Open Grave

  ‘Gregory Liddell,’ a small, suited man greeted them at the reception area. ‘I’m the duty manager of the practice. Please, come with me.’

  Jack shook the man’s limp, clammy hand before wiping it on his jacket and following him to a back office. ‘I appreciate you taking the time to see us,’ he said.

  ‘No problem,’ he replied. ‘We have been operating later opening hours to cope with demand. I’ve had our HR department here bring up a list of all of our current workforce. I don’t suppose you can tell me what it is you’re looking for?’

  Jack smiled. ‘No, I can’t.’

  ‘Is this about Amy? We’re truly devastated by what happened to her...’

  Watkins stepped forward. ‘If you wouldn’t mind, sir?’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course,’ he spluttered. ‘I’ll just be in my office if you need me. Sandra behind the desk can direct you if necessary.’ He smiled a toothy grin and left.

  They wouldn’t be able to get any sensitive patient information, but Jack had Christensen ringing around the families to check which surgery each of the victims were a member of. Before his phone had even started buzzing, he was sure they had the right place.

  ‘Christensen,’ he accepted the call.

  ‘Boss,’ he said, a little breathless. ‘I’ve been on the phone to Jessica’s father and Peter Rutherford’s mother.’

  ‘Please tell me you have news,’ Jack urged.

  ‘I do,’ the Scandinavian replied. ‘Both were registered with St Oswald’s as far as they know.’

  He thanked the DS and ended the call, sending a nod in Watkins’ direction. The two of them then set to work as a young, female HR worker brought up various images on the computer screen.

  ‘It would help if I knew what it was you wanted to find,’ she sighed, fingers tapping away impatiently.

  ‘I’ll let you know when I see it. Pritchard.’ He turned to the psychologist. ‘Thoughts on the manager?’

  The old man shook his head. ‘However, I’ve been proven wrong once already.’

  Jack took note and focused back on the screen. ‘I’m not interested in female members of staff, only the men,’ he informed her.

  One by one, the images of all the male staff flashed up on the screen. For each one, he had the worker print out three copies. Whilst she kept sending copies their way, Jack, Watkins and Pritchard studied the various staff members’ faces. Jack was beginning to lose faith, when one image – a man he’d seen before – appeared before him. Dark, neat features, sunken eyes, not too unlike Ian Kellerman, faced up at him from the mugshot.

  ‘Who is this?’ Jack asked the girl, mouth dry.

  She leaned over and took a look at the picture. ‘Oh,’ she said, eyes lighting up. ‘That’s Damien, he works as a receptionist here but he’s also on placement as a counsellor.’

  ‘Bring the manager back in.’

  ‘What is it?’ Pritchard asked as the girl scarpered from the room.

  Jack motioned to the picture. ‘I know this person.’

  The profiler replaced his glasses and squinted at the image. ‘It doesn’t ring a bell…’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Gregory Liddell re-entered, followed by the flustered HR worker.

  He handed him the sheet. ‘What can you tell me about this man?’

  ‘That’s Damien Truman,’ he said. ‘He’s a very popular member of staff here at the surgery,’ he added, eyes flitting to the girl.

  ‘What else?’

  The man bristled. ‘Look here, Detective...’

  Jack interrupted him. ‘Answer the question.’

  The man eyed the three of them in turn, not one of them returning a friendly smile. As the silence stretched on, he cleared his throat and undid a shirt button.

  ‘He’s a receptionist,’ he said. ‘He’s been here a couple of years now but he’s been training as a counsellor, recently. He has a placement here at the surgery.’

  He took another look at the image of Damien Truman. Jack could feel dread crawling up his spine. They had to act.

  Now.

  ‘I’ll keep hold of this copy,’ he informed the duty manager. ‘And I’m going to need an address for him, right now.’

  He motioned for Pritchard and Watkins to follow him, waiting until they were out of earshot before speaking further.

  ‘What is it?’ Pritchard asked.

  Jack took out his phone, dialled the station. ‘I’ve met him before,’ he said.

