Open Grave

  Jack straightened up, placed the pipe back into his jacket before wiping Henry’s blood off his hand with a paper towel. ‘Always with the smart answers.’

  He zipped his coat back up and made for the exit, before Stafford’s throaty laugh stopped him. ‘What’s so funny, Henry?’

  ‘You pull a pipe out on me, you should finish the job. You just wait until Dorian hears about this. I’ll be seeing you real soon, Lambert. ‘

  Jack passed back through the bar, motioning for Christensen to follow him. Stafford’s pal, seemingly oblivious to his disappearance, had moved to the bar and was chatting up the curly blonde.

  ‘Any joy?’ Christensen asked as they got back in the car.

  Jack cranked the window open and took a deep breath. ‘Not really. But sometimes you have to flush out a few rats before you find the nest.’

  Christensen nodded; conversation over.

  Jack knew he’d taken a big risk with what he’d just done. Best case scenario: he’d put the frighteners on whoever had come for him. Worst case scenario: Dorian McGuinness not taking too kindly to one of his henchmen being roughed up by Johnny Law. Either way, somebody was going to get hurt.

  22

  A week later Jack had convinced Edwards to let him back to work. He’d heard nothing from McGuinness in the meantime and had enjoyed no luck with his enquiries into the Nell Stevens case, despite speaking with a number of close friends, including her agent. It was with this conundrum that he was wrestling when Robson’s name popped up on his phone.

  Jack accepted the call. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘You beat up one of McGuinness’s boys?’ David Robson’s trembling voice hurtled down the receiver.

  He held up a palm to indicate Watkins should wait outside before lowering his voice. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘That’s irrelevant. They think I’ve talked!’

  ‘You have talked, David.’

  ‘Yeah, but now I’m in the shit! You asked him specifically if somebody was muscling in on Dorian’s patch.’

  Jack sighed. ‘Unless you start telling me exactly what’s going on I can’t help you.’

  ‘It’s too late for that,’ Robson spat. ‘They’ll come for me now.’

  ‘Some would call that karma. Anyway, that was nothing to do with the drugs stuff.’

  There was a pause on the end of the line, followed by the noise of someone shuffling about.

  ‘It’s all connected, Jack. Or, at least, they think it is. You know it’s my job to write those stories.’

  ‘It’s not your job to destroy the reputation of the police at every opportunity, Robson.’

  The journalist lowered his voice. ‘Look, if I go easy on you, make you look good in the press, will you watch out for me?’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  He left the reporter in a nervy state and concentrated on the whiteboard in his office. Sure, Edwards had instructed him to take it easy but that didn’t mean he couldn’t keep up to speed. Pictures of the Open Grave victims lined the board: Travis Kane, removal man, thirty-one years old. Jessica Lisbie, twenty-six, worked in marketing. Peter Rutherford, an unemployed twenty-three year old. Amy Drummond, a twenty-seven-year-old receptionist. They still had no connection established between the victims.

  The conversation he’d just had with Robson refused to leave his mind. It wasn’t like his old nemesis to get so spooked. Maybe he really would have to keep an eye on the situation; not to mention on top of watching his own back. McGuinness would clearly know what had happened. What would his next move be?

  He threw a pen at the board, picked up his canteen coffee and took a sip. Resisting the urge to gag, he left it on the desk and stood, running events over in his mind for the millionth time. Now that Robson was onside, that would be of help, but this was making national press. That, alongside Nell Stevens’ stalker, was making the whole force look incompetent. If they weren’t careful, the powers that be would call in somebody else to do their job.

  Watkins appeared back in the doorway. ‘You coming to the meeting?’

  ‘What meeting?’

  ‘The new PCC thing remember?’ Watkins said.

  The meeting was a gathering of the who’s who of Newcastle’s constabulary. Jack took a seat in the second row, right behind the considerable bulk of Edwards, who was positioned next to his superiors. All were clad in formal attire. To Edwards’ left, Jane Russell sat – frowning – as Jack approached. She was no doubt fuming over his quick return to work.

