Open Grave

by A. M. Peacock

  ‘Meaning?’ Watkins asked.

  ‘The killer has turned personal. Killing this young man was a message. But it’s also his first mistake. We can probably expect more indirect or perhaps even direct communication. We may start receiving letters, or he could go to the press with something. Worst case scenario? He may target one of us in some way. And I still maintain it’s definitely a man.’

  Jack nodded. ‘All the more reason to focus our thinking on Dartford. This could be the break we need to shut this down.’

  ‘And remember,’ Pritchard continued. ‘Our killer isn’t thick. He probably has a skilled job and knows how to work a computer. I’d say that makes just about anybody a target. This won’t be easy.’

  Jack was afraid he’d say that.

  ‘Come on, let’s get this over with.’

  They spent the next hour searching the house from top to bottom, finding nothing of any note save for some used condoms, empty beer cans and a pretty impressive porn collection, which Watkins seemed to mull over for longer than was necessary.

  ‘Nothing,’ Jack sighed. ‘For God’s sake!’

  He aimed a kick at a nearby coffee table, knocking its contents to the floor. He turned to leave before something caught his eye. A red, flashing dot.

  ‘Wait!’

  He bent down, blowing dust off the small, black answer phone, before hitting the play button.

  ‘Alreet, Gazza, Kyle here. Look, I’m sorry, man, but I’m gonna be a bit late tonight, aye? I’ll catch you at the usual haunt though. Bring your pulling pants.’

  Jack sat back and listened to the message twice more. Feeling his heart rate rise, he turned to Watkins.

  ‘Sergeant, call the station, tell them we need to know who Kyle is.’

  He listened to the message once more. Dartford’s girlfriend hadn’t seen him in weeks, due to an ‘altercation’ as she put it. He’d gone AWOL from work and, upon speaking with his uncle who wasn’t an uncle, they’d learned he hadn’t seen him either. Perhaps Kyle had been the last person to know his whereabouts. For the first time since the case started, he allowed himself to feel some hope. The answer machine message was on the eighth of December. So far, nobody else had seen him after that date.

  They had to find Kyle.

  27

  They made it back to the station in record time. It was only when they got out that Jack noticed somebody had keyed the side of his door.

  Nice.

  ‘Christensen, get me Dartford’s girlfriend, Crystal Walsh,’ Jack delegated, blitzing into the incident room.

  ‘She’s already on her way, guv,’ Gerrard interjected.

  ‘Good. Let’s get her set up in a room. Doesn’t have to be uncomfortable, I just need to talk to her. She’s not a suspect.’

  ‘No problem, boss.’

  Jack turned to face the rest of the room, their interest pricked. ‘Listen up, I want everybody on the open grave murders to try and find out who ‘Kyle’ is. So far, we know he is a friend of Gary Dartford, and we have reason to believe he may be of importance to the case.’

  ‘Do we have a surname, sir?’ a PC asked.

  ‘Oh yes, how silly of me to forget that.’

  The policeman looked confused.

  ‘No.’

  The groans were audible as he left the room. He stopped only to place Watkins in charge of proceedings. Although he valued his life, he still felt he had to inform Edwards of what was going on, given the circumstances.

  The superintendent had his forehead planted down onto the desk when Jack walked in. Paper, notepads and various bits of stationery had been thrown around the room.

  ‘Sir?’

  Slowly, the man raised his head. If Jack didn’t know any better, he’d say he had been crying.

  ‘I’m for the chop,’ he said, staring out of the window.

  Jack pulled up a seat. ‘What?’

  ‘Well, I haven’t been given my marching orders yet but it was suggested that I take some leave after this case to... re-evaluate my life, so to speak.’

  Jack sat motionless. He wasn’t surprised. Edwards was working in the wrong era. ‘I’m sorry, Logan.’

  ‘Could be a promotion in it for you, if you play your cards right.’

  He shook his head. ’Don’t talk like that.’

  ‘Like what?’ he shouted.

  ‘We’re all on the same team here.’

  Even if Edwards had been interfering in the case.