  ‘Who is it?’

  Jack held a hand up for him to wait. ‘Claire, I need you to run a check on a thirty-seven-year-old Damien Truman. Find out if he has any close family or friends, as well as any previous convictions.’

  He finished the call to Gerrard and turned to face Pritchard.

  ‘Seriously, Jack, what’s going on?’ the old man asked, eyes widening.

  ‘It’s been personal all along,’ he said. ‘He’s been closer than we think. I have to contact Rosie, before it’s too late.’

  ‘What do you—?’ Pritchard began before stopping short. ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘What is it?’ Watkins pressed him.

  ‘This,’ Jack began, ‘Is Rosie Lynne’s boyfriend... only I don’t know him as Damien.’

  38

  Gerrard got back to him within ten minutes. That had given him plenty of time to bombard Rosie’s mobile, house and work with calls. Each time the phone had rung off, or gone to voicemail, until a co-worker finally picked up on the third attempt. What they told him, though, had caused Jack’s stomach to lurch.

  Rosie hadn’t been in for a couple of days.

  They didn’t know what was wrong, but she’d texted in to say she was sick.

  Nobody had been able to reach her.

  ‘Right, guv,’ Gerrard speed-talked down the line. ‘Last listed address for Damien Truman is seventy-three Iolanthe, Newcastle.’

  Jack cross-referenced it with the printout from the surgery before handing it over to Watkins. ‘What else can you tell me?’

  ‘He’s had the odd parking ticket but, other than that, he’s squeaky clean.’

  ‘What about family and friends?’

  ‘Looking into it,’ she continued. ‘I know his mother was in and out of jail on a mixture of drug and prostitution-related charges until recently. I can’t imagine he had a happy childhood.’

  Parental issues. Was that the motive?

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Not right now.’

  ‘Good work, Gerrard,’ he told her. ‘Keep me updated and tell Christensen to get out on the trail if anything comes up. Also, I want a squad car to head to Rosie’s and scope the place out, just to be sure.’

  ‘No problem, guv.’ She ended the call.

  ‘Get us to that address right away.’

  Watkins gripped the steering wheel, the whites of his knuckles threatening to burst through his skin.

  He glanced across at him. ‘What is it?’

  The DS shifted. ‘You sure it’s a good idea you go out there?’

  ‘You got a better one?’

  ‘It’s just that you’re emotionally involved and...’

  He didn’t have to finish the sentence. The possibility that Rosie was already dead hadn’t left his thoughts since they’d come across Truman’s picture in the surgery.

  ‘I agree,’ Pritchard piped up from the back of the car. ‘It’s a bad idea.’

  Jack turned to gaze out of the window. ‘It’s a good job neither of you two are SIO then.’

  * * *

  Iolanthe Road was situated on the outskirts of Newcastle, a terraced street complete with a mixture of houses and flats. Damien Truman’s place was an upstairs flat. The area itself wasn’t too shabby, save for the odd bit of litter and low-level graffiti. Jack had definitely seen a lot worse.

  ‘Just so you know,’ he warned them. ‘I’m going in, regardless.’

  ‘What about the warrant?’ Watkins asked.

  ‘I’ll sort it later.’

  He turned and beg
an the short journey up the concrete steps that led to number seventy-three. The door was an immaculate white, with the obligatory ‘no salespeople’ sticker plastered across the centre of the window pane. Lucky for Jack it was made of wood. Nothing untoward so far.

  He pressed the bell and added a knock for good measure.

  ‘Doesn’t seem to be in,’ Pritchard said.

  He pressed at the bell again, holding it down for longer.

  Nothing.

  ‘We should get a warrant,’ Watkins said.

  ‘No time,’ Jack replied. ‘I’ll deal with the consequences later.’

  ‘Wait!’ Watkins urged. ‘Think about what you’re doing, Jack!’

  Jack pushed the two of them aside, lifted his leg and aimed a kick at the door, not quite shifting it. Pain shot up his leg, but his panic masked the throbbing of his knee as he sent another boot flying at the door.

