Open Grave

  Check.

  42

  ‘Want to come with me?’ Watkins asked.

  Jack pulled the police car up to the kerb and shook his head. ‘No, this was your good work, you can handle it.’

  The DS made to speak but seemed unable to do so. Clearing his throat, he merely nodded and left him to it. As Watkins approached the house, Jack was struck by how, just two weeks before, he’d nearly lost his job. And life. Jane Russell had had some stern questions for him after all was said and done but with the return of Edwards, and the press having a field day with the hero angle, the department had decided to go easy on him.

  It wouldn’t do to have the PR Prince hauled up on a disciplinary.

  Yet.

  He still hadn’t spoken to Rosie since it had happened. He’d lost count of the number of times his finger had hovered over the call button, only to pull back at the last minute. Who knew where her head was at? All he ever seemed to do was make things worse for her. So space was what he’d given.

  He watched as Watkins made his way up the path, a white double-glazed door standing before him, not unlike the one Jack had kicked in on Iolanthe Road. The memories of Damien Truman and the scene in the basement would stay with him forever. Another scar to add to his ever-growing collection.

  When Becky opened the door, wearing her Blue Bamboo WKD work T-shirt, she didn’t even seem surprised to see him. Jack noted the change in hair colour, blonde now. He watched in admiration as Watkins presented her with the facts. So consumed had he been by the Open Grave Murderer, he hadn’t even registered the presence of anybody else on the CCTV footage in Mr Lynch’s.

  Watkins had, though.

  Once all was said and done, the DS had pulled him to one side and shown him what he’d missed; namely Becky in an intense embrace with none other than Nell Stevens’ boyfriend Shaun Armstrong. Jack had been taken aback but it turned out Watkins had already questioned Armstrong who had admitted everything. Besotted with Becky, a young girl with a vicious streak, the playboy had played his part in the harassment of the reality star, all out of some twisted idea of love.

  Watkins hadn’t even needed to seek Jack’s advice.

  Moments later he shuffled back into the car. ‘All sorted.’

  Jack nodded. ‘Good work. She give any reason?’

  ‘Apparently it all started with Gary Dartford. She was driven by jealousy over his fascination with the pop star.’

  Jack remembered the Nell Stevens posters in Dartford’s high rise flat. ‘Do we think she’ll back off now?’

  ‘I’d say so,’ Watkins said. ‘Nell doesn’t want to press any charges, but I’ve made it clear what will happen if she doesn’t pack it in.’

  Jack smiled.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘I just quite like this assertive Watkins. What have you done with my old DS?’

  He shrugged. ‘Nothing, I’ve just learnt from the best.’

  ‘Does that mean you’ll finally ask Gerrard out now?’

  ‘What?’ he spluttered.

  ‘Don’t worry, I won’t say a word.’

  They left a visibly hunched Becky on her doorstep, staring into the distance. Unlike Damien Truman’s victims, her life would go on, just like everybody else’s.

  43

  It hadn’t taken them long to find Truman’s mother’s house. She’d been living alone on the outskirts of Scotswood, not too far from the banks of the River Tyne. It was the smell that gave it away; a mixture of hard drugs and something that had become more familiar to Jack over the bleak winter period. Much like Truman’s own death, his mother’s killing hadn’t been neat. When they found the body, it wasn’t even immediately clear who she was, such was the damage done to her head. They found the hammer by the side of the mattress. When the pathologist’s office got involved it hadn’t been Rosie who came along but one of her junior colleagues.

  Initially, he had struggled to put all of the pieces together. Surely he and Rosie hadn’t been the ultimate goal? If they had been, why not kill them when he had the chance? Truman’s suicide had troubled him until the discovery. The body had been found in the back bedroom, positioned on its side, with a picture of her son in her hands. It seemed Damien himself was the final piece of the jigsaw all along. Having built up to killing the mother who had abandoned him as a child, the only thing left to do was add himself to the list of victims.

  Unlike Gary Dartford, they’d never know why Peter Rutherford and Travis Kane had been targeted by the killer. With regards to his female victims, that was much clearer. They had all suffered some degree of emotional trauma. Truman, using his counselling skills and position of trust, had got to know them all through his line of work. He hadn’t come across Jessica due to a broken nose but because she’d sought help to work through her emotional issues linked to her family. Once they’d gained access to her patient records, they’d found that Damien Truman had been seeing her on a regular basis. It came as no surprise when Melissa Norman’s name also appeared on his client list. Truman’s infatuation with Jack stemmed from Rosie talking openly about the breakup of their relationship to the man she thought was beginning to love her. That man was Alan Davies, a fictional character plucked from his imagination.

  With regards to how he subdued his victims, Rosie was able to offer first-hand testimony. It seemed Truman had been using chloroform. Toxicology hadn’t picked it up due to a mixture of the substance moving very quickly through the body and the fact that he hadn’t used it to kill his victims. The length of time that passed between administering it and the subsequent killing meant that the autopsies were unable to detect its use. It seemed Damien Truman had done his homework.

  He finished up some paperwork before taking some time to himself in the office. Regarding the outcome, he’d liaised with Durham DI, Oliver Tomkins, given that two of the victims had been found on his patch. Despite mild disappointment that they hadn’t been the ones to catch the killer, he was pleased that the case was now closed.

  After a brief phone call to the hospital they had told him that his father was doing much better and that they believed a donor had been found. He polished off his coffee, searched for some paracetamol, only to realise his usual headache had disappeared. Perhaps things were looking up.

  As he turned to face the wall, Truman’s victims stared at him; lifeless, but a little more satisfied than they’d been just weeks before. There was nothing they could do to bring them back but at least they’d been able to secure some kind of justice. Getting him behind bars would have been preferable but Jack would settle for his death, given that it had put an end to the murder spree.

