‘Tomkins,’ Jack greeted the Durham DI.
The lanky detective shook Jack’s hand in a clammy embrace, his permanently drooping eyes giving him a constantly disinterested look. ‘Jack. Nasty business this.’
‘Indeed. Thanks for not putting up a fight on this one.’
‘Are you kidding?’ he said. ‘We’re snowed under right now; the way I see it, the Open Grave Murderer is your problem.’
Jack smiled. He’d known Oliver Tomkins for a long time. He was a dependable DI but had a reputation as someone who didn’t go looking for work if he could at all help it.
‘This is interesting,’ Pritchard noted, drawing his attention away.
Jack motioned to Watkins who, shivering, pulled out a notepad and began jotting down the psychologist’s ramblings.
‘What?’ Jack asked.
‘Note the centre of the field. Our killer is arrogant. It’s not necessarily that he wants to be caught, but he wants it to be known what he’s up to. If he was a safety first kind of bloke, he’d stick close to the road; but the fact that he has ventured out this far suggests a confidence in what he is doing.’
‘So the guy has serious issues,’ Watkins mumbled.
‘Of course,’ Pritchard said. ‘But he’s also brilliant.’
If Jack didn’t know any better, he’d say the old man was enjoying all of this.
‘Jack.’ The Bulldog nodded, ushering him over.
He moved off to the side to talk to the DI, noting the bags under her eyes and a pinched, pale texture to her face. Perhaps he wasn’t the only one feeling the strain?
‘What is it? Same as before?’
She nodded, snowflakes clinging on to her long eyelashes like tiny white leeches.
‘I’m not even surprised now.’
He made to move but she stopped him, grabbing his arm in an almost painful vice.
‘There’s something else.’
‘What?’
They marched over to the tent, which had finally been pitched up. Suiting up in their white overalls, they could have lain down and blended in to the field. Yellow police tape had been placed all around the scene, leaving a small gap for people to walk through to gain access to the tent.
‘There.’ She pointed, looking away.
Jack peered over into the ditch; it was the same MO as before. Two bodies, one male, one female, stripped and placed in a spooning position, in a six-foot deep ditch. Judging by the colour of the skin and acrid stench that was now threatening his nostrils, they had been dead for a number of days. That wasn’t what had gotten Jack’s attention, though. Nor was it the brutal nature in which the bodies had been dumped so unceremoniously into the ground. It wasn’t even the fact that they had yet another set of bodies to contend with. It was because he had seen one of these people before.
There was no mistaking the spiked hairstyle of former suspect Gary Dartford.
25
Edwards stood at the front of the incident room, his face impassive. The rest of the room, silent in anticipation, stared open-mouthed at what was unfolding.
‘Details.’
Jack shook the remnants of snow and ice from his coat, his entire body beginning to ache from the long day he’d had.
‘He’s playing with us,’ he said.
Edwards eyed him. ‘How?’
‘I was able to identify one of the bodies. It’s Gary Dartford.’
The colour drained from Edwards’ face, only to be replaced by a beetroot-red tinge. ‘The suspect? Who knows?’
‘Nobody, yet.’
The considerable bulk of the DSI stepped back, grabbing on to a chair for stability.
‘Are you okay, guv?’ he asked.
‘I’m fine!’ he snapped.
‘The papers are going to find out sooner or later.’
‘We’ll have to hold a press conference,’ Edwards said, pacing around the desk.
Jack ground his teeth. ‘I’ll sort it.’
Those in attendance sat in silence, no doubt nervous at the standoff that was now brewing. Edwards wanted to handle this one personally, but it was Jack’s case. He’d be damned if he was going to be undermined in front of his team.
The DSI ignored him. ‘Right, I want a press conference set up for one hour from now. Somebody get onto the officer and have them sort it out. If anybody needs me, I’ll be in my office with Dalton’s foot up my arse.’