  Bingo.

  The door smashed open. In an ideal situation, they’d have secured a warrant and used a battering ram. Using a ram would have allowed for entry on the first try, helping the response team get in nice and early. They didn’t have that luxury, though.

  ‘Police!’ he shouted, sprinting up the stairs despite the searing pain in his leg.

  ‘I’m right behind you,’ Watkins shouted.

  Jack turned right at the top of the stairs, entered into an open living room. Nobody there. It was also neat. Very neat. Just like the Open Grave Murderer.

  Within seconds Watkins appeared in the doorway, his face almost as red as his hair. ‘Anything?’

  Jack shook his head. ‘Not in here. You go check the bedroom, I’ll look in the kitchen.’

  He left Watkins to his search, but he already knew it would prove fruitless. Truman wasn’t here.

  His mobile buzzed indicating Gerrard was calling him. ‘Guv, just a heads up, the squad car says all is quiet at Rosie’s place. No sign of anyone around.’

  ‘I didn’t think there would be, thanks, Claire,’ he said before hanging up.

  As he headed through to the kitchen area, he was again struck by the sheer tidiness of the place. No dishes lying around, everything scrubbed to within an inch of its life. At the back of the kitchen, a set of knives rested in a block. A horrific image flashed through Jack’s mind before he dismissed it. No, cutting wasn’t this killer’s MO.

  ‘Seems all clear.’ Pritchard appeared behind him, causing him to jump. ‘You alright?’

  He nodded. ‘Now what? We can’t damn well wait for him to come home.’

  ‘He is tidy, isn’t he? It’s almost as if he isn’t even living here.’

  The snake in Jack’s stomach slithered its way up to his neck, tightening its grip. ‘That’s because he isn’t living here.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘This is his cover. He has another place. And I think I know just how to find it.’

  ‘Jack… You might want to get in here,’ Watkins called from the back room.

  Jack ran through. ‘What is it?’

  The DS turned to him and tossed a set of photos onto the cream bedspread. ‘Look.’

  In front of him were gruesome images of each of the Open Grave murder victims. That wasn’t the most disturbing thing, though. Newspaper cut-outs were plastered all over the walls. Pictures Jack recognised immediately.

  Pictures of him.

  39

  ‘Christensen is meeting us at the removal company office,’ Jack told them, hurtling back down the stairs.

  By now the neighbours had heard the commotion and were out in the street, no doubt wondering who had been breaking in to number seventy-three as afternoon turned to evening.

  Watkins flashed his badge. ‘Police, no need to worry.’

  The downstairs neighbour was outside her flat, towel around her hair, eyes as wide as saucers.

  ‘Do you know much about your neighbour Damien Truman?’ he asked her.

  ‘I...’ she spluttered. ‘Not really. He keeps to himself.’

  ‘Do you know if he ever had company here?’

  On the other side of the steps, someone snorted. ‘Not him. He’s weird, man.’

  Jack turned to face an overweight man in an early nineties Newcastle United jersey. ‘What makes you say that?’

  He shrugged. ‘Most people round here talk to each other. That fruit loop doesn’t even say hello. He does come in during the middle of the night sometimes, though. Suspicious, if you ask me.’

  Jack left the neighbours to gossip and headed for the car. ‘I’ll drive. Watkins, you stay here in case anybody goes up and tampers with the evidence. Pritchard, with me.’

  ‘Why are we going to the removal place?’ the profiler asked.

  He stuck the makeshift siren on and began upping the speed. ‘I don’t think Travis Kane had anything to do with the surgery. I think he delivered something to Truman and that’s how he targeted him. I want to find out whether my theory is right and, if so, whether or not the delivery was made to the flat or another place.’

  * * *

  It took less than twenty minutes to get to A & D removals. By the time they arrived, Christensen had already parked up.

  ‘What’s the latest?’ the DS asked as Jack exited the car.

  ‘Truman is definitely our man.’

  ‘We sure?’

