by Steven Dunne
Original copies of the work order for the farm’s security systems were also found, as was a copy of the insurance policy Ray had insisted his father take out to cover the farm contents and his parents’ lives.
Ford’s team also found a couple of items of jewellery that the insurance document suggested should be in the safe at Black Oak Farm. After the attack, Coulson had emptied the safe of one thousand pounds, half a dozen gold coins and a pair of cheap watches. The rest – rare coins, another thirty-nine thousand pounds and easily portable items of expensive jewellery such as rings and earrings – had not been found on Coulson or Jemson and were missing, assumed to be in Ray Thorogood’s possession after he was forced to flee.
As his passport was also missing, it wasn’t a stretch to speculate that, before absconding, Ray had removed most of the cash and valuables from his parents’ safe before the murders to fund his escape in case Jemson was tempted to keep the best items for himself.
Brook flicked quickly through the rest of the reports. There were no mentions of finding the prepaid phone that Ray had used to exchange messages with Jemson. He considered this and made a note, then searched for copies of documents about Ray’s other mobile phone, the official one, a Samsung, under contract. It too was not to be found at the cottage in Repton.
‘Both of Ray’s mobile phones missing,’ he muttered. It didn’t matter. Finding the prepaid phone at Jemson’s flat meant they could study the shared history of Ray and Jemson’s text messaging.
Interestingly, no actual calls were made – the two conspirators communicated exclusively by text message on untraceable phones, presumably purchased for the sole purpose of planning the attack. Obviously both phones would have been destroyed afterwards if the plan hadn’t gone so badly awry, allowing Jemson’s to be recovered from his flat.
Brook checked the records for Ray’s Samsung. Use of his official mobile had become sporadic in the month leading up to the attack and had ceased entirely a week before. There was no record of any contact on the actual day between Jemson and Ray on either phone in their possession. Brook poured more tea and pondered this.
‘So how did you know things were unravelling at the farm? Are you sure you weren’t there, Ray?’A moment later, he shook his head. ‘No. Of course you weren’t. How could you be?’
He reloaded the transcripts of texts between Jemson and Ray. The final one from Ray, sent a couple of days before the attack, caught his eye. It was brutal stuff.
When they’re all dead, JJ, torch the fucking place. Hideous building. More money than taste, my parents. Hacienda doors FFS. Make it look like an accident so start it in R’s en suite. She always has a dozen tea lights going when she takes a bath. Pretentious cunt. Make it look like they got knocked over in the struggle. Farm insured to the hilt so an extra 10K in it for you. Plus it gets rid of your DNA and stuff. Ray.
Brook checked his own mobile again – still no reply from Terri.
‘Is this your first?’ asked Noble, as he and Banach approached the brightly lit post-mortem suite.
‘My first PM,’ answered Banach. ‘Not my first stiff, obviously.’ Noble nodded, thin-lipped. She peered closely at him. ‘Don’t worry about me.’
‘I’m not,’ panted Noble. ‘I’m worried about me.’
‘You? You must have seen dozens.’
‘I have,’ said Noble. ‘But never as the lead. Normally I switch off and stare at the wall, and when things get a bit hairy, the boss sends me out to fetch tea. He’s good like that.’
‘After all you’ve seen?’
‘Oh, I’m fine at a crime scene,’ said Noble. ‘It’s all the digging around in cavities and skulls that I’m not so keen on.’
‘Does it affect the boss?’
‘Not so you’d notice,’ answered Noble. ‘And honestly, after the things he’s seen, post-mortems are a walk in the park.’
‘You really rate him, don’t you? As a detective, I mean.’
Noble pressed the buzzer on the wall. ‘You’ve had a few months with him. What do you think?’
‘He’s clever, no doubt,’ said Banach. ‘And considerate without appearing to be.’
Noble looked quizzically at her. ‘I sense a but coming.’ Banach hesitated. ‘You can speak freely to me and the boss. He’s insult-proof.’ He grinned. ‘Providing you use appropriate vocabulary.’
Banach smiled, but it was clear Noble wouldn’t be deflected. ‘There’s something about him, something closed off that’s eating at him.’ When Noble didn’t ask her to expand, she nodded. ‘You’ve seen it too. A darkness that he can’t share.’