  A faint knock brought his attention back.

  ‘Hello, Jack.’

  The bruises on her neck had faded, a little of the life behind her eyes diminished, but there was no mistaking the one woman who had meant more to him than anybody else in the world at one time.

  ‘Hello, Rosie.’

  She took a seat and began fiddling with a hanky. He couldn’t help but notice she’d lost some weight since he’d last seen her.

  ‘How are you keeping?’ he asked.

  She shrugged. ‘So-so. I’m taking a bit of a sabbatical from work, just to get my head together, you know?’

  He nodded. ‘I understand.’

  ‘How about you?’ she asked, her eyes meeting his for the first time, before retreating.

  ‘You know me, full on busy.’

  ‘Are they not going to give you some leave?’

  ‘They offered but I turned it down,’ he told her.

  She nodded. ‘You love this job, don’t you?’

  He paused and gazed back over at the Open Grave victims. It hadn’t been easy and, once the dust had settled, enquiries would be made into what had gone wrong during the investigation. Newly-installed PCC Nadine Guthrie had made that abundantly clear to him upon his return to work, stating her intention to follow his career progress closely. But catching bad guys was what he did.
These days it was all he seemed to know.

  ‘I do,’ he finally said. ‘Rosie, I—’

  She raised a shaking hand, stopping him in his tracks. ‘We should leave it there,’ she said, her eyes watering. ‘I have to go. By the way, I’m liking the new hairdo. And shaving that beard off has made you look much younger.’

  He watched her leave, without replying to her observations.

  ‘Bad time?’ a voice called round the door.

  ‘Come in, Christensen,’ he said, motioning for the DS to sit down.

  The Scandinavian detective duly obliged, placing a newspaper on the desk. ‘I see you’re famous.’

  Jack scanned his image on the front of the paper. The article had been written by a recently returned David Robson. It seemed they had an uneasy truce in place. It wasn’t the only relationship that had formed, though. Jack had noticed an article from the previous day coming out in support of Dorian McGuinness’s plans to expand his business ventures onto the Quayside, written by none other than Robson himself.

  Something caught Jack’s eye. ‘Do you make a habit of doodling on newspapers?’ he asked.

  ‘All the time,’ Christensen told him. ‘Always the same – glasses and messy hairdo. It’s an old habit.’

  Jack bit his tongue as a memory struck him, but he was unable to place it. It fizzled from his mind as Watkins appeared in the doorway. ‘Come in,’ he beckoned.

  ‘There you are!’ he said, sitting down. ‘Has Pritchard left?’

  He nodded. ‘I don’t think we’ll be seeing much of him from now on.’

  The memory of their final conversation was still fresh in his mind. Pritchard had been drained, sallow and withdrawn. He’d managed to convince the profiler to return to his wife and deal with his demons. The psychologist had smiled and advised Jack to do the same, minus the wife. Jack’s decision to enter the world of Internet dating the previous day had filled him with both dread and excitement. Sick of being miserable about who he was, he had decided to move forward with his life.

  ‘I’m liking the new hairdo,’ Watkins continued. ‘It suits you.’

  Jack waved him away. ‘Was there something you wanted?’

  ‘What? No, I just wanted to let you know that somebody left a letter for you. I put it on your desk.’

  He found the small brown envelope to his right. Tearing it open, he unfolded the parchment inside and began to read.

  * * *

  Detective Lambert,

  * * *

  I think perhaps we share a common enemy and, when my enemy has enemies, I’m keen to make sure we become friends. We have much to discuss. Don’t worry about finding me.

  * * *

  I will find you.

  * * *

  The Captain.

  * * *

  Suddenly his headache was back.

  A Note from Bloodhound Books

  Thank you for reading Open Grave. We hope you enjoyed it as much as we did. Please consider leaving a review on Amazon or Goodreads to help others find and enjoy this book too.

  We make every effort to ensure that books are carefully edited and proofread, however occasionally mistakes do slip through. If you spot something, please do send details to [email protected] and we can amend it.

  Bloodhound Books specialise in crime and thriller fiction. We regularly have special offers including free and discounted eBooks. To be the first to hear about these special offers, why not join our mailing list here? We’ll never share or sell your details to anyone else.

  Readers who enjoyed Open Grave will also enjoy

  * * *

  Faceless by Rob Ashman

  Anglesey Blue by Dylan H. Jones

  Acknowledgments

  There are a number of people who have contributed to the completion of this book. I’d like to thank Glenn Upsall for his continued support, feedback, and positivity towards my work, despite my constant pestering on Facebook Messenger.

  I’d also like to thank Jaclyn Wrightson for her patience and willingness to answer the procedural questions I put to her.

  As this book was nearing completion, novelist Tracey Iceton was extremely supportive towards me, offering advice and valuable insight on the process of publication.

  Great credit must be given to Mark Hudson, my PGCE lecturer, for encouraging me to write many years ago and providing feedback on my early short stories. I’ve had a number of excellent teachers over the years and, although there are too many to name individually, I’d like to thank all of them for their support throughout my time in education.

  * * *

  To my editor, Ben Adam, and my proofreader, Julia Gibbs, thank you for putting up with my many emails, questions and queries. Your input was much appreciated.

  I will also be eternally grateful to Betsy, and everybody at Bloodhound Books, for believing in this novel and giving me the opportunity to publish it. Special thanks to Heather Fitt for making the extra changes I requested.

  Finally, I’d like to thank my parents for being willing to fund my early obsession with Roald Dahl and R.L. Stine books, the latter of which can’t have been cheap!