Open Grave

  ‘No such thing as coincidences,’ Christensen said.

  ‘Well, did Kyle say whether or not Gary Dartford was into the drugs too?’

  Jack cleared his throat, embarrassed at having forgotten to ask.

  ‘We’ll have to check it out.’

  ‘I’m on it,’ Christensen said, rising.

  Jack noticed his phone was vibrating. ‘Watkins, go with him, two heads are better than one.’

  He waited for both of them to leave the room before answering. ‘Hello, Pritchard, enjoying retirement?’

  ‘It’s not so bad. I’m just in the pub, a few pints down, and I thought I would check up on how things are going.’

  Jack filled him in on the details. ‘Any ideas then?’

  ‘Nothing.’ The profiler coughed down the phone. ‘However, I’d say that anybody who refers to themselves as ‘Captain’ must have one hell of a superiority complex.’

  He smiled, thanked him, and ended the call. Jack turned to face the whiteboard. He could barely see what was in front of him, such was his tiredness. Still, he didn’t need to look to know what was there. God knows he’d spent enough hours staring at the various fragments of the broken jigsaw. Each set of victims set out in pairs; first of all, Jessica Lisbie and Travis Kane. Next to them sat the images of Peter Rutherford and Amy Drummond. Perhaps most disturbing of all were the images of Gary Dartford and Melissa Norman. Details of the final female victim were sketchy, but DI Russell was working on it. Another victim seemingly socially isolated from those around her.

  Surely it wasn’t all linked to drugs?

  Watkins and Christensen returned a few minutes later.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘According to Kyle Walsh, Gary was in on the drugs as well.’

  Jack let the news sink in. ‘We are going to need a focus shift. I want a team looking into this new drug lord. Somebody must know something. Get a list together of all known drug offenders in the local area. I want door knocking, door breaking and all lines of questioning covered.’

  ‘No problem, boss.’

  ‘Watkins, look into the other victims. Any history of drug use whether it be themselves, their friends or family. I want answers as soon as possible.’

  ‘On it.’

  Both men left as quickly as they’d arrived. Jack glanced at his St Clare’s Hospice calendar on the wall waiting to be opened. Maybe the New Year would bring a new set of results. God knows they needed it now more than ever.

  He stood and faced the images of all the victims. Their eyes bore into him, demanding their own answers, their own justice. There was a link somewhere. Maybe it was a common location. Maybe it was a common enemy. Either way, Jack felt they were closer to an answer now than they had been this morning. He just hoped they could stop whoever it was before anything else happened.

  Unless they were already too late.

  30

  Jack sat nibbling at his thumbnail. The details of the phone call he’d just had with the Newcastle Chronicle editor were still swimming through his mind.

  ‘What’s up?’ Watkins asked, balancing two cups of coffee as he waded into the room, a ginger snap perched between his lips.

  ‘Just got off the phone with Craig Lisle.’

  ‘What have we not done now?’

  ‘Not us, David Robson.’

  The DS grimaced as a glob of steaming hot cappuccino landed on his hand, before dropping the biscuit to the floor.

  ‘Ten second rule,’ he cried out before picking it up, dusting it off and taking a bite. ‘What’s he done?’

  Jack shook his head. ‘Nothing, that’s the problem. He hasn’t reported for work for a couple of days now and nobody can seem to reach him.’

  ‘Maybe he’s upped and done a runner?’ Watkins said, cheerfully.

  Jack sipped his coffee, taking a moment to recount the conversation he’d had with the journalist just days before. He’d told him that ‘they’ knew. Maybe he wasn’t so full of shit after all.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘How come?’

  Jack knew he was treading on thin ice but had no other choice but to tell the detective. ‘I had a private meeting with Robson a few weeks ago.’

  ‘Jesus, Jack, did you take money from him?’

  ‘Hardly,’ he snapped. ‘What do you take me for?’

  An awkward silence ensued, the details of the hacking scandal still fresh in their minds. It wouldn’t do to have a DCI to be seen to be taking bribes from a journalist. Especially one with the reputation of David bloody Robson.