‘The Reaper,’ said Noble softly. ‘Before I knew him.’
‘The serial killer who killed families in London?’
‘Derby too.’
‘He was never caught.’
‘That’s the official version.’
‘You know different?’
‘No,’ said Noble cautiously. ‘But sometimes he slips and I get the impression he knows something I don’t.’
‘Like?’
‘Like the Reaper is really dead, even though there’s no way he can know that. It’s just an impression.’ His expression became wary. ‘This stays between us.’
‘Of course,’ she said quietly, not wishing to deflect him.
Noble took a breath. ‘When he moved from the Met to Derby CID, he was a broken man. I mean, in pieces. It was quite a sight. Divorced. Estranged from his daughter, with a nervous breakdown on his sheet. I drew the short straw because I’d only just made DS. Nobody liked him. He didn’t join in banter, didn’t learn the ropes or stand a round at the pub after a big win. Even now, if you asked him to name three quarters of the people at St Mary’s, he couldn’t do it. It’s like he’s using all his mental energy, all his resources, to hold himself together. And making the effort to learn even minor social skills would upset the delicate balance he tries to maintain. He’s like a high-wire artist. He can only concentrate on the case. Any distractions and he’d fall to his death. That’s why he works so hard.’
‘Like a shark, always moving forward.’
‘Right. He has to keep busy because he doesn’t have the skills to relax and switch off. It would give him too much time to think.’
‘He’s on leave now, though.’
Noble smiled. ‘Oh, he’s miles better than he was. But it’s still there, whatever it is. He carries it always. And when a case becomes too much, you can see him starting to come apart.’
‘What happened to cause all that?’
Noble hesitated. ‘Besides me, you’re the only member of the squad who’s noticed it. What do you think?’ Now it was Banach’s turn to hesitate, so Noble pressed on. ‘You saw something up at Animal Farm, didn’t you? Before we got there. He did something. Or said something. I could tell.’
‘I know he risked his life to save me from a bunch of nutters who were preparing to cut me open,’ said Banach defiantly.
‘You know what I mean.’
Banach hung her head, not wanting to dredge up memories of her first CID investigation, a case that was nearly her last after she’d fallen into the hands of a violent group of fanatics. ‘I might be wrong. I was in a bit of a state.’
Noble smiled encouragement. ‘We’re just talking, Angie.’
‘Something he said.’ She gazed into Noble’s eyes and took a breath. ‘I think a long time ago he might have killed someone.’
Noble opened his mouth to speak, but at that moment, the double doors to the mortuary suite swung open and Dr Ann Petty, a handsome blonde woman in her early forties, stood before them.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ she said.
‘You were right,’ said Petty. ‘The alcohol from both Frazer and Nolan’s bloodstreams contained traces of Chardonnay and Pinot Noir; both grape varietals used in champagne production.’
‘Quick work.’
‘Not really,’ said Petty. ‘I did the analysis two weeks ago. Didn’t DI Ford mention it? I emailed him.’
‘Perhaps he told DI Brook,’ said Noble diplomatically. ‘Two grape varieties. So it was a blended champagne.’
‘All champagnes are blended, Sergeant,’ replied Petty. Noble raised an eyebrow. ‘I spent three months in France as a student, harvesting grapes.’
‘And you got a taste for it,’ said Noble. ‘Champagne, I mean.’
‘Who wouldn’t?’
‘Anything else?’
‘It was vintage champagne, if that makes any difference.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Banach.
‘Because most non-vintage is made from only one variety of grape blended from different years. Vintage is a blend of two varieties, occasionally with Pinot Meunier in the mix, though that tends to be left out these days because it doesn’t age well.’
‘I’m impressed,’ said Noble.
‘I’m sure you’re just as big an expert on gassy lagers,’ replied Petty, grinning.
Noble’s expression didn’t change. ‘And the Gibsons?’
‘They had champagne in their systems as well, though they hadn’t drunk as much as Frazer and Nolan.’
‘How much?’
