Open Grave

  She reached a trembling hand towards him. ‘Just let me go,’ she pleaded.

  ‘Don’t touch me!’ he shouted, slapping her across the face.

  He stumbled backwards as she raised her palm up to her grazed cheek. The tears had started again.

  ‘Look what you made me do!’ he screamed.

  Suddenly overcome with sickness, he turned on his heels and ran up the staircase, slamming the door behind him. How could she do that? They never touched him, not once they were locked up. It was against the rules. What a mess! Stupid, stupid man, he scolded himself. This is what you get when you aren’t tidy.

  He jammed his eyes shut, counted to ten and grabbed his jacket from the bannister. Twelve hours was too long to wait.

  33

  A red-faced Pritchard bustled through the incident room. ‘Details?’

  Jack spun around to face the semiretired psychologist, noting a sallowness to his face as if he hadn’t slept properly in a while.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Pritchard said, waving him away. ‘What do we have?’

  Jack spent ten minutes filling him in on the details. By the time he’d finished, the silence was palpable.

  ‘Show me the tape.’

  Five minutes later they were back in the video room, the image of hundreds of Newcastle revellers plastered across the screen. Seas of barely-dressed women and highly-groomed men caroused, unaware of the carnage that would follow.

  ‘There!’ Jack snapped, pausing the tape.

  ‘What am I looking at?’ Pritchard asked, lifting up his glasses to peer at the screen.

  ‘Observe.’ Jack rewound the tape. ‘Here we have Gary Dartford approaching Ruth Grabham...’

  Jack, Watkins and Pritchard all watched the video in silence as Gary made his move on the young woman. The difference this time was that they were not focused on the couple in the centre of the screen but the top left, by the edge of the bar.

  ‘I see him,’ Pritchard said.

  They all watched as revellers manoeuvred in and around the bar, the one exception being the tall, slender, dark-featured man, in the top left corner. His eyes didn’t move.

  ‘Keep watching.’

  Moments later, Gary exited the bar, followed by Ruth stumbling in her high heels. All the while, at the bar, the man’s eyes never left them. Once they had disappeared, he finished his drink, placed the glass carefully onto the bar and walked out.

  Jack felt Pritchard massaging his temples, before replacing his glasses around his neck. Watkins sat, stony faced, staring at the images playing out before him.

  ‘I know it’s a long shot...’ Jack began.

  ‘I wouldn’t say so,’ Pritchard interrupted, his gaze landing on him.

  Jack motioned for him to continue.

  ‘Look at the precision of the murders – not a hair out of place, yes?’ He began pacing. ‘Now that tells me that perhaps he is just meticulous, but it may also be a signal as to the type of person he is. For example, maybe neatness is a thing for him. He has to be tidy. This man fits the bill in that sense. Look at his clothes and the way he keeps on straightening his shirt out. He doesn’t look like he’s on the pull. So, who is he trying to impress? Only himself.’

  Watkins rewound the tape so that they could all watch again. Sure enough, almost subconsciously, their suspect repeatedly straightened out his shirt.

  ‘You’re right,’ Jack said.

  ‘He’s not aware of anybody else. In fact, I’d go further and say he’s not even interested in the couple. Only one of them.’

  ‘Dartford,’ Watkins said.

  ‘Indeed. Now he’s taking risks, going after somebody who was a suspect at one point. But, that’s what he wants. He’s not getting sloppy, he’s just getting cocky. And he’s sending a message.’

  ‘Who to?’ Watkins asked.

  ‘To the police, perhaps even a specific policeman,’ he replied.

  Jack could feel an uncomfortable heat clawing away at him.

  ‘Look at the way he’s carrying himself,’ he went on, taking command of the tape. ‘Straight as a dart. Jack, if I had to ask you to guess what kind of profession this man came from, what would your best guess be?’

  ‘Armed forces,’ he said.

  ‘Exactly.’ Pritchard clapped his hands together. ‘Neat, tidy, straight posture and trained to kill… it has all the hallmarks.’