He left the room in a stunned silence. Jack loosened his collar and turned to face them. The smell of stale sweat was permeating the air as the team moved into overdrive.
‘It’s fair to say that this is an escalation of events. From here on in, things could get a lot worse.’
‘What do you need, guv?’ Gerrard asked.
‘I want a team out questioning not only Gary Dartford’s family and friends, but anybody else he has been in contact with in recent times. We will have to hang tight on the second victim, but as soon as we have an ID, I want the same rules to apply.’
‘Do we still follow the new theory?’ Christensen asked.
He paused. Good question. He couldn’t help but feel that focusing on Dartford would lead them to the others. ‘No, not right now. Everybody, and I mean everybody, needs to throw everything into Gary Dartford.’
Jack surveyed the room. They might be light on potential leads, but the discovery of a new set of victims, mixed with the fact that he had deliberately targeted one of their original suspects, at least gave them something else to ponder. The killer’s arrogance would be his downfall.
‘Nice speech in there.’ Watkins followed him outside.
‘Thanks.’
Ten minutes later they were both sitting in Jack’s office, Christensen having also joined them. Another mound of paperwork had washed up on his desk, various bits of post-it notes stuck around the room. Jack moved to the whiteboard and pinned up two pictures of Gary Dartford, one smiling and gelled, the other showing his naked, dead body.
‘Where’s Pritchard?’
‘He’s... not well right now,’ Jack replied. ‘I sent him home.
Christensen merely nodded – excuse accepted without comment. After the bodies were discovered on the hill, Pritchard had taken a funny turn. Despite his protestations, Jack had managed to convince him to go back to his hotel and rest.
Jack mused. ‘The MO has been similar all along – until now. Each set of victims includes a woman and a man, both in their twenties. Each time, he has killed them via strangulation in such a way that it has to be premeditated. The stripping of the victims along with placement of the bodies suggests, to me, that he has an issue with regards to relationships. But, I’ve no idea as to whether it’s to do with men or women.’
‘Would that be of importance?’ Watkins asked.
‘Well, it could help us narrow down his social movements.’
‘It could be both,’ Christensen interjected.
‘Agreed. We’ve found no real link between any of the victims,’ he said. ‘I think we’ve been wasting our time on that one.’
‘That’s an awful lot of time,’ Watkins said.
Jack nodded. And resources.
‘It has to be social,’ he continued. ‘Maybe they all go to the same place. This is where he finds them. If we can find the place, we find the killer. Whether Dartford also fits into this, though, is debatable. It’s clear he’s changed his methods to target him. I think it’s his first mistake.’
The three detectives entered a moment of silence as the facts settled into place. There was no doubt in Jack’s mind that things had become personal.
‘What an idiot, eh?’ Watkins joked.
Jack laughed. ‘In the end, they all are.’
* * *
He stood by the cars, watching. The wind was chewing at his face like an angry dog, but he didn’t care – he couldn’t feel it. All he saw was them. Glancing down at the paper, he saw his mugshot. The only one that mattered.
Detective Chief Inspector Jack Lambert.
&nbs
p; He could see him moving about his office, gesticulating towards a square-looking blond policeman and a young Art Garfunkel lookalike. They were probably talking about him right now. He felt a jolt of electricity shoot up his leg. He shivered, licking his lips as the excitement began to build. They had to be talking about him. Surely they’d got the message?
He dug his nails into his leg, breaking the flesh as a smile began spreading over the detective’s face. They were laughing. Kidnapping Gary Dartford had been a masterstroke. They had to know he was talking to them. Why, then, were they fucking laughing?
Maybe he’d not been clear enough. He was obviously talking to the wrong people. If he wanted their attention, he’d have to go through other means. A smile slowly spread across his face as the snow continued to fall about him.
Jack Lambert’s car provided him with his own reflection. He saw his face, set in determination of what he must do. He’d make them listen.