  ‘He asked to meet me, so I agreed. He gave me some info on Dorian McGuinness’s group.’

  ‘So we based an illicit stakeout on a tip off from a dodgy journo?’

  It did sound bad when it was put like that. ‘He was scared,’ Jack continued. ‘Said he may need something in return but never really said what. I’m thinking this is what he was talking about. Plus, we have Liam Reed to consider here as well.’

  ‘So you think he was into something deep?’

  Jack paused. ‘I think he was tipped off and got in over his head. Who that tip came from, I have no idea.’

  Watkins nodded.

  He stood and began pacing, recanting the events in his mind, searching for a link. He always found he worked better on his feet. ‘I think this theory has legs,’ he said finally. ‘The body of Liam Reed, Robson spooked, the abandoned factory, it all adds up to something big.’

  ‘You thinking Reed was a rat?’

  He shrugged. ‘Maybe. It would make sense, wouldn’t it? He wanted out. Maybe he knew what was going on and used it as leverage to broker his severance, only McGuinness couldn’t just let him walk. Under torture, Reed tells them he told Robson who, in turn, turned to me to help out. And now this...’

  ‘That’s a pretty extravagant theory, Jack.’

  Jack stopped pacing and glanced out of the window at the tightly-knitted clouds. ‘Agreed. However, I’d bet my house on at least some of it being true.’

  ‘It’s not the biggest of houses,’ Watson quipped.

  He smiled. ‘That’s why I’m willing to bet it.’

  Half an hour later they pulled up outside David Robson’s luxury detached house in the Jesmond Dene area. According to official records, he lived alone. Watkins whistled as they headed up the paved garden path. Either Robson had won big on the stock market, or he was on the fiddle.

  Jack knew which way he’d bet.

  The house itself was a modern structure over three floors, with a clean white appearance and two bay windows on the ground floor. Above the blue double-breasted front door, a balcony hung, rocking chair perched outside yet another full-length window, the insides protected by a thick curtain. It looked like some kind of plantation house.

  ‘Remind me to take up a journalism career once this is over,’ Watkins said.

  ‘I’ll head round the back, you scout out the front and see if anything looks disturbed.’

  He veered to the left, taking the opportunity to glance over at the neighbouring houses. Although not a huge garden, it was neatly kept with low cut grass and a thick hedge lining the perimeter. The nearest house stood some distance away. Already, Jack was thinking it unlikely that anybody had seen anything occur here.

  As he headed round the side, he glanced up, one solitary window peering down at him. Probably a bathroom. The smell of fresh grass, and what he assumed to be turps, stung his nostrils like an out of date aftershave. So far so good.

  The back garden looked much the same as the front. In fact, it was practically a mirror image. Jack hadn’t thought of Robson as the neat and tidy type. Still, how much did he really know about the man anyway?

  Glancing down, he checked for any fresh footprints. Nothing. There were ways of avoiding footprints, if you knew what to do.

  The back of the house was equally impressive with a large patio door set off to the right. A kitchen window and back door stood on the other side. Jack moved over to the window and
peered in. A giant wooden breakfast bar stood nearby with a copy of The Sun newspaper on the counter. Jack noticed the heavy colouring in of Nell Stevens’ image. She’d had a rather ugly pair of glasses and some kind of strange hairdo drawn onto her. Other than the tabloid graffiti, there was seemingly not a hair out of place.

  Just to be sure, he switched places with Watkins and checked over the front. Still he found nothing. Frowning, he pulled out the e-cigarette he’d gotten himself for Christmas and inhaled the nicotine. Not even close to a real hit. He sighed, and placed it back in the container.

  ‘Not a hair out of place,’ Watkins said.

  Jack spent the best part of ten minutes hammering away at the door and peering in various windows before he was sure nobody was home. He stood back from the house and glanced up. Not even a curtain twitch. Unless Robson was dead inside, the house was most definitely empty.

