle down his forehead as he grabbed the cool door handle with a clammy hand.

  A
nother creak.

  They were close to the top of the stairs now. What if they were armed? What if there was more than one of them? His instincts were telling him that this was a bad idea. All he had was the element of surprise. Or so he hoped.

  A heavier footstep planted down on the landing outside. He inhaled deeply, trying to slow his heart rate, and turned the doorknob.

  ‘What the—’

  After he threw himself onto the landing, he was instantly blinded by the light being flicked on. He hadn’t managed to quite blink the stars away before a heavy fist smashed into the side of his head. His vision went red as pain exploded in his cheek.

  ‘Argh,’ he groaned, falling to his right.

  So much for the advantage of surprise.

  He grabbed the bannister as a black boot hurtled forward, catching him in the ribs. Judging by the agony he was now enduring, he was sure at least one was broken. Gasping, he looked up at his clown-masked assailant. It was definitely a man, clad all in black, leather gloves straining against huge hands. He looked like a gym type, one of those who spends all his time doing bench presses instead of sorting out their beer belly. The smell of fertiliser was overwhelming as he attempted to maintain his balance.

  He spun to the left, missing the next kick by inches. The whistle of leathered air clipped his earlobe. He clenched his hand into a fist, aimed an uppercut between the bloke’s legs.

  The clown fell to one knee, his right hand moving down to shield himself. Left-handed – good to know. Jack pulled himself up, ignoring his screaming ribs, and landed a punch to the face. He wasn’t one to pussyfoot around in a fight, but this bloke had a face of iron. He could feel his knuckles instantly swell.

  The clown was recovering now, grasping at the bannister to pull himself up. Jack lunged for his arm and missed. He landed on the wooden railing, as another punch winged its way to his face. He fell onto his back, his new friend throwing himself on top of him, forearm across his throat.

  So this was it. What a pitiful way to go. The stars were back, his vision blurring as the heavy arm crushed his windpipe. Although he was masked, Jack could tell he was smiling. Through the fog, he could feel himself moving from panic to drowsiness. Time seemed to slow as images of his family floated around his mind. He hadn’t even had time to make it up with his father. Or Rosie.