Open Grave

  Watkins pulled in round the back of the swanky new flats, lining up alongside a pink Mini Cooper with a chessboard-like design on the roof. Early evening was setting in now, bringing a chill that chewed away at Jack’s face.

  They made their way to the front and pressed the silver buzzer. Seconds later, a voice crackled through.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Mrs Kellerman, it’s DCI Jack Lambert, I called before.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll buzz you in.’

  ‘Why is it that everybody we interview seems to live at the top of a block of flats?’ Watkins moaned.

  A small, solitary window was casting a dim glow over the narrow hallway as they reached flat number eleven. Watkins knocked three times and stood back.

  After a few seconds a woman appeared. ‘Hello, detectives,’ she said.

  The first thing Jack noticed was how striking she was, with brilliant blue eyes and a trim figure, complete with pencil skirt and red blouse. She smiled but Jack sensed an unease in her demeanour. Emma Kellerman led them in to a tidy living room area and offered them a seat on a cream leather settee. On the opposite wall a large mirror hung, mantelpiece underneath laden with various trinkets and photos. At first glance, there was no sign of Kellerman ever having been a part of her life. By the bay window a large glass coffee table sat, various photography magazines piled high underneath it.

  As if reading his thoughts, Emma said, ‘I’m a photographer. Well, alongside my office job. It’s what I really want to do. Once my marriage broke down, I decided to try something new, so I enrolled at Newcastle College in an evening class. Would you like a drink?’

  He noted the crack in her voice as she mentioned the failed marriage.

  ‘No thank you,’ Jack said, eager to get down to business.

  She took a seat opposite them, straightening out her skirt in the process.

  ‘Is this about Ian?’

  Jack nodded. ‘Yes.’

  The woman took a deep breath before continuing. ‘What’s happened?’

  Jack unfolded his arms, an attempt to create a friendly atmosphere, but it wouldn’t help with what he was about to tell her. ‘I’m afraid your husband—’

  ‘Ex-husband,’ she cut in. ‘It might not be official yet but it’s how I refer to him. I go by Lonsdale now.’

  ‘Yes, your ex-husband is a potential suspect in a serious murder investigation.’

  Emma sat back as if physically struck by his words. She brought a hand up to her brow and ran it across, tears filling her eyes. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’m afraid so and, right now, you are our best chance of finding him. We’ve been to his last known address but he’s currently not there.’

  ‘But... I haven’t seen him for months,’ she said.

  Jack could feel hope dwindling. ‘Do you remember exactly when you last saw him?’

  Emma paused, considering. ‘It must have been June last year. He phoned ahead to pick up some belongings I had kept.’

  ‘Were you in when he arrived?’

  ‘Yes, but he didn’t speak. I tried to explain, tell him what had happened to... to make me want to leave him.’

  ‘We’ve already spoken to Philip Baines,’ Jack told her.

  She slumped back into her chair, nodding. ‘I... I didn’t plan any of it,’ she said, her voice barely a whisper.

  ‘Ms Lonsdale, we aren’t here to judge, we simply wish to find Ian as quickly as possible.’

  She cleared her throat and took a large breath before continuing. ‘Phil and I had been seeing each other for some months when Ian found out. When he saw us, it was as if something in him snapped and he refused to speak to me again. He didn’t even seem angry, just resigned. The day he came back to collect his things he sent a text – letting me know – before turning up and ignored me. He hadn’t been the same since his army service, that was when he really changed,’ she added, bitterly.

  Jack nodded. He’d read countless stories about ex-servicemen who, having seen the horrors of war, returned and were unable to find peace at home. Some withdrew into themselves, some lost their minds, and others turned to crime. God knows he’d seen his own fair share of horrors on the job, the Open Grave case undoubtedly one of the worst.

  ‘So, other than that, are you positive you have had no contact from your ex-husband?’

  She paused, searched her mind.

  ‘No,’ she began, ‘but, I have been receiving some strange phone calls.’

  ‘In what way?’ Watkins asked.

  ‘Well, late at night, or early morning – always when it’s inappropriate to ring somebody unless it’s an emergency. There’s nobody on the line, but I swear I can hear breathing. After a few seconds, they hang up.’