  ‘We are going to have to get a warrant and break in, just to be sure,’ Jack said as they headed back to the car.

  ‘You want to handle it?’

  ‘No, I’ll send some uniforms down; we have more important things to worry about.’

  He’d barely made it inside the station before Gerrard cornered them in the corridor.

  ‘Have you heard?’ she asked.

  ‘H-heard what?’ Watkins stuttered, eyes unable to meet hers.

  ‘Edwards arrived at work today then, after bollocking a couple of uniforms, keeled over.’

  Jack exhaled. ‘Is he alive?’

  ‘Yeah, but he’s in hospital now undergoing tests.’ She paused, fiddling with a chewed biro. ‘Anyway, just thought I’d let you know. Oh, and DI Russell has been placed in temporary charge.’

  ‘You what?’

  A glimmer of a smile. ‘I thought you might enjoy that. Dalton has placed her in temporary charge for now.’

  ‘Over Jack?’ Watkins exclaimed.

  ‘It’s fine,’ he interjected. ‘I’m bad news right now. Plus, with Jane acting up, it allows me to continue as SIO on the Open Grave case.’

  ‘Still...’ Watkins muttered.

  Only time would tell if the Bulldog let the power go to her head. Either way, Jack was determined not to take any shit from her.

  ‘It makes sense,’ he continued. ‘Dalton knows I have my hands full.’

  ‘Oh, and she wants to see you right away, guv,’ Gerrard said.

  And with that she was gone.

  Jane Russell stood and greeted him stoically as he entered Edwards’ room. ‘Please, take a seat.’

  She hadn’t wasted much time in making herself at home in his office. Gone was the clutter, placed in a box in the corner of the room, an assortment of her own photos and paraphernalia placed in regimented fashion around her work space.

  It was as if Edwards had already died.

  ‘Jane.’

  ‘And just where have you been for the last two hours?’

  ‘Following up a lead.’

  She raised a thinly-pencilled eyebrow. ‘Care to elaborate?’

  He shrugged, offended at the offhand way in which she was choosing to speak to him. ‘Not really.’

  ‘May I remind you that I am your superior officer...?’

  ‘Jane, please don’t play the hard ass with me,’ he cut in. ‘We both know that the station is completely understaffed at present and, despite your best efforts to prove otherwise, I haven’t done anything wrong. So, what do you actually want?’

  He watched as the acting DSI pursed her mouth into an ugly grimace. Go on, say something else, he silently urged her.

  Instead of biting, she simply straightened out her jack and smiled – a fake smile, but a smile nonetheless. ’I am merely wondering what could be so important that you thought it wise to leave the Open Grave case understaffed. Could Watson not have done it?’

  ‘Watkins,’ he corrected her.

  ‘Yes.’ She waved him away.

  Through gritted teeth, he brought her up to speed with the David Robson story, informing her of the phone call the hack had made to him in a panic, followed by the missing persons report filed by his editor that led to the search. He decided to omit the details about meeting him in a bar.

  ‘Sounds riveting,’ she said, once he was finished. ‘In future, send one of your minions to sort it out. I want you here.’

  ‘Look, Jane, I’m SIO on this case and I won’t have you muscling in on my investigation, acting DSI or no acting DSI. If you insist on continuing with this approach, I will have no alternative but to file a report removing myself from the case due to outside interference.’

  He saw the panic dance across her eyes. ‘Yes... well... just make sure you keep your focus.’

  ‘No problem, guv,’ he said, emphasising the last part.

  He left the office moments later, wound up and in need of a cigarette. Who did Russell think she was, ordering him around like some kind of lapdog? His only comfort was that she’d have to sit through meetings with PCC Nadine Guthrie on a regular basis. This was the thought he allowed himself to follow as he bumped into Watkins outside the incident room.

  ‘Do you have a cigarette?’ he enquired, brusquely.

  ‘I thought you’d given up?’

  Jack stared the DS down. ‘Do you, or don’t you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘For God’s sake!’

  Watkins grinned. ‘Just got word from uniform, no sign of any struggle in the house, or a body. Want to go down and check it out?’