  ‘That fits in with what the fibre analyst said, as well.’

  ‘So what’s the motivation?’ Watkins asked.

  ‘I’m unsure at this point but what I can say is that he is picking off his victims one at a time. This means that there is no particular link between them, making it harder. I assume you have somebody else looking at earlier tapes.’

  ‘Christensen is doing it as we speak,’ Jack informed the psychologist. ‘If he turns up on there we can be pretty sure it’s him.’

  ‘Of that I have no doubt,’ Pritchard said. ‘I think the pub holds some kind of meaning for him.’

  Jack stood up, straightening out his back. He felt his phone vibrate, but ignored it, imploring Pritchard to go on.

  ‘Sentimental?’ he asked.

  ‘I would say so. It will be a pattern. He goes there to pick up his victims. Look at him, he’s a good-looking chap. He probably has no problems picking up a woman. He then goes back and gets a man at a different time, which means he has a location to hide them in. Somewhere either remote or soundproofed enough so that he won’t be discovered.’

  Jack sighed. There were plenty of remote locations in the North East. Just as one door opened, another stream of corridors lay out before them. ‘I’m not so sure, Frank. If he was following Dartford specifically then it could well be the case that this bar was simply where he found him.’

  Pritchard nodded. ‘Perhaps. However, why pick that particular moment, just as he was leaving with somebody else, to follow him? It’s the bar, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘Maybe it’s where he met his partner or former partner,’ Watkins mused.

  ‘So, you think he goes there because it reminds him of his wife?’ Jack asked.

  ‘It’s all guesswork,’ Pritchard said, taking a seat.

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ he puffed. ‘Just not used to the excitement any more.’

  ‘If you need a break...’

  ‘No!’ he shot back. ‘We need to catch this bastard. Look, I’m telling you; ex-military, scorned by a former lover, returns to the scene of where they met, and picks up his victims. That should be enough to get started, yes?’

  Jack nodded, taking in every detail. ‘Easy, eh?’

  Pritchard offered a pained smile.

  ‘What’s the plan?’ Watkins asked.

  Jack began pacing. ‘Speak to Christensen, fill him in on the details. Meanwhile, get a copy of some older tapes and get the analyst to look through them. I want to know whether the bar is a coincidence or whether it’s his hunting ground. Meanwhile, we’re going to take a picture of this bloke to every bloody base in and around Newcastle to see if he really is military.’

  ‘Every base?’ Watkins asked, eyebrows raised.

  Jack smiled. ‘Better put in some overtime requests. I’ll let Jane know afterwards.’

  34

  Jack managed to make it out of the station without the Bulldog cottoning on to what he was up to. It had taken some half an hour for the plan to be drawn up as there were a surprising number of potential military bases across the Tyne and Wear area. With a mixture of marked and unmarked cars, the team set out to cover the entire immediate area. He was under no illusions about the scale of their task, but that’s why he’d assembled just about every spare bobby the Northumbria force could spare.

  He pulled onto Rhodes Street, beginning with the Northumbria Army Cadet Force. Veered right, through the gate, then approached a reception area. Jack flashed his ID and was waved through to a small car park that was littered with a variety of vehicles and moto
rbikes. This was a youth army organisation.

  He signalled for the PC to pull in. ‘You wait here,’ he told him.

  He’d ordered Christensen to stay with the analyst while sending Watkins out to another nearby base. Striding across the car park, he passed a group of three curious-looking cadets who returned his smile with stern glances.

  As he approached the barracks, he was greeted by an extremely tall sergeant major with an old-school silver moustache that seemed to constantly twitch. Fighting the urge to salute, Jack held out his hand.

  ‘DCI Jack Lambert, thank you for seeing me.’

  ‘No problem,’ the man replied, crushing Jack’s hand in a vice-like grip. ‘Name’s Taylor. Robert Taylor.’

  ‘Hello, Mr Taylor,’ Jack said. ‘How long have you worked here?’ he asked, following Taylor into a small office space near the entrance.

  ‘Twenty years,’ the man replied, sitting down on a comfy-looking chair by a whirring computer.