Gary Dartford wasn’t personal enough. Time to bring things forward.
26
The media were already assembled as Jack followed Edwards into the lion’s den. At the front, two reporters planted their miniature recording devices in the centre of the table, little red lights blinking at them almost in accusation.
Jack glanced to the front row and noticed David Robson’s absence. At least that was one less thing to worry about.
‘Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen.’ Edwards brought him out of his thoughts, straightening out his impeccable police uniform. ‘I want to begin by saying we have some breaking news with regards to the Open Grave murders.’
Jack watched in silence as the DSI began the conference. His temper was still simmering from the conversation they’d had minutes ago, arguing over how to handle the press. His superior officer felt it best that he covered the key details, despite Jack’s protestations that it would make him look weak as an SIO. Needless to say, Edwards had won out.
Without warning, a young, pimple-faced journalist stood. ‘Sorry, but has this anything to do with the discovery of Gary Dartford’s body?’
The entire pressroom erupted into chaos as everybody fired questions at the stunned DSI. Edwards looked like he’d swallowed an epileptic wasp.
It took ten minutes to escape the conference and, by the time they’d cleared the room, it looked as though a school fight had broken out. Jack turned, just in time to see Edwards stalking towards him.
‘And just what the—’
‘DSI Edwards, my office, now!’ Dalton appeared in the doorway, his icy stare silencing the superintendent.
‘This isn’t over,’ Edwards thundered, marching past.
Jack motioned for Watkins and Christensen to follow him back to his office.
‘Jesus, what the hell was that about?’ Watkins asked.
‘Our mole strikes again,’ Jack seethed.
‘I’ve got the journalist,’ Christensen said, checking his notepad. ‘His name is Oliver Richards. He’s currently sweating it out in a cell at the minute. Want to question him now?’
‘No, let’s make him think on his sins a little first. He’s just found out he’s potentially involved in a murder case. I’d say that warrants stewing over.’
Christensen nodded in agreement.
Jack paced around the floor, pausing to look out the window towards his car, which sat covered in snow. He turned, running his gaze over the two detectives sitting before him. Surely he didn’t have to question their loyalty? Watkins could be daft, but he wasn’t a law breaker. Plus, he was too afraid of Edwards to be so stupid.
As if reading his thoughts, Christensen spoke. ‘You got any gut feeling on who it is?’
He shook his head. ‘No.’
‘Robson will be fuming that he missed out on the scoop,’ Christensen noted.
Watkins laughed. ‘Hey, maybe it was Edwards?’
‘Why don’t you ask him?’ Jack said.
‘Don’t be daft!’
‘No, I’m serious, I’m going to question Oliver with Christensen. I need you to stay here just in case Edwards comes back and needs a word.’
‘But...’
‘You can thank me later,’ Jack said, motioning for the DS to follow him out.
‘You’re feeding him to Edwards?’ Christensen asked, once they were out of earshot.
‘No.’ He waved him away. ‘It’s me who’ll get it in the neck. Plus, Watkins isn’t as soft as you think.’
* * *
They spent the next half hour questioning the journalist, whose face managed to fall between ghost-white and chicken korma yellow. By the time they’d finished, Jack wasn’t sure if the hack would spend much longer in the newspaper industry. They turfed him out, warning him that they’d be watching, and he had to call them if he was contacted by anyone again.
According to Richards, he’d received an anonymous tip an hour or so before the press conference was scheduled to start. He didn’t recognise the voice. The number had been withheld. The person offering the information had stated that this one was a gift but that, for money, more could be offered. At least they knew the motive, now.
‘Any word from Edwards?’ Jack asked Watkins, whom he found sulking in the canteen.
The DS took a sip of Fanta. ‘No, but word on the grapevine is that Dalton is tearing him a new one upstairs. They reckon he could be sacked for this.’