  The DSI snorted. ‘Tell that to Dickhead Dalton.’

  Jack shifted in his seat, uncomfortable at the casual profanity levelled at one of the most dangerous and senior police officers in the local force. Edwards was tough, but the ACC was basically a robot, sent back from the future to torture Her Majesty’s finest.

  ‘I just thought I should tell you we may have a potential lead as to Gary Dartford’s whereabouts before he disappeared.’

  He ignored him, continuing, ‘Mona hates me enough as it is; if I lose my job, she’ll leave me, I just know it.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘I think she’s been seeing somebody else for a while now.’ He looked directly at Jack for the first time since he’d entered. ‘Do you know how that makes me feel?’

  ‘Sir, about the case...’

  ‘Fuck the case!’ He slammed a palm against the table, causing the room to quake. ‘I have my suspicions as to who it is. It won’t be long now.’

  Jack didn’t like the sound of that. The DSI reset his position to where he’d been prior to Jack coming in. Stunned, he stood, went to say something, and thought better of it. He paused in the doorway before leaving.

  This was all he needed. All hell was breaking loose, they had a serial killer on the prowl and a gangland war that was threatening to get ugly. Meanwhile, one of the most senior officers in the Northumbria force was having a breakdown. Not to mention essentially threatening to kill somebody over his wife’s supposed infidelity. Maybe Edwards taking a vacation wouldn’t be such a bad idea. God knows he was tempted to do the same.

  * * *

  ‘I’m sorry to drag you in like this, Crystal,’ Jack said, placing a cup of coffee in front of Gary Dartford’s girlfriend. ‘I know it’s late.’

  The woman stared at the lukewarm drink in front of her, took a whiff and sipped it. Jack mirrored her. Although the pink dressing gown was gone, she still looked much the same as last time they’d met. Only her bleached blonde hair had changed, having been scraped back into a greasy ponytail. She still had the bags under her eyes.

  ‘What do you want?’ she said, voice barely a whisper.

  She’d spent the last hour screaming the station down, demanding answers. It seemed she had now worn herself out. She sat, shoulders hunched, nursing her cheap coffee.

  ‘We know this must be difficult right now, but I need to ask you a couple of questions regarding Gary.’

  ‘Am I a suspect?’ she spat. ‘Coz I want my fucking lawyer.’

  ‘No, not at all.’ Jack held his hands out. ‘When we took a look around Gary’s apartment, we found an answer machine message from a friend of his.’

  ‘A woman?’

  ‘Erm... no.’

  She smiled. ‘Good.’

  Jack fiddled with the answer machine, placing it on the interview table before mashing the play button. Once again, the voice of Gary’s mysterious friend Kyle warbled through the speaker. As the tape wore on, Crystal’s eyes narrowed as she bit into her cheek.

  ‘Do you know who that is?’

  ‘Aye, it’s Kyle,’ she said, stating the obvious. ‘I can’t believe that. Gary told me he wasn’t hanging with that piece of shit anymore.’

  Bingo.

  ‘Do you know his full name?’

  ‘Yeah, but everyone calls him Lamaz.’

  ‘His surname, please?’

  ‘Walsh.’

  ‘Walsh?’

  ‘Yeah, he’s my brother.’

  Ten minutes later, Jack strode into the incident room. Watkins, who was
standing over a rather attractive-looking female PC, was getting an eyeful of more than just computer screen. ‘Sergeant, I want everybody and his dog tracking down Kyle Walsh, right now.’

  ‘So she knew him then?’ he said, moving away from the unsuspecting girl.

  ‘You could say that. She’s his sister.’

  He filled him in on the details: twenty-two-year-old man, estranged from most of his family, fell out with Crystal a couple of years ago, but had been friendly with Gary Dartford for some time. Crystal thought him into all manner of trouble. She didn’t know where he was living, only that he’d left home over a year ago and took up with, in her words, ‘some slapper.’

  ‘Shouldn’t be too hard to find then,’ Watkins said.

  ‘I want his background checked and then I want him found. Send a patrol car to his parents’ house, see what we can find out.’