  ‘And the number?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Withheld. The calls started around six weeks ago, but they’ve been getting more frequent lately. Oh my God, do you think it’s him?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ he lied. ‘Just out of curiosity, does the bar Mr Lynch’s mean anything to you or your husband?’

  She shook her head while wiping tears from her eyes.

  ‘Yes, she said they’d been getting more frequent lately,’ Jack shouted down the phone. ‘You have a terrible connection.’

  ‘The connection is fine,’ Pritchard said. ‘It’s your phone.’

  ‘So, what do you think?’ he asked the psychologist as Watkins took a left turn at speed, causing Jack to fall into him. ‘Careful.... no, not you, Watkins.’

  ‘I’d bet my pension on the fact it’s him,’ Pritchard went on. ‘She’s the ultimate trophy for him.’

  ‘Does that mean...’

  ‘Yes, Philip Baines is the partner he will seek for her.’

  Jack ended the call and dialled straight through to the station to emphasise the need for round-the-clock surveillance for both Emma Lonsdale and Philip Baines. Russell wouldn’t be happy, but he had no time for that now. Jack had told Emma that they might have to step up security for her. She’d taken it all rather well, Jack thought – her composure only faltering when she’d asked if Philip Baines was okay. Jack, not quite knowing what to say, said he seemed fine and that he’d asked after her. She’d nodded, wiping another tear away, before seeing them out.

  ‘It won’t be long now,’ Watkins said, pulling into the station.

  ‘Potentially,’ Jack said. ‘We still don’t know where he is though.’

  There was still no word from Kellerman’s address. For now, they had to play a waiting game. After filling the team in on their progress, Jack and Watkins met up with a flustered-looking Christensen back in his office. With the tension in the MIR reaching fever pitch, Jack welcomed the peace and quiet of his own workspace. He sat and took a swig of water before diving in.

  ‘Water?’ Watkins asked.

  ‘I’m trying it out,’ Jack told him. ‘What’s the latest, Christensen?’

  ‘No luck so far. It’s like searching for a matchstick in a jungle.’

  Jack nodded. ‘Is the bar being helpful?’

  ‘Had to have a difficult phone call with the doorman,’ Christensen said. ‘Still, it was nothing I couldn’t handle.’

  Jack smiled. ‘I’m sure it’s not. Threaten him with obstruction of justice?’

  ‘Something like that,’ he replied, smiling.

  Seeing as the Danish detective had stood by and allowed Jack to assault a man in a bar toilet, he was sure he could let him off. ‘We have to assume he specifically targeted Dartford to send a message. As of right now, we can’t be sure the bar has any other relevance. It’s time we leaked Kellerman’s picture to the press. I also want teams out questioning his family, friends, ex-lovers and any other colleagues who might know something.’

  Both detectives left just as a thumping headache landed on him. He felt like he hadn’t slept in weeks. The bruising on his face had turned an awful yellow colour, making him look like a character from the Simpsons. If it wasn’t for the fact that they had to catch Kellerman before he killed agai
n he’d have probably taken more time off.

  He noted the earlier missed call from a withheld number on his phone. He then scrolled through his contacts list, his finger finally resting over Rosie’s number out of habit. He stood, pocketed the phone, and headed for the MIR. They had work to do. Watkins was right.

  Not long now.

  36

  Jack pushed the tape in with a steady hand, pausing to check the recording was working. Other than that, the only audible sound was that of the clock ticking away on the far wall. Watkins sat to his left, directly opposite Casey Clifton. There were no smarmy smiles or jokey quips this time. Because opposite Jack was the man who they were sure had murdered six innocent people.

  Ian Kellerman.

  Finding him hadn’t taken too long in the end. Just minutes after Jack’s meeting with the detective sergeants, a call had been made to the station alerting them to Kellerman’s presence at his home address. He’d come quietly, without fanfare. In the end they hadn’t even needed to leak his photo to the press.

  Pritchard was sure he was their man. He fitted the profile; intelligent, male, mid-thirties, military background and – more importantly – had potential motive for harbouring grudges against couples.

  Once the preliminaries were over, he began one of the most eagerly anticipated interviews the force had ever had. ‘Mr Kellerman, are you aware of why you are here?’

