Open Grave

by A. M. Peacock

  His brother snorted. ‘Barely.’

  He met his brother’s stare, feeling the hostility rise. Carl had always been closer to his father than Jack was. It was their mother Jack had doted on.

  ‘Are we going to sit here and argue at Dad’s bedside?’ he snapped.

  Carl’s shoulders drooped, tears forming in his eyes. ‘No.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘So I hear you’re into blokes now?’ his brother said.

  ‘I always was, Carl. I just never admitted it to myself. Anything else you want to say?’

  They sat in silence for nearly ten minutes before Louise and Shannon arrived back, Jeremy in tow. Jack’s stomach lurched. He wasn’t bothered about Louise moving on, it was the fear that Shannon would love her new father more than him. A pitiful jealousy, he thought. In some small way he guessed he was happy for them. The selfish part of him, which was a big part, hated the bloke’s guts.

  ‘Jeremy.’ He nodded.

  ‘I’m sorry about your dad, Jack,’ he said, offering a clammy hand.

  ‘Thanks,’ Jack mumbled.

  It was a family portrait painted to torture him. Jeremy’s hand lay on Shannon’s shoulder where his hand should have been. Everything about the room reminded him of his failures, tentacles grabbing at him and pulling him into an abyss of depression. Unless a donor could be found soon – the doctors had told him – his father would be dead within weeks. Jack felt powerless. Having always turned to work to avoid the pressures of his home life, he now found himself failing with both.

  ‘Dad asked me to prepare all the details for the funeral,’ Carl said.

  That came as no surprise to Jack. ‘He’s not dead, yet.’

  ‘Just in case,’ Carl replied.

  ‘That’s fair enough. Look... I need to get back to the station.’

  ‘Already?’ Louise asked, her green eyes boring into him. ‘For God’s sake, Jack, it’s your dad, can’t they give you some time off?’

  Time off was the last thing he needed right now. He stood to leave, nodding towards his brother.

  ‘I can’t stay, I have murderers to catch.’

  ‘Right,’ she said, through clamped teeth. ‘Always the job, isn’t it?’

  Jack paused to plant a kiss on his daughter’s head before turning to leave.

  ‘I’ll call you if anything changes.’ Carl stopped him. ‘Don’t worry, you won’t have to do anything.’

  It wasn’t the station Jack travelled to from the hospital.

  After passing through the outskirts of Newcastle, he headed towards Gateshead. The drive passed in a blur, his ex-wife’s accusing words swimming through his throbbing head. The worst thing was, he knew she was right. The only way he could cope with all of this drama was to throw himself into work. It had always been his way.

  ‘Jack, I wasn’t expecting to see you,’ Pritchard said, beckoning him in.

  It didn’t take a genius to work out the man had been drinking. The smell of whisky was overwhelming. The old man hobbled through his meagre temporary living space and took a seat. Jack knew the walk well. Many a drunk had tried it when pulled over on the road.

  ‘I’ve noticed you’ve not been around much recently,’ he said, plonking himself down on the bed. ‘You should just stay with me.’

  The psychologist snorted, eyeing his bruises. ‘And get beaten to a pulp? No thanks, the hotel is fine.’

  Jack nodded. ‘So, what’s going on?’

  Pritchard shrugged his shoulders, leaning over to pick up a tumbler. ‘I’ve just been enjoying some time to myself.’ Accusing eyes met Jack’s. ‘I don’t work for that place any more. I don’t have to answer to anybody.’

  ‘I’m not here as a policeman, Pritchard, I’m here as a friend.’

  Jack let the silence pass between them, motioning for his old comrade to pass him a drink.

  ‘You not on duty?’

  Jack shrugged. ‘One won’t hurt me. Plus, my father is dying so I think I need one.’

  ‘Oh my God, I didn’t know, I’m sorry,’ Pritchard replied.

  Jack waved him away, savouring the burning sensation of the whisky trickling down his throat. ‘I’ll be fine.’

  Pritchard paused. ‘She’s ill, Jack.’

  He nodded. Jack had come to know Pritchard’s wife quite well over the years. She was always lovely to him, despite the pressures he’d put on her husband to help him track down killers.