  ‘Right.’ ACC Dalton stood, his voice bringing the room to attention. Anybody who was anybody knew not to mess with Dalton. He was getting on now, but was old school, didn’t take any shit, and could just about destroy anybody with one of his renowned icy stares. ‘This is Nadine Guthrie, the recently elected PCC.’

  A tall, slender woman who looked about fifty stood up, straightening out her grey suit. She strode to the front and ran a veined hand through her wiry black hair before clearing her throat. Judging by her appearance, she didn’t strike Jack as the type of person who took shit either.

  ‘Good morning.’ She smiled, baring a set of razor-sharp teeth. ‘I am Nadine Guthrie, your new Police and Crime Commissioner.’

  Jack frowned; he’d forgotten to cast his vote. Judging by the news, so too had about eighty per cent of the local population. He vaguely remembered receiving an email about it some months back. Sitting here right now, he couldn’t help but feel it was a bigger deal than he’d given it credit for. She’d been elected in a by-election after the former PCC was found to have been on the fiddle. The way Edwards was now squirming in his seat told Jack that Guthrie was going to employ a completely different approach. She’d already fostered a tough reputation in the local community and now she was here to finally speak to them.

  ‘Now I want you all to know,’ she continued, moving about the stage, ‘that nothing is really going to change round here.’

  A collective breath was exhaled.

  ‘I mean, yes, I will set the budgets...’

  Groan.

  ‘And, yes, I will be holding regular meetings with senior members of the force to discuss issues and pass on public grievances...’

  Jack’s grip tightened. Neighbourhood Watch would be loving this. The entire force would be on the beat, emptying out bottles of White Lightning all day.

  ‘But... oh sorry, am I boring you, sir?’

  ‘No... ma’am.’ Watkins sat bolt upright, face reddening.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘DS Stephen Watkins.’ He gulped.

  PCC Guthrie nodded as if committing the name to memory. Jack suppressed a smile.

  ‘Now, about these Open Grave murders...’

  ‘Sorry, ma’am! … Ma’am, don’t hurt me.’

  The teasing didn’t stop until they were back in Jack’s office. He did his best not to get involved but couldn’t help laughing along as Watkins took his ribbing in poor humour.

  ‘It’s not funny – she shouldn’t be speaking to me like that,’ he moaned.

  Jack pulled his face straight. ‘Would you like to make a formal grievance?’

  Silence.

  He puffed out his cheeks and leaned back in his chair. After about half an hour of Guthrie basically accusing the force, and in particular leading officers, of not having any clue, she’d shooed everybody out, deciding to have a private meeting with Edwards and Dalton. That, in turn, meant that Edwards would be on the warpath at some point in the near future.

  ‘Now what?’

  ‘Well, the main thing is that I’m back at work,’ Jack said, his arm instinctively reaching up to touch the fading bruises on his neck.

  ‘Good,’ Watkins said. ‘The Bulldog has had my balls in a vice; usually I’d be up for a bit of that, but she’s a bit rough.’

  Jack winced, trying to wrestle the image of Watkins and Jane Russell from his mind.

  ‘Could be worse, it could be Edwards.’

  As if on cue, Jack hea
rd the heavy footsteps of the DSI approaching his office. The walls were physically shaking by time the shadow appeared in the frosted glass of the doorway. Jack straightened up, pushing various bits of rubbish to the floor, as the handle began to turn.

  ‘Lambert!’ he thundered.

  ‘Yes, sir?’ Jack replied.

  ‘Why are there no more leads on the Open Grave murders?’

  ‘Erm... you told me to take a step back.’

  Jack watched as the superior officer’s face went beetroot-red, veins pulsing in his oversized neck.

  ‘Yes... well... how are you now?’

  ‘I feel fine.’

  ‘Right, get back on it then,’ he ordered.

  Jack nodded, pleased to be given the green light to throw himself back into the case.

  ‘And you!’ Edwards turned on Watkins. ‘Do something bloody useful, you’re a DS for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘Hey!’

  The door slammed before Watkins could make a case for himself. Another beasting from the boss. Standard.

  ‘What crawled up his arse? Watkins mumbled.

  Jack shrugged. Although, if he had to put money on it, he would bet that it had something to do with their friendly neighbourhood PCC. There was no doubt she was going to be a nightmare as time went on. Edwards wouldn’t want anybody interfering in the general running of things, but he’d have a rude awakening on that one, Jack thought. Still, they didn’t have time to dwell on it now. There was a killer to catch.

  Before that, though, Jack had an appointment to keep.

  * * *

  ‘Thank you for meeting me here,’ she said, eyes flitting around the café.

  ‘That’s no problem,’ he replied. ‘I could have come to your house, if that were easier?’

  She shook her head, tears forming in her eyes. ‘It doesn’t feel like my home any more. I feel like an intruder and I’m scared of my shadow.’

  Jack nodded. ‘Have there been any more letters?’

  Nell opened a Gucci purse and pulled out a small bundle of letters before passing them across the table. He paused as a stout woman waddled over to take their orders.

  ‘I’ll have a skinny flat white,’ Nell said.

  ‘Just a black coffee for me, thanks.’

  Nell paused. ‘I like it in here. I’ve been coming for years. Nobody treats me any differently because of who I am now.’

  He briefly flicked through the bundle before placing it in his jacket to read later. ‘It can’t be easy.’

  ‘You probably think I’m just some stupid, stuck-up wannabe celebrity.’

  ‘Not at all, Miss Stevens,’ Jack said. ‘I’ve met celebrities, but you don’t seem like them; you don’t carry any airs and graces.’

  ‘Please, call me Nell.’

  ‘Okay, Nell,’ he replied. ‘I’m Jack.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ she said. ‘You seem to be in the papers more than I am.’

  They paused while the waitress placed their drinks down in front of them. Jack emptied a sugar sachet into his and took a sip. He had to admit, it was good.

  ‘Yes, I think the press has a different opinion of me compared to you,’ he said.

  She smiled. ‘I don’t know about that; haven’t you seen what they’ve done with other celebrities? They build them up to make tearing them down all the more enjoyable. I’m just the latest in a long line of cannon fodder.’

  He leaned forward. ‘Forgive me for asking but why do you do it? I mean, you seem all too aware of the dangers the lifestyle brings. Does it even make you happy?’

  She shrugged and took a deep breath. ‘You don’t understand; growing up, we had nothing. The fact I could sing a little and looked pretty in a dress was enough to give my mother hope that I could achieve something more. If anything, it was her dream for me to be a singer. I entered the show without any real hope of winning, I just did it to please her. Then this momentum built up and before I knew it I was on TV and being spoken about as a potential finalist. It was a whirlwind. They kept asking me, “do you have a sad story?” I felt like saying, “my life is the sad story, don’t you get it?” I tried to fight back against the industry when they asked me to do magazine shoots and attend club openings. That stuff just isn’t me. But, in the end, I learned to just smile and get on with it, just like I did with my mother. I’m sorry... you must think me such a spoilt brat.’

  ‘Not at all,’ he told her. ‘I can relate. My father never wanted me to be a policeman. He worked down the pit and as far as he was concerned my joining the force was a betrayal. Truth be told, on some level, I probably did do it as a reaction against him and how strict he’d been when I was growing up. Nothing was ever good enough so, in the end, I deliberately went out of my way to annoy him and now he’s very sick and it might be too late to go back and fix things.’ He eyed her. ‘I think, in many ways, what you have done is far braver than what I have done.’

  She placed a hand on his arm. ‘It’s never too late to fix things.’

  He shrugged, uncomfortable with her familiar gesture. ‘I think on this occasion it is. The person I was before I joined the force was... not someone I was proud of. I had no direction in life and I was in danger of going down the wrong road. Hell, I was already half way there. The force gave me the focus I sorely needed. I’d have either been in jail or dead by now without it.’

  She glanced at his bruises. ‘Are you sure you won’t end up there anyway?’