  He swallowed his irritation. ‘Yes, and we have pictures in the flat to prove it.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘We think he has a second location. He has to, in all honesty. He’s not going to get away with murdering people in a street like that. I’m hoping the manager here can shed some light on that for us.’

  The two detectives, and Pritchard, entered the small building that housed the workforce of A & D removals; a family business operating in removals and deliveries that had been going for some forty years. The reception area stank of sweat and stale coffee, various stains having worked their way up the walls from years of smoke abuse.

  Behind a small windowed counter, a young man greeted them. ‘DCI Jack Lambert?’

  Jack nodded.

  ‘I’ll just fetch my dad.’

  Moments later the manager appeared, a rotund man in his fifties, a horrific-looking comb-over giving him a stereotypical car salesman look. ‘How can I help you gentlemen?’

  ‘Travis Kane,’ Jack cut straight to the point. ‘I need to know if he made a delivery to somebody named Damien Truman?’

  The manager cleared his throat. ‘I don’t know if I can release those details...’

  He stepped forward. ‘Yes you can. Trust me, you won’t get arrested for it.’

  The manager smiled a gold-toothed grin and invited them into his office before tapping away at a state-of-the-art Apple Mac computer. ‘According to our records, there was no delivery to a Damien Truman, I’m sorry.’

  ‘What about Alan?’

  ‘Alan?’

  ‘Yes. Unfortunately I don’t know the surname he used.’

  More keyboard tapping ensued before a brief pause. ‘I’m sorry, Detective, we haven’t made any deliveries to an Alan for over twelve months now.’

  Both Pritchard and Lambert sighed in unison.

  ‘Now what?’ Pritchard asked.

  Jack attempted to get hold of the panic that was eating away at his stomach. He had no idea how to answer Pritchard’s question.

  ‘We’ll have to split up and get talking to people. Christensen.’ He turned to the squat detective. ‘Get yourself to the surgery and interview all of the staff who are still there, see what you can find out. Call Gerrard and take her with you.’ He nodded. ‘Pritchard, go back to the flat and see what you can find. I’ll stay here and see what I can uncover.’

  ‘I’m terribly sorry, Detective,’ the manager continued. ‘I really don’t know how much help I can be from here on in.’

  He felt the beginnings of a searing headache coming on. ‘If you could get me a cup of coffee that would be a good start.’

  He paused, obviously not used to being given orde
rs from people in his own establishment. Then, after clearing his throat, left without comment.

  Jack took the opportunity to look around the office. The furniture was ancient and cracked from years of use. The wallpaper was barely still attached to the mouldy walls. The only thing that looked under twenty years old was the computer.

  ‘Here you go.’ The manager returned, handing him a mug with the words ‘World’s Best Dad’ written on it.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I appreciate you sticking around to speak to us this late. If you don’t mind me asking, why don’t you… you know… spruce the place up a little?’

  The manager perched himself on the desk and chuckled. ‘I know it’s not great to look at, but my dad opened this place some forty odd years ago and, when he died a few years back, I just couldn’t bring myself to change the place. I’ve thought about it, sometimes, making a clean start and everything, but I suppose I’m just not ready to do that.’

  Making a clean start. Jack almost spat his coffee out.

  ‘Is it too hot?’

  ‘No, it’s not that. Could you do one more check on the computer for me, please?’

  The man shrugged and moved round the desk. ‘What am I looking for?’

  ‘Were any deliveries made to a Rosie Lynnes in the last few months?’

  The silence was agonising as the manager studied his screen, pausing to clear his throat once more. ‘Yes, we have made quite a few deliveries there in recent times.’

  Jack placed his coffee on the desk and stood. ‘That’s all I needed to know.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Jack never answered the question, he was running to the car. He threw himself into the driver’s seat and dragged his phone out. When he’d turned up drunk at Rosie’s house, before Christmas, she’d changed all the furniture and decor. She’d told him she had made a fresh start. That’s how Damien Truman knew Travis Kane. Was it possible that he’d been killing people right under her nose, in the house? Where better to hide than in plain view?