  ‘I’m on it.’

  Jack paced up and down the incident room, turning events over in his mind. Gary had been due to meet Kyle for a night out at some point in recent history, he assumed. Where were they meant to be going? Who were they meant to be meeting? Was Gary Dartford intercepted whilst out, or did it happen beforehand? After? Would the dates even match up? Too many questions. It seemed a long shot that Crystal Walsh’s brother was involved in his murder but, if he could provide them with enough information as to his whereabouts, they might be able to trace Dartford’s steps and find a link between the victims.

  This had to be the break they needed. They’d had too many misses so far. Something had to stick. During the Newcastle Knifer case, he’d had this exact same feeling, just before a major breakthrough. Unfortunately, it had also led to him getting stabbed.

  ‘Sir,’ a PC caught his attention. ‘Kyle Walsh, twenty-two, male, last address named as his parents’ house, works in a local gym, has previous for speeding, assault and drug dealing.’

  ‘Not a bad record for someone so young,’ Jack said. ‘Watkins, on second thoughts, let’s get ourselves to the parents’ house. Christensen,’ he said, turning to face the DS. ‘Take Gerrard and check out the gym.’

  * * *

  Kyle Walsh’s parents lived in a terraced house on the outskirts of the city. They’d called ahead and, after making their way up the neatly-lined pebbled path, Irene Walsh had invited them in and put the kettle on.

  Jack sat, looking over the various pieces of art that were planted on the walls. The Walshes kept a tidy house, nothing out of place. Wood polish fumes hung heavy in the air as Irene floated about, humming a Carpenters’ tune as she took their orders for coffee. Light cascaded in through their blinds, casting glows on their various ornaments. Even the air seemed devoid of dust. Mitchell Walsh sat opposite them, not paying them much attention as he perched his glasses on top of his balding head. He chose, instead, to continue with his crossword.

  ‘I must apologise,’ Irene said, placing a tea tray down before them. ‘If I had known we were going to have guests, I would have tidied up a bit more.’

  Jack shifted in his seat, hoping his feet didn’t smell. While they hadn’t been ordered to remove their shoes, the implication was there as soon as they’d entered the house. He took in his host, a weathered face that told of past hardship. Her hair was tastefully done, much different to her daughter’s, but Crystal had inherited her mother’s green eyes and high cheekbones. Other than that, Jack struggled to see any resemblance to what was sitting before him.

  ‘Mrs Walsh,’ he began, ‘I know it’s late so I thank you for agreeing to see me. If you don’t mind my asking...’

  ‘Why are my children so unruly?’ she laughed, devoid of humour.

  ‘Well...’

  ‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘It all started when their father died.’

  ‘Ah, I’m sorry.’

  Jack cast a glance to the man who now lived here in his place.

  She waved him away. ‘It happened a long time ago. It’s been over ten years since he died but it hit Crystal and Kyle very hard. It was stomach cancer,’ she said, staring out of the window. ‘He was diagnosed and within six weeks he was gone.’

  The widow took a sip of her tea before wiping her mouth lightly with a napkin, the faintest of tremors in her hand.

  Jack flipped his notepad open. ‘And how long have you and Mr Walsh been together?’

  She placed a hand on her husband’s knee; turned and offered a faint smile from his bulging face. It was the first movement he’d made since they arrived.

  ‘I met Mitchell at a counselling group; you see, his wife passed away as well. We’ve been together for about eight years.’

  ‘And how is your relationship with the children, sir?’

  Mitchell snorted. ‘Well they certainly don’t treat me with any respect, despite my having adopted them.’

  Irene’s face hardened. ‘They’ve never taken to Mitchell, even though they know he makes me happy. All they think is that he isn’t their father. It’s not like Alec was an angel.’

  Jack raised an eyebrow and discreetly wrote ‘abuse?’ in his pad.

  ‘When was the last time you saw Kyle?’

  ‘Let me see,’ she said. ‘It must have been about six months ago now. He came round and demanded money, saying he was in some sort of trouble.’

  ‘Did you give him any?’

  She cast a glance to her husband before continuing. ‘No.’

