Open Grave

by A. M. Peacock

  ‘Well anyway, it was good to talk to you, I’ll see you later okay? And Mum says hello.’

  He wasn’t sure about that one. ‘Okay, bye, honey.’

  Suddenly his solitude became oppressive. Sick of staring at murder victims, he threw the folders to the floor and massaged his temples.

  Then his phone rang again.

  ‘Watkins?’

  He was met with background chatter and Take That tunes.

  ‘Hello?’ he tried again.

  ‘Howay, just one kiss?’ Watkins’ drunken voice slurred.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ Jack said, ending the call.

  He sighed, picked up the Open Grave documents once more and began flicking through. There was something he was missing. Until you solve the bugger, you’re always missing the vital link, he told himself, repeating a mantra he’d learned many moons ago.

  The phone rang again.

  ‘Watkins, honestly...’

  ‘What did you do?’ a panicked voice greeted him on the other end.

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘It’s Robson.’

  Jack groaned inwardly.

  ‘On Christmas, really?’

  ‘Who did you talk to?’

  He could hear shuffling on the line.

  ‘I haven’t got time for this—’

  ‘You don’t get it, do you? These people aren’t fucking about. Whatever you’ve done, they know I’ve talked. I rang you days ago to say they’re onto me but you didn’t even pick up.’

  ‘Who?’

  A pause.

  ‘If you’re not going to tell me—’

  ‘I’ve had my fucking windows put out. I know it’s them. This is your fault.’

  ‘David—’

  It was too late; the journalist had hung up.

  Somebody like David Robson would have a lot of enemies. Still, having your windows put out at Christmas wasn’t your usual disgruntled reader.

  ‘David bloody Robson,’ he said out loud.

  He tried ringing the journalist back on the same number but was sent straight to voicemail. Looking round the room, he felt a chill that wasn’t just due to the Baltic weather. Since the break-in, it hadn’t felt like home any more. He shuddered, getting that strange sensation people often experience when an intruder has been in their home. Since his altercation with the goon in the pub, Jack had been waiting for McGuinness to respond. There’d been nothing so far. Jack knew the gangster too well to think there’d be no comeback though. He’d shaken the tree, all he needed to do now was wait for the leaves to fall.

  He considered reading the case notes again but couldn’t stomach it. Instead, he passed the evening watching It’s A Wonderful Life for the hundredth time until it was pitch black outside. He dragged himself to his feet, pulled the curtains closed and headed for bed, taking up a bottle of water for good measure. He lay down on top of his sheets, not even bothering to remove his clothes. The last thing he remembered before passing out was the faint wash of headlights moving across his bedroom wall.

  * * *

  Of course, if he’d taken the time to look out of the window, he might have noticed the car parked opposite the house.

  The man smiled, turned his headlights on, and drove off slowly so as not to draw any attention to himself.

  Not long now.

  29

  Jack returned to work two days later. As he wandered into the station there was actually a spring in his step. No family problems here, just a series of unsolved crimes.

  ‘Boss,’ Christensen greeted him as he entered the MIR.

  ‘Did you have a good Christmas, Christensen?’ he asked.

  The squat detective shrugged. ‘Was okay.’

  A number of party hats and banners had been erected around the room. Jack felt irritated that people were celebrating during such a tough time for the force, but stopped himself short of saying something. Everybody needs to let off steam once in a while.

  ‘Let’s talk,’ Jack said.

  Two minutes later, the detectives were sitting in his office gazing at a whiteboard littered with hidden riddles and marker smears. Jack slammed the case files onto the desk. Time to get to work.

  Christensen raised his eyebrows. ‘Been doing some light reading over the holidays?’

  ‘I’m impressed, Christensen – was that an actual joke?’

  The DS’s face remained impassive. ‘Almost.’

  ‘Where’s Watkins?’

  ‘Out. There was a knifing near the Gate last night, so he’s heading up a team over there.’

  He nodded. Perhaps it was a sign of the times that a knifing didn’t even register on his radar any more.