  Kellerman’s dark eyes flitted up to Jack’s. ‘Why don’t you tell me?’

  A prick. He wasn’t the first. ‘Mr Kellerman, where were you on the eighth of December of last year?’

  The suspect paused, as if recollecting his thoughts. ‘I don’t know off the top of my head.’

  ‘Were you on a night out, perhaps?’

  ‘I might have been.’

  ‘You make a habit of going out alone?’ Watkins asked.

  Kellerman paused once more, turning deliberately towards the DS. ‘Are you the good cop or the bad cop?’

  Jack leaned forward, invading the man’s personal space. ‘We’re both bad cops. Answer the question.’

  ‘Sometimes,’ he said. ‘Sometimes I go out with friends.’

  ‘What about that night?’ Jack asked.

  Again, he shrugged. ‘No idea.’

  ‘Can you confirm whether or not you were in Mr Lynch’s on December eighth?’

  Still, the eyes didn’t leave Jack’s. ‘I cannot.’

  Watkins opened the envelope, revealing an image of Kellerman in Mr Lynch’s on the given date. ‘Can you, Mr Kellerman, confirm that this is you in Mr Lynch’s on the aforementioned date? For the benefit of the tape, I am now handing Ian Kellerman a photograph pulled from CCTV footage we found in the bar.’

  The ex-army man glanced at the picture. ‘It looks like me.’

  Jack took over the questioning once more. ‘Mr Kellerman, how do you know Gary Dartford?’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Why then, do we have footage of you watching Gary Dartford and Ruth Grabham, in Mr Lynch’s, which then shows you following them both out of the bar?’

  To emphasise his point, Jack pulled out the rest of the images, which clearly showed the suspect mirroring their exit.

  ‘You’re wasting my time,’ he said, pushing the pictures back across the table.

  ‘A life sentence for murder gives us plenty of time, Ian.’

  The man rolled his eyes. ‘You’re barking up the wrong tree.’

  Jack made a show of straightening out the photos, before replacing them in the envelope. He allowed the silence to stretch between them, all the while searching Kellerman’s eyes for some signal of guilt. They didn’t show much of anything.

  ‘If you like, I can show you a video of you watching them before following them out, see if that jogs your memory?’

  He might have been playing it cool, but Jack could see the sweat beginning to form on Kellerman’s brow. ‘Nervous, Ian?’

  ‘Should I be?’ he replied.

  He went on the attack. ‘Is that where you go to stalk your victims?’

  Kellerman snorted. ‘Is this a joke?’

  Jack continued. ‘Why do you do it, Ian? Is it to get back at your wife?’

  That lit up the suspect’s eyes.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘We know about the affair, Ian. We also know about the emotional hell you put her through before she left you,’ he said, leaning in once more. ‘And we know about the strange phone calls. The affair must have made you really mad.’

  ‘What the fuck would you know?’ he shouted, fist cracking against the table.

  Casey Clifton leaned over and whispered into his client’s ear.

  Jack ignored the solicitor’s intervention. ‘You picked the others at random, didn’t you? But when it came to Dartford, you had to get personal.’

  Clifton raised a hand. ‘Detective, I think this has gone too far—’

  ‘I’m just getting started,’ Jack cut in, before turning back to the suspect. ‘Unless you give me a reason for tailing Gary Dartford, I’m going to throw you in a cell and let you stew overnight. We can pick this up again tomorrow.’

  Kellerman shook his head. ‘I didn’t murder anyone.’

  ‘Who’s the ultimate trophy then? Your wife? Philip Baines?’

  ‘Just shut up!’ he spat.

  They’d obviously touched a nerve. From the corner of his eye, Jack could see the lawyer squirming in his seat. ‘Yeah, that sounds about right.’

  Ian Kellerman’s shoulders dropped. ‘It’s not what you think. I didn’t know this Gary bloke you’re on about.’

  ‘Then—’

  ‘It’s Ruth, alright!’ he shouted, placing his head into calloused hands. ‘I’m her father.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She doesn’t know me, and her mother died when she was just a baby. I found her a while back. It wasn’t Gary I was watching, it was her. Although,’ he snorted, ‘I had a good mind to slap that cocky bastard for the way he was behaving around her.’