  Getting out of the station was tempting, but they really did have more important matters to attend to.

  ‘No, I need an update on the Open Grave murders, including the potential drug link.’

  Inside the MIR, they found an unusually dishevelled and somewhat wet DS Christensen waving a piece of paper around. The officers in attendance sat in silent intimidation. Jack had never seen the man exert any sort of dominance over anybody, and felt that perhaps Christensen allowed the rumours about his efficiency and temper to spread so that he didn’t even have to try.

  ‘Christensen,’ he greeted him.

  ‘Boss.’

  ‘Any luck?’

  The blond detective motioned them over to a table, cleared the contents and spread out a number of printed sheets. He paused, gazing over them, before continuing.

  ‘We’ve looked into all of the victims’ histories as best we can, re-questioning the relatives and close friends.’

  Jack could tell by the look on his face that the drugs lead was a dead end and prepared himself for what would come next.

  ‘So, anything come up?’ Watkins asked.

  ‘I’m afraid not. Apart from Gary Dartford and Peter Rutherford, there seems to be no drug link.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean there isn’t one,’ Watkins said. ‘Just that their relatives didn’t know about it. I know I wouldn’t tell my parents if I had an addiction.’

  The silence stretched as they lost themselves in thought. Although Watkins might be right, Jack felt there was no point in pursuing it. Still, this Captain bloke seemed to be popping up more and more. They’d have to keep an eye on him… if they could find out who the hell he was.

  ‘So, we are back to square one,’ Jack added, gloomily.

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Christensen, stooping to gather the papers back up.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘It may be nothing, but I thought I would check anyway.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Well, I remember you saying about where Gary Dartford and Kyle Walsh were meant to be heading out to. I was going to check out the CCTV footage for the pubs, but you’d already sent a team in, so I thought I’d do some digging, see if any of the other victims could be linked to the location.’

  ‘There’s a link?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘Go on,’ Jack urged him.

  Christensen continued. ‘According to Amy Drummond’s parents, they were unsure as to where she was going, but knew her to often visit Tiger Tiger.’

  ‘A
nd the others?’

  ‘Nothing concrete but, according to a friend of Jessica Lisbie’s, she often visited the Bigg Market and Quayside after work.’

  Jack was sure the drugs link would get them nowhere, but finding a location might. The Open Grave Murderer had to find his victims somewhere. Where better than a nightclub he was familiar with filled with people who were intoxicated? He ran the list of pubs over in his mind a number of times before he realised that the two sergeants were looking at him.

  ‘I need those CCTV images scrutinised. We’ll need to split up, but I want an open line at all times. Anything looks suspicious, let me know.’

  ‘Do you realise how much tape we are going to have to go through?’ Watkins asked.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘But, all we need is one of the victims, and we can work from there. Start with eighth of December, that’s when Gary Dartford was last known to be out in a public setting. Perhaps the killer targets them in pairs somehow. If we find Gary, we can hopefully find Amy. If we find Amy, we may find the killer.’

  Minutes later Jack stepped out into the crisp evening air, a red hue hanging low over the sky. His phone began to vibrate. An unknown caller. He cancelled the call, thrusting the phone back into his pocket seconds before it rang again.

  ‘Look, I’m not interested,’ he called down the line.

  ‘I think you will be interested in this,’ a familiar voice echoed down the line.

  ‘Keira,’ he greeted her. ‘Please tell me you have good news?’

  Keira Tilson was a fibre analyst. Not just any fibre analyst; one of the best Jack had come across. It was just his luck that she happened to work in Newcastle.

  ‘I don’t know about good, but I do have something,’ she continued. ‘I may have found some interesting fibres. I’ll not bore you with the science behind it all, but suffice to say, we have a match between fibres on two of the victims.’

  ‘You’re right, I am interested.’

  ‘Although I can’t be one hundred per cent sure, I’d say we definitely have some kind of camouflage clothing involved here.’

  ‘Meaning?’ he asked.