  ‘Pritchard is off visiting family over the Christmas period,’ he informed Christensen. ‘He’s available via phone but, until we get any other new information, there isn’t really much need to drag him in. He is retired, after all.’

  Christensen nodded.

  Moments later a red-faced Watkins entered the room, shaking off a dusting of snow from his battered Parker jacket. He ran a hand through his ginger afro, spraying water everywhere.

  ‘Could you not have done that outside?’ Jack said.

  ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Is this knifing anything I need to worry about?’

  ‘No.’ He waved him away. ‘Caught the bloke this morning. Drunken yob upset at how poorly Newcastle United are doing this season.’

  ‘Have you seen the paper this morning?’ Watkins asked.

  The two detectives shook their heads.

  He fished a copy of The Sun from his man bag and dumped it on the desk.

  ‘Watkins, I’m really not interested in seeing another naked picture of Nell Stevens.’

  ‘What? Oh, no, it’s not that. Page five.’

  Jack prised the pages apart.

  ‘She’s been getting more hassle?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Why hasn’t she come to us?’

  ‘Says she can’t trust the police, that she came to us with what had happened, and it’s still going on.’

  Jack groaned. Great, now The Sun was up their backsides as well.

  A knock at the door drew his attention away.

  ‘Come in.’

  A young PC entered, clipboard in hand. ‘Hello, sir,’ she said. ‘We’ve had a call. A man matching Kyle Walsh’s description has been spotted in Jarrow. A...’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Concerned neighbour sounded the alarm. Says there have been numerous parties going on there lately and that she thinks her neighbour is harbouring a fugitive.’

  Jack felt his pulse quicken. He hadn’t been to Jarrow in a while. The place had gotten a bad name in recent years. It was unfair, really. Ever since Thatcher had closed the pits and failed to offer people any alternative work, they’d been fighting a losing battle.

  ‘Watkins… Christensen, I want both of you with me on this. We go in hard. This is just about the only lead we have right now and I don’t want anything left to chance. If it is Kyle Walsh, I don’t want him slipping through our fingers.’

  Within minutes Jack and Watkins were in one car whilst Christensen followed close behind in a second. They’d alerted dispatch and arranged for two other plainclothes units to approach in unmarked vehicles. Glancing down at the address once more, Jack pointed to the right.

  ‘I thought you liked to drive these days?’ Watkins said, turning into the estate.

  ‘Just not feeling great.’

  ‘Headaches again?’

  He shrugged. ‘By the way, you rang me on Christmas. You should be more careful with your phone when you’re drunk.’

  ‘Did I? Sorry, things got a little wild I suppose; still, nothing you won’t have been doing.’ He winked.

  Yeah, right. ‘Just pull in here.’

  The housing estate was heavily built up, unkempt gardens littered with broken toys and food cartons. Watkins manoeuvred the car into a space, and they waited, as Christensen pulled in behind them. Within a minute Jack saw the othe
r two cars enter from the other side, pulling up just opposite the flat where Kyle Walsh was potentially being harboured.

  Jack got on to the radio. ‘Right, Christensen, I want you round the back with patrol one. Patrol two, you’re with me, front door.’

  He waited as the crackle of the radio gave way to affirmative responses. Taking this kind of manpower was going a bit overboard but he didn’t want to take any risks. Besides, if anybody questioned him, he’d just say the old neighbour had told him they were armed.

  They stepped out into the heavily pock-marked road. To their left, thirty-two Pariah Avenue stood, the downstairs flat blanketed in darkness, one window boarded up with balsawood and graffiti. As he approached the door he could already smell the marijuana. Although it was quiet, Jack sensed that there were people inside. Stepping forward, he gave the brass knocker a heavy thud.

  A pause. Footsteps. Voices.

  ‘Who the fuck is that?’

  ‘Must be the dealer.’

  ‘Nice one. Answer it then.’

  Seconds later, Jack heard the latch move as the door opened. He was greeted by a spindly-looking man in his early twenties, complete with pasty complexion and the beginnings of a moustache.

  ‘Aye?’ he spat, eyes dancing over them suspiciously.