  Without being asked, Jack took a seat opposite and took the opportunity to take in his surroundings. Much like his own office, the place was cascading with paperwork. However, unlike his office, this was kept extremely tidy. A small window sat behind Taylor, the afternoon sun glaring in on them, causing Jack to have to reposition himself to the side. Taylor watched him with interest, eyes never leaving his face. Jack pulled at his collar, conscious of his unkempt appearance.

  ‘As you may have heard, we have a serial killer on the loose,’ Jack informed him. ‘And we have reason to believe he may have a military background.’

  Taylor’s face twitched again, his features remaining impassive.

  ‘That so?’

  Jack got the impression this was a man who was used to getting his own way. He also got the impression that he would be impervious to questioning, torture, and would be handy in a street fight. It was the scarred knuckles that gave him away.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied, meeting the sergeant major’s gaze. ‘Can you tell me if you know this man?’

  Jack handed him a colour print of the image from Mr Lynch’s. They’d managed to zoom in on the suspect, his features only slightly blurred. Jack had circled the image in bright yellow pen.

  ‘No,’ Taylor replied, without hesitation.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘I’ve been here longer than anybody else, Detective. I know every man who has come in and out of this organisation. Never, in all of my service, have I seen this gentleman.’

  Jack stood, signalling the end of their conversation.

  ‘Thank you for your time,’ he said. ‘If you think of anything else, please don’t hesitate to call me.’ He placed his contact details on the desk beside him.

  Taylor didn’t move.

  * * *

  They were no further forward. Jack checked the map again. So far, they’d covered the Cadet Force, naval establishments and the Queen’s Own Yeomanry. He could feel his energy levels sagging, the initial hope at finding their man long since evaporated. Even the PC had given up on talking to him.

  They were heading back through Newcastle City Centre, rush hour traffic beginning to form, when his phone rang again.

  ‘Any news, Watkins?’

  ‘I’m at the Royal Marine Reserves, you might want to get down here.’

  They were by the Quayside within minutes, flashing lights aiding them as they sped towards the riverside area. It wasn’t far from where Jack had once completed a charity zip wire. People had called him brave but, the way he saw it, spending twenty seconds on a wire was infinitely better than having to run for twenty-six miles to raise a couple of hundred quid for a good cause.

  Leaving the PC to park up, Jack got out of the car and worked his way through a throng of people out walking dogs. He found Watkins not far from the water’s edge.

  ‘He’s in here,’ Watkins motioned.

  Jack made his way through a set of double doors, the unmistakable whiff of boot polish lathering the atmosphere up. To his left, another PC was perched, cup of tea in hand.

  ‘He’s just in here, guv,’ the policeman said, dipping a large, chocolate cookie into his mug.

  Jack found himself in an office similar to the one he’d sat in talking to Robert Taylor just an hour or so ago, the only difference being the sheer size of the place. A mixture of army and admin staff moved about, papers flying, phones ringing and voices booming.

  A uniformed army officer stood nearby. ‘Detective Lambert? I’m Philip Baines.’

  Jack shook the man’s hand.

  ‘Thank you for seeing me, Mr Baines.’

  ‘Please, call me Philip.’

  The man motioned for Jack to follow him out of the office, heading along a narrow corridor lined with portraits of former servicemen. Towards the back of the corridor sat a small cafeteria. Upon entering, a table housing two Marines stood to attention, raising their arms in stiff salute.

  ‘At ease, gentlemen,’ Baines said, indicating for Jack to sit at a nearby table.

  ‘I understand you may have some key information for me,’ he said, cutting straight to the point.

  The stocky sergeant removed his beret, revealing a thatch of pepper-grey hair. His eyes looked tired but alert, freshly shaved stubble indicating a lifelong battle with razors that he was never going to win. Fumbling in his pocket, Jack placed the CCTV image on the desk in front of him and waited.

  ‘Yes,’ Baines replied, shoulders drooping slightly. ‘His name is Ian Kellerman – he was a former Marine here.’