  He smiled. ‘Well, certainly not jail.’

  Unless Stafford makes a complaint.

  She laughed, her face lighting up and making her look younger than the worried woman who had sat before him when he’d first arrived. ‘I just want a normal life now.’

  ‘You can have it.’

  She shook her head. ‘It’s too late.’

  ‘It’s never too late.’

  She paused and met his gaze. ‘I think on this occasion it is.’

  He cleared his throat, keen to change the subject. How had he ended up telling this woman his life story? ‘Could this person have been a jilted former lover of yours?’

  ‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘I was in a relationship a long time ago, but he was killed on duty in Iraq.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Jack said.

  ‘Thank you. Since then there has only been Shaun.’

  ‘Does he have enemies?’

  She shrugged. ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’

  ‘I’ve dated him for some time now. He isn’t the type. To be honest he only seems concerned with his own celebrity status. They offered him a place on Celebrity Big Brother and he’s keen to do it, despite what I think.’

  ‘Are you happy?’ Jack asked solemnly.

  ‘I...’

  ‘I’m very sorry,’ he told her. ‘That was completely inappropriate.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s fine. In all honesty, Jack, I don’t know what happiness is any more.’

  They fell into silence as he finished his drink. He stood to leave. ‘Here is my card, Nell. If something comes up, give me a call. I promise I will keep looking into this. The difficulty we have is that, given your celebrity status, a crazed fan will be difficult to pin down. I’ll do everything I can, though, believe that.’

  ‘I do, thank you. Oh, and Jack?’

  He turned to her. ‘Yes?’

  ‘You should allow yourself to be happy.’

  ‘What makes you think I’m not?’

  ‘Your eyes.’

  23

  The gruesome granite structure of the Freeman Hospital stood before him. He stopped to neck an espresso in an attempt to calm the insects crawling inside his stomach, then made his way inside. Rain was hammering into the ground as he approached the entrance, the smell of cigarette smoke permeating the air from the newly-erected shelters outside. Various members of staff and patients stood, huddled together, puffing on the sticks that would one day kill at least one third of them.

  He felt an unusual calmness. Though,
an inability to cry was one of his many curses. The only time he’d ever allowed himself to shed tears was in private, at the death of his mother some ten years ago. Other than that, he couldn’t recall ever even really being upset. Louise had called him Robocop.

  It wasn’t a compliment.

  After striding through the entrance, he located the correct ward and rode the lift to the second floor. Seconds later, he entered the corridor, only to be stopped by a young nurse with a crooked nose and vomit-stained scrubs.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, but visiting hours aren’t until two o’clock. You’re much too early.’

  ‘I’m here to see my father.’

  ‘Like I said,’ she sighed, irritation painted on her awkward features. ‘You can wait.’

  ‘Actually I can’t,’ he snapped. ‘I’ve just received a phone call from my daughter informing me that he is gravely ill.’

  He left the nurse to faff over her notes and entered the ward. He didn’t even notice his father at first. Instead, his vision shifted to his daughter who was sitting by the bed crying. He wanted to go to her, but Louise already had a protective arm around her. It was only then that he noticed his brother, tanned and back from his travels, sitting on the opposite side of the room. An expensive magenta shirt covered his chiselled physique.

  ‘I didn’t know you were back, Carl,’ he said.

  His brother didn’t look at him. ‘You didn’t ask.’

  He placed a hand on his ex-wife’s shoulder. She tensed at first, but then softened, taking his hand and giving it a squeeze.

  ‘I’m sorry, Jack.’

  He nodded, the silence stretching out.

  ‘We’ll give you two some time alone with him. Come on, Shannon.’ Louise ushered their daughter from the room, puffy eyes blinking towards Jack.

  He took a seat by his father and placed a hand on his arm. The doctors had sedated him. Part of him was glad – he’d only say the wrong thing and disappoint him if he were awake.

  ‘Louise tells me you haven’t been here much,’ Carl stated.

  Jack felt his jaw tighten. He whispered, as if his father might overhear them arguing. ‘I’ve been here more than you.’