  ‘Police,’ Jack said, leg jamming into the doorway. ‘I’m looking for Kyle Walsh.’

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘We can either do this here, or down at the station. Either way, I will find him.’ He leaned in close, so close that he could smell the man’s harsh aftershave. ‘But you could save yourself a lot of trouble by just letting us in now.’

  The lad gulped and stepped back from the doorway.

  Jack got on the radio. ‘Christensen, we’re inside. Come round the front.’

  ‘Look, man, if this about the weed—’

  ‘I don’t give a shit about your drug habits, at least not today. This is about a murder case.’

  ‘I didn’t do nothing, I swear,’ he panicked.

  ‘Just tell me where he is.’

  The young man paused, not for long, but his eyes moved just enough to the left to suggest Kyle Walsh was in the house.

  ‘I can either turn this house upside down, looking for anything and everything, or you can give him up now.’

  Christensen appeared in the doorway, his face flushed from the cold. ‘Alright, boss?’

  ‘We will be in about three seconds; what’s your name, son?’

  ‘Neil Haddon,’ he replied, bringing a decimated nail up to his mouth. ‘Ah, shit, I’m sorry, Kyle! He’s in there.’ He motioned to a door behind him.

  ‘Watkins, see to it Mr Haddon doesn’t go anywhere while we have a chat with Kyle.’

  Jack motioned to Christensen, and the two men entered the living room. The pungent odour of marijuana laced the atmosphere as they stepped over various plastic cartons. In the far corner of the room, the unmistakable presence of Kyle Walsh sat, cross-legged, as if awaiting their arrival. All that was missing was the cat. He was seemingly enjoying the company of a tarted-up blonde who looked young enough to be in school. She was sitting with legs sprawled over him, her face nuzzled into his neck. It didn’t look as though he’d been washed in days. As he sat in his stained wife-beater, Jack couldn’t help but wonder what the appeal was.

  ‘What’s up?’ he said, raising a joint to his mouth before inhaling deeply and blowing it into the girl’s face.

  ‘Christensen, please escort our lady friend here to the kitchen.’

  The girl’s head snapped back, eyes a blur. She was either coming off the back of a session, or she was just starting.

  ‘Nah, man,’ Kyle said, smirk on his face. ‘She can stay.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, maybe I didn’t make myself clear,’ Jack said, focusing his stare on him. ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Jack Lambert. I also happen to be in charge here, so how about you shut your mouth unless I ask you a direct question?’

  Christensen helped the girl from the couch, her steps heavy as she made for the door. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s get you some water.’

  ‘Now,’ Jack began. ‘We can start.’

  He took a seat opposite Kyle, across from a small coffee table that was stained with tobacco and various other substances. The owner didn’t like to keep a clean house, it seemed.

  ‘You going to arrest me for the weed, man?’ He sniggered, taking another drag. ‘Don’t give a shit and neither should you. You got nothing better to do with your time, pig?’

  Jack noted the slight tremor in his hand. ‘Strangely enough, Kyle, no I haven’t. However, I’ll add it to the list.’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘What list?’

  ‘I’m here about Gary Dartford.’

  He rolled his eyes, taking another drag on his joint, sending plumes of smoke into the already thickened air. ‘What’s he done now?’

  Jack stopped short. ‘You’re not too observant, are you?’

  ‘Look, man—’

  ‘Gary Dartford is dead.’

  Jack searched his face for some semblance of previous knowledge, or guilt. Nothing, only shock.

  ‘What the fuck?’

  Jack took out his notepad and flicked it open to a blank page, removing a Parker pen from inside his jacket pocket. He paused, allowing Walsh to stew a little longer. His cocky demeanour paled somewhat.

  ‘Are you seriously telling me you didn’t know about his death?’

  ‘No! Nothing. Jesus Christ.’

  Christensen re-entered the room and took a seat next to Jack. ‘Watkins is seeing to her.’

  ‘When was the last time you saw him?’

  ‘Weeks ago.’

  ‘Specific date, please.’

  ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘What about the night of December eighth?’

  ‘I... I can’t remember.’