  ‘What is it?’

  Pritchard drained his drink, coughed, and poured another one before continuing. ‘Dementia.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Frank,’ he said. ‘You should get back to her.’

  The old man slammed his tumbler down on the table. ‘She doesn’t recognise me any more! She’s in a home and I... I... had to get away.’ He dropped his head into his hands. ‘I’m a horrible person, Jack.’

  He placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. ‘No you’re not, Pritchard. We all do what we can to get by.’

  Taking a deep breath, the profiler tried to compose himself. ‘And what is it you do, Jack?’

  ‘Usually the wrong thing.’

  Pritchard continued drinking for the next half hour, whilst Jack switched to cloudy tap water. The station would no doubt be wondering where he was, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

  After a while he said, ‘I best be going then.’

  ‘You know,’ Pritchard said, clearing his throat, as people do when they haven’t spoken for a while. ‘Some people think profiling is a duff business.’

  He sat back down. ‘So I’m told.’ Edwards, for one.

  The psychologist swirled the dark liquid around his tumbler, glazed eyes watching the crushed ice swim around the surface. ‘They think we just quote readily available facts, linking every murder to young, working class males.’

  Jack shrugged. The numbers were there for all to see. ‘You’ve been a real asset to me over the years, Frank.’

  ‘Robson fucking Green has a lot to answer for.’

  ‘I kind of liked that show.’

  Pritchard smiled, ever so slightly. ‘Me too.’

  ‘You should be at home, Frank.’

  The old man’s shoulders slumped. ‘I have to see this through, whatever happens.’

  ‘You’ve got nothing left to prove.’

  Pritchard eyed him. ‘It’s not about proving anything. This bastard is out there, murdering people. I’m not leaving until he’s caught.’

  ‘That seems to be easier said than done,’ Jack sighed.

  Pritchard nodded. ‘The reality is, it’ll be carelessness that gets him in the end.’

  ‘What, and not the brilliance of Northumbria’s finest?’

  ‘Unlikely.’

  ‘I’m starting to think some people are just born evil,’ Jack said.

  ‘Codswallop!’ Pritchard shouted, leaning over. His hot, alcohol-fuelled breath blasted Jack’s face. ‘There’s always a reason.’

  ‘Well I’m all ears, Frank.’

  The profiler necked the rest of his drink and replaced his glasses before continuing. ‘The problem is, our guy is too bloody organised. He’s planning his attacks out, thinking things through. He’s not killing in a spur-of-the-moment blind rage. Don’t get me wrong, he feels rage, but he lets it out at the opportune moment. Our man is a classic sociopath and I’ve no doubt he’s getting his kicks from watching all the news coverage.’

  Jack shifted on the bed. ‘Well there’s plenty to go on.’

  ‘He’s got one hell of an ego, our fella. Not only is he taking the clothes as a trophy, he’s digging up graves for the world to see them.’

  ‘It’s a link we need.’

  ‘No, it’s the motive.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  Pritchard shrugged. ‘Absent mother? Family breakup? Violent past? Take your pick, Jack.’

  He allowed the words to sink in. They had nothing. It was clear he was going to strike again unless something came up. ‘This guy is just picking up victims, bindin
g them, then killing them.’

  ‘It’s hard to believe, isn’t it?’

  Jack paused. ‘Yes... it is.’ He stood, heart quickening. ‘In fact, it’s just about impossible to believe.’

  ‘What is it?’

  He turned to his old friend. ‘How big would you say Travis Kane was?’

  Pritchard shrugged. ‘Fairly stocky. Why? Oh...’

  ‘There’s no way Travis Kane would willingly go with a strange bloke somewhere, only to be bound and killed. There was no sign on his body of a struggle.’

  He could feel the excitement rising now; that familiar feeling a policeman gets when a new lead or line of thinking becomes apparent in a big case.

  Pritchard stood, unsteady on his feet, before falling back into his chair. ‘I’m okay, just a little tipsy.’

  Jack watched him. Pritchard made a habit of immersing himself in a case to the point of becoming ill. In his later years, it was taking its toll on him.

