Open Grave

by A. M. Peacock

  ‘My father rents it for me,’ she said. ‘He felt I was ready to move out and be independent. I think he just wanted the extra space, being the busy businessman that he is,’ she added, her tone flat.

  Jack nodded, deciding not to press further.

  ‘Miss...’

  ‘Please, call me Ruth,’ she said, eyes dancing over his bruises.

  ‘Skiing accident. Ruth, Detective Christensen and I are here as we believe you may have some very valuable information that we could use in our current investigation.’

  The young girl nodded, her eyes flitting to the bedroom door.

  ‘Is everything okay?’ Jack asked.

  ‘It’s just Martin,’ she replied. ‘He’s quite jealous.’

  ‘Well, I don’t think he needs to be jealous of somebody who is now deceased,’ he said, voice devoid of humour.

  ‘Yeah, I suppose so.’

  ‘Ruth, what was the date of your night out in which you remember seeing Gary Dartford?’

  ‘December eight.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Definitely, it was two days before my birthday.’

  ‘Where did you see him?’

  Her brow furrowed. ‘I think it was in Mr Lynch’s.’

  ‘Towards Central Station?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Approximately what time?’

  ‘It must have been around 10.30pm.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’ he pressed, scribbling down her responses.

  ‘We always follow the same route. It’s my friend Sandra, she’s anal about that stuff.’

  Jack watched her as she talked, becoming aware for the first time just how young she was.

  ‘Talk me through what happened?’

  ‘I was walking back from the bar, with Sandra actually, when this bloke came up and asked if he could buy me a drink.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘That I already had one, as well as a boyfriend.’

  Again, her eyes moved to the bedroom door.

  ‘And you are sure it was Gary Dartford?’ he asked, fishing out a recent photo for her to look at.

  ‘Yes, positive. I recognised him from his mugshot in the paper. Lots of hair gel.’

  Jack smiled, replacing the photo. ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘Well... he persisted, so Sandra told him where to go. He left, tail between his legs.’

  Jack nodded, finishing off his notes. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I’m sorry I don’t know anything else. Probably not much use, I imagine.’

  ‘You’ve been more than helpful,’ he replied then, handing her a business card, said, ‘If you think of anything else, you can contact me directly via this number.’

  He held her gaze for a couple of seconds then motioned to Christensen for them to leave. There was still no sign of life behind the bedroom door as they reached the hallway. Seconds later they were heading back down the landing, Jack already keying in the relevant numbers on his mobile.

  ‘Hello, I want the CCTV from Mr Lynch’s, near Central Station, December eighth from 10pm onwards. You have Gary Dartford’s description; if he leaves, pick him up and follow the trail. Get me a copy of the tape from that night and send it to the station.’

  He replaced his mobile as they made it outside.

  ‘Useful witness, seems intelligent too,’ Christensen remarked as they headed back in the patrol car. ‘You think she’s reliable?’

  ‘I think she’s remarkable,’ Jack commented. ‘Her memory is excellent but she’s holding something back.’

  The DS nodded in agreement.

  ‘The boyfriend?’

  ‘Grade one nut-job,’ Jack said. ‘That’s why I gave her my card. I imagine she’ll be in touch before the day is out if she can get shot of him.’

  Rain began pitter-pattering on the windscreen, causing the automatic wipers to screech into action. Jack dragged open the glovebox and took out his e-cigarette, then took a few puffs.

  ‘What’s the next step then, boss?’ Christensen asked.

  He paused for thought. That’s what he liked about Christensen. He only dealt in structure and details. Although his professionalism could be draining, it was what they all needed right now. Someday he’d no doubt rise in the ranks and make an excellent DI.

  ‘Right now, the tape is all we have to go on. Drop me off at the station and then go question the staff at the bar to see what they know.’

  He nodded.

  The rest of the journey passed without talk, Christensen navigating the roads at an almost legal pace, before pulling in at the station. Jack packed his e-cigarette away and thanked him, moving to get out.

  ‘Christensen?’

  ‘Boss?’

  ‘You had anything out of the ordinary occur lately?’

  The DS lowered his eyebrows, perplexed. ‘Like what?’

  ‘Threats?’

  The blond detective shook his head. ‘Should I have?’

  ‘Never mind,’ Jack replied.

  The car sped out of the car park, leaving him to ponder recent events. He had to assume that whoever had threatened him was now out of the picture. Dorian McGuinness had no doubt seen to that. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that there would be more fallout from what had happened. At some point, he’d have to go back to the fish shop for a visit. Right now, though, he had to concentrate on the Open Grave murders. McGuinness and the gang could wait.

  For now.

  He’d barely made it back inside before the desk sergeant accosted him.

  ‘DCI Lambert?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Call just came through from dispatch, they have that tape you were after.’

  ‘Brilliant, get a room set up for me and I’ll be along shortly.’

  Jack went looking for Watkins, without success. He was probably out following up a line of questioning. He was thankful for the time alone. After a quick drop-in to the MIR, he grabbed himself a cup of barely dissolved coffee from the canteen before bustling in to the cramped video room that had been hastily set up.