  Jack could feel excitement nipping at his spine.

  ‘Did you know him well?’ he asked.

  The officer nodded. ‘He was a good bloke,’ he said. ‘Once upon a time.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Ian was always good at his job. A stand-up soldier… an asset to any company. He’d spent time in Iraq, doing two stints before coming home for good.’

  A short-haired woman, wearing a polka dot apron, approached with the offer of hot drinks.

  ‘No, thank you,’ Jack said.

  The sergeant nodded without comment, their conversation on pause whilst the woman poured black coffee into a chipped mug.

  ‘I’m afraid Ian was never the same after the first time he came back from duty. Here, or at home.’

  Jack let those words sink in before continuing. ‘At home?’

  Baines moved his hand towards his neck, scratching away as his eyes left Jack’s for the first time since they’d sat down.

  ‘I...’

  ‘Philip,’ Jack leaned in. ‘I’m not here to judge you and, unless you’ve broken the law, I’m not here to arrest you either. We have reason to believe Ian Kellerman is a key cog in an ongoing investigation. Anything you can tell me would be of great benefit.’

  ‘I had an affair with his wife, Emma,’ he blurted out. ‘It started when he was on active duty, second time round. I’d known them both for quite a while – through the army obviously – though once he returned to the Middle East, Emma and I became close.’

  Jack removed his jacket before continuing. ‘Go on.’

  ‘She confided in me that he’d changed, was prone to violent outbursts. He never hit her, but he would smash the house up, emotionally bully her and so on. I don’t know how it happened, but it did.’ He sighed, puffing out his cheeks.

  ‘Did he find out about you two?’

  Baines nodded. ‘He came home one day and found us together.’

  ‘What happened then?’

  ‘Nothing.’ He shrugged. ‘He walked in on us, clocked me, turned on his heels and left. I never saw him again.’

  ‘And Emma?’

  ‘She broke down, told me it was over, and that I should leave. That’s the last I saw of her. I heard she’d moved to another part of Newcastle but I’m not sure where.’

  Jack surveyed the man. He was in no doubt that Baines was telling the truth. His eyes betrayed somebody still emotionally sore about what had happened. He must have really cared for he
r.

  Minutes later Jack was standing outside the barracks shaking the hand of the man who had just given them a name for their suspect. Baines generously had one of the admin team photocopy details from Ian Kellerman’s file. They stared at the mugshot, sunken eyes and dark slim features; there was no doubt it was the same bloke from the bar.

  Jack made to leave before Baines called out to him.

  ‘Is he in serious trouble?’

  Jack paused. ‘Potentially, yes.’

  The man slumped against the wall. ‘If you see Emma, tell her I wish her all the best.’

  Jack strode into the MIR as soon as he arrived back at the station.

  ‘Listen up, everyone,’ he bellowed.

  The room came to a standstill.

  ‘We have a suspect.’

  A collective intake of breath occurred, what was left of the sporadic clicking of computer mice fading to expectant silence. Moving across to the centre of the room, Jack held up the folder Baines had given him. The team gathered closer to the image of the man who had potentially been responsible for six deaths.

  ‘Ian Kellerman.’

  Jack allowed it to sink in before placing the folder on the desk and fixing the room with a determined stare.

  ‘This man is now our priority. I want to know if he has previous, no matter how minor it is. If this bloke has sniffed out of turn, I want to know about it. I also want a current address for both him and his former wife, Emma Kellerman.’

  Jack paced over to the whiteboard and placed the mugshot in the centre. A fraction of a second passed before the team burst into life.

  35

  It turned out that Emma Kellerman was residing just along the River Tyne, on the Quayside. Jack couldn’t help but note the irony that she and her former lover were situated a mere stone’s throw from each other. Before they’d left, he’d managed to persuade Jane Russell that Philip Baines needed to be watched, as he was potentially at risk. After a debrief with Pritchard they both agreed that the ultimate goal had to be Baines and his ex-wife. Everything else was a prelude to the main act. Jack just hoped they had enough time to insert their own twist.