  Alarm bells started ringing in Jack’s head. Thinking back to the details they held on Ruth Grabham, he remembered reading that she had been adopted at a young age.

  ‘Can you prove any of this?’ Watkins cut in.

  Kellerman held out his palms. ‘How about a paternity test?’

  Jack leaned in and whispered into Watkins’ ear.

  ‘Interview terminated.’

  37

  ‘Jesus,’ Watkins exclaimed. ‘I wasn’t expecting that.’

  Jack watched as Ian Kellerman left the interview room. Casey Clifton paused in the doorway, made to leave, then turned.

  ‘Detectives,’ he said. ‘I sincerely hope the next time you drag a suspect in he proves to be the right man.’

  With that, the arrogant solicitor turned on his expensive heels and left.

  ‘I want you to call Ruth Grabham and find out what she knows about her estranged father. I’m going to speak with Emma Lonsdale again and see what she knows,’ Jack said.

  Watkins nodded and left him to it. Minutes later, Jack was in his office, having had a short but sharp phone conversation with Ian Kellerman’s ex-wife. She’d confirmed his story about having a daughter who had been adopted when she was a young child. She assumed her to be around eighteen now, but she’d never met her. How could they have gotten it so wrong?

  Pritchard entered the office. ‘I don’t understand it,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘He fit the profile. It doesn’t make any sense...’

  Jack raised his hand as Watkins followed him in. ‘He’s not our man, Frank. What’s the latest?’

  Watkins slumped into the seat opposite his desk. ‘Ruth doesn’t know much about her dad save for the fact that he was in the army. She confirmed her mother died when she was young. He was telling the truth.’

  He began tapping impatiently on the desk. ‘Not only have we got this one wrong, we may now have put Ian Kellerman at risk.’

  ‘He could still be the killer,’ Pritchard
offered.

  ‘No,’ Jack shouted, a little more forcefully than he’d intended. ‘He’s not the killer. But, if we aren’t careful, he could be a victim.’

  He pushed his chair back and began pacing. They’d been spectacularly wrong about Kellerman. Everything the man had said made sense. Jack swiped his desk drawer open and fished out some headache pills.

  ‘You know,’ Pritchard said. ‘You should see a doctor about those headaches.’

  ‘Look, I’m fine, I—’ He stopped short. ‘What did you just say?’

  The old man shrugged. ‘Go and see a doctor.’

  Jack stopped pacing.

  ‘What is it?’ Watkins asked.

  He shuffled some papers on his desk, located the file he was looking for. ‘Peter Rutherford’s mother said he’d been seeking help for his drug addiction, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  He finished chewing the tablets and continued. ‘Let’s put Gary Dartford to one side as we know he was an anomaly, okay?’ The two men nodded. ‘What do we know about Jessica Lisbie?’

  ‘She was twenty-six, slim, dark hair...’

  ‘No, what else?’ Jack urged.

  The DS paused. ‘She had a recently broken nose.’

  Jack nodded. The lightbulb was beginning to flash on.

  ‘Where was Amy Drummond’s part-time job?’

  ‘The doctor’s, right?’

  Jack nodded. Realisation was dawning.

  ‘The doctor’s surgery?’ Pritchard said.

  He paused to look once more at the six murder victims on the whiteboard. ‘We were right. The link isn’t the people, it’s the place.’

  Watkins threw his chair back and stood. ‘We have to get there now.’

  ‘Wait,’ Pritchard warned. ‘What about Travis Kane?’

  ‘There’ll be a link,’ Jack said. ‘There has to be.’

  * * *

  By the time they’d reached St Oswald’s Surgery, Jack had already called ahead to warn of their arrival. They parked up in the patient car park and the three of them made their way inside. The plush new build had cost millions in taxpayers’ money. The press had had a field day over that. Still, he had to admit it was an impressive structure. They made their way into a seated waiting area, waded through the sea of sick people, coughing and spluttering until their turn to be seen flashed up on a digital screen. No matter how new it was, Jack noted, the stench of industrial-strength disinfectant was still overpowering.