‘Frazer and Nolan put away a bottle between them according to their blood tests. But the Gibsons’ levels were much lower – no more than a glass, I’d say. I’ll need more time to be certain.’
‘No need,’ said Noble. ‘The killer left half the bottle.’
‘Thoughtful.’
‘Anything unusual about their deaths?’
‘Only the fact that they were shot,’ said Petty. ‘Two old codgers like that. Hardly seems necessary.’
‘So everyone says. When?’
‘From all indicators, I’d say between eight o’clock in the evening and midnight on Saturday. Sorry I can’t narrow it down further. Lividity confirms the victims died in their chairs, same as Frazer and Nolan. You should be able to get an approximate height from ballistics. Death instantaneous or near as damn it.’
Noble nodded. ‘Bullets?’
‘Gone off to EMSOU by courier. They were the same calibre as last time, I think – nine millimetres. And presumably an experienced shooter.’
‘How so?’ asked Banach.
‘Assuming you’re tying the four gun deaths together, your killers have fired a total of four rounds, each delivering a single bullet into the hearts of four separate victims,’ said Petty. ‘Shows some level of expertise, I think.’
‘What about their health otherwise?’
Petty considered. ‘They had the usual ailments for their age. Some arterial weakness around the heart on Mr Gibson commensurate with his underlying problems, but nothing to suggest imminent decline. I assume their GP said the same. Were you thinking this might be a suicide pact of some kind?’
‘It was an angle,’ said Noble.
‘Well, I’d rule it out on health grounds,’ said Petty. ‘But that doesn’t mean people at their age don’t decide they’ve outgrown their usefulness and choose to go before things get ugly. Maybe they had depression?’ She looked at Noble expectantly.
‘Not so their GP noticed,’ he answered.
Petty nodded. ‘I can’t help you on mental outlook, I’m afraid. But it was the same picture with Frazer and Nolan. And they were as fit as the proverbial. A real shame. Such a devoted couple.’ Noble narrowed his eyes at her. ‘I remembered them from the personals in the Derby Telegraph not so long ago. Together for ever. Stephen and Iain. Touching.’
‘Personals?’
‘Personal ads. Weddings and anniversaries. Lonely hearts.’ She laughed, holding up her hands in self-defence. ‘I’m a singleton, Sergeant. I’m allowed to look at the personal columns. You’ll get there.’
‘Never happen,’ sniffed Noble.
‘And speaking of singletons,’ grinned Petty. ‘Where’s Derby’s most ineligible bachelor?’
‘DI Brook is on leave.’ Noble eyed her reaction. He’d got the impression from previous visits that Dr Petty carried something of a torch for Brook.
‘Well deserved, I’m sure,’ replied Petty, giving nothing away. ‘And I’m not complaining. Gives me a chance to meet DC Banach and thank her for her efforts last year.’ Banach reddened. ‘The sisterhood owes you a vote of thanks for stopping those butchers up at Animal Farm.’
‘Just doing my job,’ said Banach, with an embarrassed glance at Noble.
‘And doing it damn well, which is why we need to thank you.’
Thirteen
Having read all the written reports, Brook loaded the SOCO photographs of the bloody events at Black Oak Farm and examined each slowly and methodically, occasionally making a note before clicking on to the next one. He stared impassively at shots of the Spanish-style kitchen disfigured by arterial sprays of blood on the walls and the terracotta tiles on the floor; at the vast lakes of deep scarlet under the bodies of Monty and Patricia Thorogood, beginning to dry on the scuffed tiles; at the body of Jonathan Jemson, his jeans pulled below his knees, head and neck deeply scored and dotted by gouts of blood. At the foot of the bed, a large red pool had eaten across the bedroom carpet, and the covers were splashed dramatically with the first jets of blood surging under pressure from Jemson’s neck.
Brook would’ve preferred hard copies that he could place in order as he walked himself mentally through the unfolding drama, but he didn’t have any printer paper left, thanks to Terri.
When he’d scrolled through all the uploaded pictures twice, he reloaded the security camera footage taken after Reardon Thorogood had rebooted the system and watched it through again, starting with the opening frame of her poking her bruised and battered head out of the security control room.