  ‘That’s strange,’ Jack said. ‘Because, I have a recording of your voice on Gary Dartford’s answering machine, making arrangements to meet up that very night.’

  The tension was almost visible above the smoke now.

  ‘So,’ Jack continued. ‘I’ll ask you one more time, when did you last see Gary Dartford?’

  ‘I... I cancelled that night.’

  ‘Why?’

  Sweat was beginning to form on his brow now. ‘Something came up.’

  Jack removed a set of handcuffs from his belt and placed them on the table.

  ‘What came up, Kyle?’

  ‘I’m in a bit of trouble, is all,’ he spluttered. ‘Owe some people some money. They’ve been tailing me. That’s why I’ve been hiding out here. I’d been threatened that day and was scared to go out. That’s why I cancelled.’

  Jack took in a deep breath before asking the next question, well aware that this was what they were really after.

  ‘Where had you arranged to meet?’

  ‘Dog and Parrot,’ he said. ‘We usually hit the same places up. From there, we head to Mr Lynch’s, Blue Bamboo and Tiger Tiger, before a kebab. I can’t believe he’s dead. What happened?’

  Jack scribbled the pub names down, aware that his heart was now racing. He wasn’t sure whether it was adrenaline or the fumes.

  ‘The Open Grave Murderer.’

  ‘Fuck... wow, you don’t think it’s me, do you?’

  His entire body was visibly shaking now.

  ‘No, Kyle, I don’t.’

  Kyle Walsh exhaled a sigh of relief, resting his head on the back of the chair.

  ‘Do you know what Gary did that night after you cancelled?’

  ‘He told me he was going to go out. He was that type, always knew somebody. He’d go out alone and wouldn’t think anything of it. Shit, I can’t believe this has happened. What if I had been there?’

  ‘We don’t know what happened that particular night, only that you were the last person to have contact with him, as far as we know.’

  ‘So now what?’

  ‘Well,’ Jack conti
nued, taking the joint from Kyle and stubbing it out in a plastic Bob Marley ashtray. ‘Now I am going to arrest you for the drugs.’

  ‘Come on, man!’

  Jack made to cuff him but stopped short, something popping into his mind.

  ‘Just one more question.’

  ‘Will you drop the drug shit if I answer?’

  Jack considered it. ‘It can’t hurt your chances.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Where do you get the weed from?’

  Kyle squirmed in his seat, head shaking. ‘Howay, man, you know I can’t give shit like that away.’

  Jack twirled the cuffs around in his hand. ‘Then I’ll have to assume it’s you who’s dealing it out.’

  ‘No, wait! Ah, shit... look, I don’t know his real name. Nobody ever sees him.’

  Jack paused. ‘A name.’

  ‘Nobody knows, alright. We get it from all sorts of people. It’s some new stuff that’s on the market, really potent. Word is, the guy distributing it is called the Captain. Fucking stupid name if you ask me.’

  He spent the remainder of the journey back to the station in silent contemplation, which wasn’t easy given the stream of expletives emanating from the back of the car. Apparently, Kyle Walsh and his drug buddy Neil Haddon took exception to being arrested for breaking the law. On arrival, he escorted the two of them to the booking desk and left Watkins to see to the particulars. Jack had no doubt that Kyle wasn’t the Open Grave Murderer, but it couldn’t hurt to have him chew things over in custody.

  ‘Well that was exciting,’ Watkins said, plonking down in a seat opposite Jack’s desk.

  Christensen entered, closed the door, and followed suit.

  ‘There’s something we’re missing here,’ Jack said.

  Watkins leaned forward, his eyebrows raised. ‘Such as?’

  ‘I can’t shake the feeling that this ‘Captain’ person is bad news. Like proper bad news.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’ Christensen asked.

  Jack stopped short, aware he was drumming on the desk. It was a nervous habit he’d picked up some years ago. ‘This isn’t the first time I’ve been made aware of this Captain fella. The name came up when we were questioning local drug dealers in relation to Peter Rutherford. Now I’ve got Kyle Walsh looking over his shoulder, getting hassle from local druggies. Turns out, his main supplier is this Captain bloke.’