  ‘It’s not that the victims knew each other.’

  Pritchard nodded. ‘Say it.’

  ‘They knew him.’

  24

  He thought about his family on the drive back to the station, vowing to himself that he would start making himself a bigger part of Shannon’s life, whether she was receptive to it or not. He’d failed everyone else and he’d be damned if he was going to fail her as well.

  The reception area was unusually quiet as he passed through, save for two drunks sitting shoulder to shoulder, asleep. He could smell them from across the room, wriggling his nose in disgust as he passed the sign-in desk.

  ‘Guv,’ the desk sergeant acknowledged him.

  ‘Any interesting news?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, that DJ has been voted off on the telly,’ she said, eyes lighting up.

  ‘I mean with regards to the job we’ve been hired to do.’

  ‘Oh.’ She flushed red. ‘Sorry... no.’

  The team assembled in the murder investigation room, heat emanating from all of the buzzing computers, creating an artificial warmth that was a welcome respite from the harsh Newcastle winter. Watkins was standing, leaning over a desk, in discussion with a young female DC. Towards the other side of the office, Christensen was barking out orders to a small gathering of workers, distributing handouts, a stern look on his face. He appreciated the help from both of them, but he could see that their enthusiasm was waning. Christmas was approaching and there was no movement on anything. He couldn’t blame them for feeling deflated.

  ‘Right, everyone…’ he shouted above the thrum of activity. ‘Listen up. We have had not so much as a sniff with regards to any of our caseloads. I know you are feeling low, but now’s the time to redouble our efforts.’

  The faces in the room turned to him, most of them probably just feigning interest.

  ‘Christensen, I want you working exclusively on the Open Grave murders.’ He motioned to the gathered crew. ‘I want us to operate on the assumption that the victims did not know each other but that they did know the killer.’ He let the team chew over his observation. ‘I will be meeting with Pritchard, in due course, to review our potential profiles. I want every witness, family member and pet re-questioned until something turns up. I also want any missing persons reported in the last few weeks to be chased up, best you can.’

  DC Gerrard said, ‘Pardon my asking, guv, but won’t that take forever?’

  ‘I can help you with that,’ Watkins piped up, a little too quickly. ‘I mean, if you need any help...’

  ‘It might take forever but we need to do it,’ he replied, ignoring the DS’s blushes. ‘If anybody on the missing list matches with one of our victims in terms of where they were last seen then we may be able to find the link. As for you Watkins, focus on Nell Stevens. Get door knocking in the area, let’s check over any CCTV in nearby streets and see if we can get access to any film footage from the nightclub where Nell originally had trouble in. We cannot afford to slack off now, something will turn up. Watkins and Christensen, you are to report to me regularly, whether I am around or not.’

  ‘And what about me?’ Jane Russell asked, maintaining a stare as she chipped away at a long, painted fingernail.

  Jack paused. ‘You are to be involved in everything.’

  That’ll test your DCI credentials, he thought.

  With that, he turned and left. Watkins caught up with him down the hallway. ‘Nice speech, guv.’ He lowered his voice. ‘What about McGuinness and the factory?’

  ‘Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten,’ Jack said. ‘I just want to keep this on the down low, for now. I’m thinking that this may benefit from a more personal touch. Right now, though, we are stretched enough as it is, and the team need a firm structure to focus on.’

  Watkins nodded. ‘No problem.’

  Pritchard arrived in his office some two hours later.

  ‘I hope you didn’t drive here.’

  ‘Of course not,’ Pritchard said. ‘I took a taxi... after a short nap.’

  They didn’t have time to analyse Pritchard’s current alcohol levels. Jack needed him now. As he sat behind his desk, he cast a glance over the man who had helped the police catch some of the most notorious criminals in the North East in the last twenty years. The only clue as to his previously inebriated state was a pair of bloodshot eyes.

  ‘We’re really in the shit with this one,’ Jack said.

  ‘Indeed,’ he replied. ‘Perhaps we should see the bodies again?’

  Jack closed his eyes, his customary headache beginning to return.

  ‘You okay?’ Pritchard asked.