He watched her hesitate at the front door before moving to the kitchen to check on her parents. He watched her kneel over the bodies of Monty and Patricia Thorogood, looking for signs of life, standing in their blood, paying no heed to the possible presence of a killer in the house. He watched her leaning against the wall in despair when she discovered the disabled landline before rummaging in her mother’s bag for a mobile that was equally useless.
When she ran into Luke Coulson by the front door, Brook paused the film again for a closer read-through of the transcript of their conversation put together from Reardon Thorogood’s testimony and the expert opinion of a lip reader. Coulson, of course, had failed to contribute a statement at any point after his arrest and had offered no defence at his trial, so the transcript relied heavily on Reardon’s recollections.
Brook restarted the film and tried to follow the dialogue exchanged between Coulson and Reardon. Confirming his previous impression, what transpired was a delicate game of cat and mouse between a knife-wielding murderer and a desperate but quick-thinking victim. Coulson was calm for the most part, though revelation about his long-held feelings for Reardon betrayed him at his most agitated. Imagined slights from over a decade ago revealed his paranoia and preceded his sole outburst of aggression towards Reardon.
She, on the other hand, displayed incredible coolness under pressure to counter Coulson’s ravings. Her responses were textbook examples of how to verbally pacify an unstable and potentially violent suspect. When she finally broke away from Coulson’s clutches, she made sure to get off the road at the earliest opportunity, knowing that he might be following close behind in the Range Rover and liable to change his mind about leaving a living eyewitness.
Moving the film on, Brook sat back as Coulson climbed into the Range Rover after throwing his plastic bag of bloodied clothes into the boot. A few moments for him to understand the controls and the vehicle roared out of sight. With a fresh tea in his hand, Brook scrolled back to the final clinch as Reardon pulled her head away from Coulson to reply to his whispered entreaty.
‘Of course I will,’ said Brook, as her mouth moved.
Noble took a sip of his coffee in Maureen McConnell’s warm and welcoming kitchen. ‘Any more prowlers?’
‘Not since your forensic team moved back in. Did the number plates
help?’
‘Afraid not,’ replied Noble.
McConnell nodded. ‘Thanks again for being so understanding about the other night, by the way. I can only imagine what it must have looked like, me sneaking around gathering up all the boys’ valuables.’
‘It looked like you were looting,’ said Noble.
‘Well thank God you could tell I wasn’t.’
‘Looters don’t tidy up,’ explained Noble.
Banach placed a large brown envelope on the table. ‘As Sergeant Noble mentioned on the phone, we could use your help identifying someone you may have met.’
‘I’ll try.’
‘These photographs were downloaded from Stephen and Iain’s mobile phones,’ said Banach.
‘You may have been asked to identify him before, but we’d like you to take another look,’ continued Noble.
‘These would be of the parties at their house.’
‘Yes.’
‘I suppose I’m in a few of them, but I wasn’t at every party they threw.’
‘We know,’ said Noble.
‘Were you the only woman there?’ asked Banach.
‘At the ones next door, yes,’ said McConnell. ‘A big barbecue every summer and a do at Christmas, as well as their engagement party. Such lovely food and drink, too, though the music was a bit raunchy for me.’ Her features darkened. ‘You’re not going to ask me if there was sex going off during these parties, are you? That’s what that other detective wanted to know, like it was some kind of orgy. Then some grotty journalist turned up, sneering and insinuating about drugs and sex. The boys just weren’t like that.’
‘Mrs McConnell …’
‘Lovely to me, they were. Couldn’t do enough for me after my divorce.’ She laughed. ‘I think sometimes they tried a bit too hard. Always matching me up with some waif or stray they’d run into or some misfit they’d invited to their party with a sob story of his own.’
Banach and Noble exchanged a glance. ‘Misfit?’
‘You mean straight men?’ said Banach.
‘Oh yes. Not all the guests were gays. But the last thing I needed after kicking out that bastard’ – she mimed spitting on the floor – ‘was to dive into another relationship with a man coming off the back of his own problems. Stephen and Iain never stopped trying, though. If a man was single and the right age, they’d invite him along to the house and introduce me. It was embarrassing, and the poor blokes were as uncomfortable as I was.’