  A lie.

  ‘And nothing since then? No phone calls?’

  ‘No, nothing.’

  ‘Do you know where he’s been staying?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you know anything about his friends?’

  ‘I know he was hanging around with that Gary Dartford.’ She leaned forward. ‘I know it’s a terrible business, but he was a good boy until he started in with this other crowd. Gary was one of them.’

  ‘Was he mixed up in anything he shouldn’t have been?’

  Mitchell Walsh stirred. ‘Drugs, most probably.’

  ‘Mitchell!’ Irene scolded. ‘You don’t know that. Look,’ she sighed. ‘We can’t know anything for sure since he cut himself off from us, but the people he’d begun hanging around with weren’t the sort I would allow into my house, put it that way.’

  No surprises there, Jack thought.

  ‘Do you have any names?’

  She shrugged. ‘Only Gary.’

  He nudged Watkins and made to leave.

  ‘Oh, one last question, Mrs Walsh; do you know why Kyle and Crystal fell out?’

  Irene Walsh’s face remained impassive. ‘Not a clue.’

  * * *

  ‘Interesting family,’ Watkins stated once they were back in the car. ‘Wonder what went so wrong with the kids?’

  ‘I think they know why they fell out but don’t want to tell us,’ Jack said.

  ‘Agreed. Doesn’t necessarily mean anything though.’

  He nodded. ‘Indeed.’

  Watkins stuck the car into gear and they pulled away, leaving Irene standing in the doorway watching them. Jack felt a twinge of sadness as her image shrank in the rear-view mirror. Estranged from both of her children, she seemed to be living a melancholy existence. Jack brushed the thought from his mind, and focused back on the task at hand. He was sure Kyle Walsh could help them track down where Gary Dartford had been, but finding him was proving more difficult than he’d hoped.

  They needed him now.

  28

  Three nights later Christmas arrived. Given his father’s continued ill health he had nobody to visit, which was how he now found himself surrounded by a plethora of A4 folders, doing work rather than spending time with his family. Always being one to prefer his own company, he hadn’t felt too sorry for himself.

  Rather than sit around doing nothing he decided to throw himself into work. He leafed through the documents again. Who were they dealing with here? A serial killer for sure. Added to that, he was clever, and seemingly interested in pissing about with the police. There was still nothing to connect t
he victims save for perhaps a place they’d all visited. And then there was Gary Dartford. What were the chances he was picked up from the same location? Slim. Jack felt sure that Kyle Walsh might be able help them out with that one. Unfortunately, no one seemed to know where he was. Like so many people in and around this case, Kyle seemed to go AWOL right when they needed him most.

  What they had found out, however, was the identity of the female victim found with Gary Dartford. He flicked to the relevant page. Twenty-nine-year-old Melissa Norman, classroom support worker. She lived alone, and her mother had died when she was twelve. The father had been traumatised when they’d told him, having reported her missing in the middle of December. Apparently, he hadn’t seen or heard from her for a couple of weeks, which was unusual but not unusual enough to report at first. Work friends said they assumed she was ill initially and that she had often kept to herself.

  Panic had started to take hold of the public. All missing persons cases were being double checked but a large number of worried friends and families were contacting the police on a daily basis for updates in case their loved one was a potential victim. They played the numbers game, deciding to prioritise recent missing people.

  They were operating on a skeleton crew at the station and Jack had encouraged his officers to take some time off. Christensen was spending time with friends in the Lakes, whilst what Watkins was up to was anyone’s guess. He’d managed to convince Pritchard to return to Scotland to see his wife. So it was just him and his Black Sabbath records now.

  He was halfway through disc one of the greatest hits when his phone rang.

  ‘Hi, Dad, Merry Christmas!’ she shouted down the phone, the sound of music and numerous voices bleeding through from the background.

  ‘Merry Christmas, sweetie,’ he replied. ‘What are you up to?’

  ‘Well, Jeremy bought me a TV, so we’ve set that up and everybody is just messing around, playing games and stuff. Mum says to say thanks for the CDs.’

  ‘No problem.’