  Sitting on a squeaky chair in front of him was a woman he didn’t recognise, glasses perched low on her crooked nose. Her auburn hair was scraped back into a ponytail and long, green painted nails tapped away on a keyboard.

  ‘Hello... where’s Terry?’

  The woman turned around and surveyed him. ‘Oh, yes, the usual analyst. Heart attack last week. I’ve been brought in temporarily due to my knack for recognising faces and remembering things.’ Seeing the look of horror on his face, she added. ‘I’m told he’ll live. I’m Penny.’

  ‘Oh,’ he forced out, taking a seat next to her.

  Clearing her throat, she set about her work, bringing up the video image on the screen.

  ‘I’ve been brought up to speed on the details,’ she told him, matter-of-factly. ‘If Gary Dartford was there, I’ll find him.’

  Jack had to admire her confidence, even if she was a little odd.

  ‘Great.’

  They spent the next half an hour laboriously going through the tapes in real time, the good, bad and ugly of Newcastle’s nightlife flitting across the screen. Once or twice, he’d made an effort to point out a potential suspect, only to be swatted away by the tech’s finely manicured hand. After a while he couldn’t stand it any longer.

  ‘I’m going to go and get another coffee, want anything?’

  ‘No.’

  Jack made to leave.

  ‘Oh, and, Inspector?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Take your time, I work better alone anyway.’

  He somehow managed to make it back to his office, cup of coffee in hand, without being cornered for anything. Praising his good luck, he carefully shut his door and slumped into the battered office chair he’d grown so fond of over the years. The hot coffee served to warm his insides but he’d not put enough sugar in. He winced, placed the plastic cup on the desk and glanced at the whiteboard.

  The faces of Jessica Lisbie, T
ravis Kane, Peter Rutherford, Amy Drummond, Melissa Norman and Gary Dartford stared out at him. They’d spent too long trying to focus on a link between the victims. Yes, they were linked by location, seemingly, but that was it. He realised now that he’d be asking questions of himself regarding this case until the day he finally retired.

  Which might be sooner that he’d thought if things didn’t pick up.

  The priority now was to locate the Open Grave Murderer before he struck again. Mr Lynch’s was the pub. He could feel it. As clichéd as it sounded, he simply had a hunch. More often than not, his hunches had steered him in the right direction. What concerned him, though, was the brazen killing of Gary Dartford. If the killer was willing to do that, where would he go next?

  It wasn’t as if they’d really made any progress regarding the gang warfare case either. Sure, he’d been kidnapped, tied up and assaulted, but what had they really achieved? In all probability at least two men were ‘missing in action,’ due to the actions of Dorian McGuinness. Jack knew what that would mean. He might push the boundaries every now and then, but he wasn’t a bent copper. He refused to open up that can of worms.

  By the time the team had arrived at the factory there was no trace of any action. Jack had thought as much. Still, he’d had to call it in. Something told him he wouldn’t be seeing much of Tank from now on. This knowledge left him uneasy – he basically knew a man had been killed but had no way of proving it unless McGuinness slipped up.

  And then there was the question of who was behind this rival gang. The Captain? Unfortunately for him, nobody seemed to know who he was and they had zero leads. With that and the Nell Stevens story currently destroying the image of Northumbria’s finest, things were going downhill fast.

  Jack’s phone began vibrating just as Watkins ambled into the room. He motioned for him to sit down before taking the call.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘It’s me, Ruth.’

  ‘Miss Grabham, hello,’ Jack replied, almost adding that he’d been expecting her call.

  ‘My boyfriend has gone to the shops, so I can’t stay on long.’

  She was scared of him. Jack couldn’t help but picture his own daughter in the same situation at some point in the future. He ground his teeth at the thought. ‘Was there something you remembered?’

  ‘Well... it’s about that night in the bar.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I wasn’t being entirely honest. Gary came on to me and I’d had a few drinks. I... may have... something may have happened.’

  Jack’s interest was piqued.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I left my mates, but told him we couldn’t do anything in the pub. I got him to meet me round the back. We met there and, a few minutes later, I went back inside.’

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘Probably about quarter to eleven-ish.’

  ‘Okay,’ Jack said. ‘Hold on, did you both go back into the pub together?’

  ‘God, no! Martin has spies everywhere,’ she replied. ‘I told him to wait a few minutes, then come back in. He wasn’t impressed, but it was either that or Martin killing him.’

  The irony that Gary had in fact been killed seemed lost on her. As for her fella’s possible reaction, Jack wasn’t surprised. ‘Did you spot anybody watching you?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so, but it was dark.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before; it’s probably useless anyway.’

  ‘No,’ Jack cut in, ‘you’ve been most helpful, Ruth. Listen, if there’s anything else you remember, or you have any issues,’ Jack added, boyfriend coming to mind, ‘don’t hesitate to contact us.’

  After he’d ended the call, he filled Watkins in on the details, watching the DS’s eyes light up as he laid it all out.

  ‘So, we have a witness who was with Dartford on the night, who can testify that he was outside at around ten forty-five, where she left him before going back in? He had to have been followed.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  Seconds later, a set of green fingernails appeared around the doorway.

  ‘Got him.’

  Success.