Jack scoffed. That’d be highly unlikely. Edwards really would have to be the mole to lose his job over this one. His thoughts were cut short by the vibrating of his phone in his pocket. He took it out, checked the caller ID: David Robson. He forwarded the call. That bastard could get his scoop elsewhere. If word got out he’d been to secret meetings with the enemy, he’d be number one suspect in the mole case.
‘Right, well I’m sorry to interrupt your lovely meal here, Watkins, but I’d say we have an important location to visit, don’t you think?’
* * *
Gary Dartford, it turned out, spent his time between his girlfriend’s place and a rented property near the city centre. Upon speaking to his hysterical other half, they’d been informed that he had been privately renting the place from his uncle, who wasn’t really his uncle. The house itself was at the top of a high-rise complex, covered in various bits of graffiti and boarded up windows. It did, however, have the odd England flag pinned to the walls. Very patriotic, Jack thought.
Jack, Watkins and Pritchard, who had got a taxi from the hotel once they’d rung with the latest news, waded through the sea of food cartons and empty alcohol containers. It was a risk inviting Pritchard along, particularly given his strange turn earlier, but Jack wanted his expertise on the case. Besides, the psychologist informed him he’d been sleeping off the drink for the last few hours. Watkins had given the dishevelled old man a strange look upon meeting him but a quick stare from Jack had settled matters.
They reached the end of the corridor, only to be greeted by a broken-down lift.
Great.
‘What floor is the flat on, again?’ he asked.
‘Thirteenth.’
Unlucky.
By the time they’d climbed the stairs, Jack felt like his insides were going to explode. However, he still put the others to shame. Pritchard’s head was dripping in sweat as he heaved himself up, alcohol no doubt gushing from his pores.
‘Come on,’ Jack urged them.
Watkins hobbled next, holding his calf. ‘Sporting injury.’
A teenager appeared in a nearby doorway, the hinges nearly snapping off as he slammed the door shut. He stopped, eyes narrowed, and surveyed the three of them. Hood up, scarf around his face, he looked like something out of a football hooligan documentary. Jack could smell cheap aftershave coming off him, too. Probably out for a date.
Deciding against confrontation, the lad passed them by and headed down the stairway.
‘Nice chap,’ Pritchard muttered.
‘He couldn’t be our guy, could he?’ Jack ventured.
‘Afraid not.’
They entered the flat, using the key they had managed to procure from his other residence, and took a look around. As they walked through the narrow hallway, the smell of garlic, bleach and fish threatened to slaughter Jack’s insides. Pritchard, made of sterner stuff, simply wriggled his nose, then walked on.
At the end of the passageway, a dishevelled living room sat. On the far wall, a battered two-seater was placed, looking towards the opposite wall which housed a mounted flat screen TV. A large window was on the adjacent wall to the television, looking out over the city centre. Jack turned left at the end of the room and entered what must have been Dartford’s bedroom. True to form, everything was a mess. One thing was certain, though, he liked his blonde women. Garish cream walls, riddled with damp, were plastered in various FHM magazine pull-outs and Playboy Bunny pictures. There were even a few of Nell Stevens in various stages of undress. Gary Dartford also seemed to be a big fan of David Beckham, given the ridiculous amounts of paraphernalia lying around. In the far corner, an open wardrobe stood, clothes tossed next to it on the floor.
‘What do we think, Pritchard?’
The psychologist, who had been kicking his way through a maze of rubbish on the floor, turned, straightening out his cardigan. ‘He was never our killer; just look at this place!’
Jack nodded, acutely aware that Dartford wasn’t the killer, given that he had just turned up as a corpse. Still, it was nice of Pritchard to point out just how wide of the mark they’d been.
‘I mean, anything I can use?’
The profiler wiped a hand across bloodshot eyes. Jack eyed him with concern, which was met with a fierce look from the old man.
‘Well, I’d be surprised if we find anything of note here,’ he said. ‘But, I’d say we can expect a much higher level of involvement with us, from now on.’
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