  ‘Yeah, just tired.’ He waved him away.

  ‘You should get checked out,’ he said.

  Jack mumbled a response and fished around his desk for some paracetamol. He found a withered packet at the back of his bottom drawer, dry swallowed two of them then tuned back in. ‘Shall we go?’

  He called ahead and asked them to remove the bodies for inspection.

  ‘This journey never gets any easier,’ Jack said, as they headed towards the mortuary.

  ‘What, looking at dead bodies or the lovely Miss Rosie Lynnes?’

  ‘Very funny, Pritchard.’

  ‘Actually, I find it quite peaceful,’ Pritchard said.

  The sound of their feet slapping against the cold, concrete floor echoed around them. The temperature seemed to drop as they approached the mortuary room. The blood in Jack’s veins followed suit.

  ‘Can we be quick about this?’ Rosie greeted them as they approached. ‘I have work to do.’

  Jack avoided her gaze as they moved past her, the back of his head burning from her lethal stares. In the cold light of day, he felt a grade one fool for having thought it a good idea to randomly turn up at her house. Just one more to add to his long list of poor choices.

  He stood back, having already seen the bodies and not wanting to throw up what he’d just eaten at the station. Pritchard got stuck in, fishing his glasses out, before placing them on and inserting a stick of chewing gum into his mouth. Rosie frowned.

  ‘It helps me concentrate.’

  She rolled her eyes before peeling back the sheets from the corpses of the four victims. Their lifeless bodies seemed to point accusingly towards Jack for not having caught their killer yet. He felt unable to tear his eyes away from the purple-blue complexion of Jessica Lisbie’s corpse. The parents had requested its release for burial, but he felt it best to hold off for now.

  For half an hour, Pritchard went over every inch of the four victims’ bodies, asking numerous questions of Rosie, her methods, her analysis. By the end, Jack felt as though he’d been sitting in on a particularly useful, yet boring university lecture on the mechanics of body science. He undid one of his shirt buttons, the presence of death making him feel unusually clammy.

  Pritchard spat his chewing gum into the palm of his sterile glove before peeling them off and placing them in the bin. Rosie followed suit, her gaze refusing to land on Jack.

>   ‘So, you’re sure strangulation was the cause of death?’ Pritchard asked for the thousandth time.

  The pathologist fixed him with an icy stare. ‘Based on my training, and years of experience, I would say so, yes.’

  Pritchard nodded, seemingly lost in thought. ‘But why no struggle?’

  ‘I can’t answer that, you would have to speak to toxicology.’

  ‘We have,’ Pritchard said. ‘They’ve struggled to find anything so far.’

  She shrugged. ‘Doesn’t mean there’s nothing there.’

  Jack’s phone rang. He apologised, moved away from them, and answered.

  ‘Christensen?’ He listened as the detective told him the news. ‘Shit.’ He turned to his colleagues. ‘We have to go, now.’

  ‘Just up here,’ Jack pointed.

  The car skidded and wheeled away on the single-lane road as Jack navigated his way through Durham City Centre with Pritchard and Rosie in the back. In the distance behind them, he could just about make out the flashing lights of a marked vehicle that was tailing them to the murder scene. Durham wasn’t in their jurisdiction, but due to the nature of the discovery it meant that they had no choice but to cross over.

  ‘Do we have to go so fast?’ Rosie shouted.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, toning it down.

  Pritchard sat, looking out at the area around them, snow lying heavy on the vast fields as they wound their way towards their destination. Jack was glad the psychologist had agreed to come with them.

  He pulled up next to a muddied Vauxhall Astra. The three of them got out, huddling together up the hill towards the centre of the field. The killer was smart. Heavily wooded and always quiet, this was a well-chosen spot overlooking the Durham University Maiden Castle Sports Centre for his latest burial. Access wasn’t easy on foot, particularly when dragging a body up, but it wasn’t impossible.

  Rosie jogged ahead, taking a lead role in the setting up of the white tent, which was in the process of being made. At the scene DI Jane Russell stood, flanked by Gerrard and Watkins, who was deep in conversation with another detective.