  Jack and Watkins followed her to the control room, where a flickering screen had been paused. The time was stamped at 10.42pm.

  ‘Where am I looking?’ Watkins asked.

  The woman sighed and jabbed the screen. ‘Up there on the left.’

  There was no doubting it. Unless somebody was going around with the exact same ridiculous hairstyle, Gary Dartford had been in Mr Lynch’s on eighth December between 10pm and 11pm.

  ‘Fast forward it, slowly,’ he instructed her. ‘I want to watch his movements.’

  She turned to a second screen.

  ‘I’m running these simultaneously, just in case he moves between camera angles.’

  They stood in silence as the images played out in front of them. At first, he stood stock still, then – moments later – moved out of view before appearing on the second screen. Jack leaned forward, eyes scanning the monitor.

  The video tech manoeuvred different frames around, going forwards and backwards between segments in time. Jack could feel sweat prickling down his back as they all watched in eager silence.

  ‘If you see here.’ She pointed a slim hand at the screen. ‘He’s at the side of the bar nearest to the toilets.’

  The assembled party watched as the image juddered across the screen. Right on cue, Dartford approached what looked to be Ruth Grabham; almost unrecognisable with her hair done up and a layer of make-up that a plasterer would be impressed with. Penny allowed the video to run in real time, the seemingly endless number of bodies on the screen blurring into one large fuzz as Jack focused in on the couple in question. They talked for around two minutes with Ruth pausing to wave a few of her friends away at one point. Leaning in close to him, Ruth alternated between fidgeting with her hair and taking sips of her cocktail through a small, black straw.

  Moments later Ruth motioned to the main entrance and he nodded, his hand lingering on her arm before turning to leave. They all followed as Dartford’s image exited the club.

  ‘Want me to rewind?’ Penny asked, her voice cutting through the tension.

  ‘No, not yet,’ Jack replied.

  He watched Ruth in the second screen as she made her excuses to what looked like three of her girlfriends, before following Dartford out of the pub.

  ‘Wait!’ he commanded.

  The video played out, with at least twelve different people leaving through the very same door, before a rather dishevelled-looking Ruth Grabham reappeared, straightening out her skirt. The video played for another ten minutes.

  Gary Dartford didn’t return.

  ‘Interesting,’ Watkins said.

  ‘So,’ Jack said, beginning to pace. ‘We know that Gary Dartford was alive and in public at ten forty-two on the eighth of December. We also know that Ruth Grabham’s story checks out. At ten forty-eight Gary leaves the club, where he is followed by Ruth. At ten fifty-five the girl re-enters alone and, from there, we’ve lost him.’

  ‘Maybe it’s someone from the bar?’ Watkins suggested.

  ‘I reckon it was,’ Penny interjected. They looked to her. ‘Just a gut feeling.’

  ‘I counted twelve people leaving the premises during that time,’ he said.

  ‘Me too,’ said the DS.

  ‘If we are to assume that Dartford was abducted during this time, and that’s a big assumption, then chances are it was one of those twelve people who did it, given that he was deliberately targeted. I mean, what are the chances that the killer wasn’t watching him?’

  The room nodded in agreement as Christensen appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Rewind the tape.’

  32

  The nights were growing darker now, allowing him to go about his business with ease. Not that he needed any help. Everything was playing into his hands. As if it wasn’t already easy enough, he now had a bigger window in
which to work.

  The press called them ‘victims.’ Their fear had caused each of them to plead for their lives, turning to pathetic sobs when they realised there was no chance. That was when the bargaining began.

  It wasn’t a negotiation.

  Of course, he nodded his head, feigning concern while listening to them. But he was only playing along, needing them to believe they had a chance so that the truth would hit them harder.

  The muffled cries from below broke through his thoughts. Bitch. She’d get what was coming to her. Just like the others. She’d been a real nuisance but then he knew she would be. He had half a mind to kill her here and now. She was no good to him dead, though. She needed her partner. He already knew who he needed. Gary Dartford had been a stroke of genius, but that would be just a prelude to what was coming.

  He thumped his foot down on the wooden flooring. Seconds later, the cries turned to sobs. He smiled, feeling his pulse quicken. Too easy. He opened up his toolbox, took out an electric saw and screwdriver. They were just for show, though. He couldn’t be dealing with mess. He checked his watch. Twelve hours since he’d locked her up. That left him with another twelve hours to complete the job.

  The floorboards creaked as he made for the basement door. He fumbled for the handle, excitement causing him to perspire. He allowed himself heavy footsteps, twelve in total, each one placed with a more emphasised thud. By the time he reached the bottom she was pleading again, cowering away in the corner.

  He’d hoped for more from her.

  ‘Please,’ she cried, hair matted to her head.

  He gazed down upon her leg, bruised and raw. Hurting her hadn’t been part of the plan. He just couldn’t help himself.

  He plugged the saw in, turned it on, the shrieking of the instrument matched by the screams of his prisoner as he slowly approached her. It would be easy to cut her throat, but that wasn’t neat enough. He had to be neat.

  He flicked the saw back off and laughed at her terror. Shuddering at the impact of her fear, he sank to one knee to catch his breath.