by Steven Dunne
‘You bitch,’ he screamed, swinging the bat at her head.
Ducking low, Caskey sidestepped his powerful frame and he crashed into the stair rail. As he hit the flimsy structure, she heaved herself on to his upper body to unbalance him further, and his feet lifted from the floor. Wriggling like an upturned turtle, he tried to right himself, but Caskey grabbed one of
his flailing feet and heaved it towards the ceiling. With an anticipatory wail, he did a forward roll into the darkness, landing with an audible crack and moan on the solid flooring below.
Caskey put hands to knees to get her breath back, then collapsed sobbing on the top step. A minute later, reality rushed in. Beautiful Georgia. Dead. For ever.
She was brought round by the sound of pained movement below. Flicking on the hall light, she saw Barry trying to haul himself along on his belly like a slug, grunting with the effort of every centimetre.
‘Bitch,’ he managed to wrench out when he realised she was watching. ‘You broke my back.’
In response, Caskey descended the stairs, slow and deliberate, and disappeared into the kitchen, re-emerging a few seconds later with a large carving knife. Calmly she approached the struggling Barry and straddled him, but face down, he couldn’t see her raise the knife. Couldn’t see the glint of the blade and death following behind. Couldn’t beg for mercy.
Roughly she yanked him up by the belt and flipped him unceremoniously on to his back, registered his accompanying scream with grim satisfaction. She moved over him, waiting until he opened his eyes before brandishing the knife. His neck was at a strange angle, she noticed, and he couldn’t lift his head. His smile was a grimace of effort, his teeth smeared with blood. ‘Go on then, bitch. Do it.’ Tears appeared in his eyes. ‘I can’t live without my Georgie.’
Caskey gripped the weapon harder, but realised her hand was shaking. It wasn’t from doubt. She wanted this man dead, but even more than that, she realised, she wanted him to suffer, to know he’d been bested by a woman, to know that his Georgie could never take him back.
At that moment, Caskey didn’t care about her career, didn’t care if she lived or died. Georgia was gone. The love of her life had been taken from her, and she had no reason to exist other than to see her killer live a long life in agony. The animal who had so brutally taken Georgia away from her was pleading for a quick and painless death. To that she could not accede.
‘Get used to crapping into a bag, bitch,’ she mumbled, lowering the knife. She picked up her phone from the bottom step and calmly made the call. Her voice seemed surreal in the banality of Georgia’s Medway home, like she was listening to someone else report the attack to the operator.
When the call ended, she dropped the phone and trudged to the top of the stairs, knife in hand. Exhausted and disbelieving she sat and let the tears come – and come they did, dripping down her juddering face, dropping on to the weapon held loosely in her palm.
Barry’s pained laughter brought her back. ‘Wanna know something?’ he mumbled, panting with the effort.
Don’t listen. Don’t listen. Don’t …
‘When I fucked my Georgie, she cried just like you are now, ’cos she thought you’d be home to save her …’
With a howl from the depth of her being, Caskey leapt to her feet, planted both hands on the banister and heaved herself into the abyss, dropping feet-first towards Barry’s chest. He saw her falling towards him and opened his mouth to scream, but she landed with a shattering of ribs before he could form a note, the last sound to leave his mouth the gurgle of escaping blood surging up his throat from ruptured lungs.
A lifetime later, she heard the enforcer ram dismantle the kitchen door, colleagues shouting her name. She lifted Georgia’s alabaster hand to her lips to brush a farewell kiss on to her long blood-flecked fingers. Then reluctantly she let go and withdrew the blade from her own wrist, letting the knife fall to the floor.
‘We’ll be together again, my love. And next time it’ll be for ever.’
As she straightened, she noticed Georgia’s chain with its R-shaped pendant on the carpet by the bed and picked it up, placing it over her own head with great solemnity.
‘Up here!’ she screamed at the bedroom door.
Caskey woke drenched in sweat, entwined with the pillow, her only reliable lover since that awful night two years before. She unclenched herself from its unresponsive embrace and sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on knees, hands covering her damp face. The clock ticked over to half past three, but despite the hour, she trudged to the shower, dragging her soaking sheet to the floor as she went.
Thirty minutes later, she was out in the cold Derbyshire night.
Twenty-Three
Brook couldn’t hide his surprise at seeing Caskey push through the door at 4.30. She was equally taken aback to see him.
‘Trouble sleeping?’ queried Brook, pausing the film on his monitor.
‘Almost always,’ she said, doing her best to crack a smile. ‘Especially on a case.’ She filled the kettle, then flicked a glance at Brook’s monitor. ‘What’s that?’
‘This,’ said Brook, waving a hand at the paused film, ‘is several days’ worth of CCTV footage from East Midlands Airport Long-Stay Car Park One. You requested it, remember.’
‘The sequel’s better,’ she quipped.
‘You should watch it,’ replied Brook. ‘Help you sleep.’
Caskey’s smile faded. ‘I’ve already seen it.’
‘Have you?’
‘Some of it,’ replied Caskey, hesitant. ‘I could have told you there was nothing to see.’
‘I would’ve looked anyway,’ said Brook. ‘I’m not the best delegator. Another of my weaknesses.’
‘Mine too,’ said Caskey, sitting down at a spare desk. ‘Did I miss anything?’
‘Not a single thing,’ remarked Brook. ‘From midday on the day of the killings to the exact time Ray’s Porsche was discovered, you missed nothing.’ He paused for effect. ‘Doesn’t that strike you as odd?’
‘Odd?’
‘That there’s no sign of his Porsche approaching the airport on any access road and no image at the number plate recognition camera at the ticket barrier. And yet the car is there.’
Slowly Caskey stirred hot water into her mug. ‘We figured some kind of malfunction. It’s the only explanation.’
‘We?’
‘DI Ford and myself.’
‘So you actually checked the ticket barrier camera?’
‘DI Ford did.’
‘And he didn’t find an explanation for why there’s no sign of Ray’s car on the barrier film.’
‘Like I said.’ Caskey struggled to keep her tone businesslike. ‘Some kind of malfunction.’
Brook nodded. ‘I suppose you were entitled to expect your SIO to do his job.’
Caskey took a sip of hot black coffee, remembering DI Ford’s exact words. It’s not important, Rach. We’ve got Coulson. Move on. ‘Did you find anything?’
‘Yes and no.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I found no evidence of a malfunction.’
‘How can you tell?’
‘Because if the cameras weren’t working properly, there’d be breaks on the digital clock,’ said Brook softly. ‘There aren’t any.’
‘No?’
‘No.’ He took his time to let the implication sink in. ‘The film I’ve seen proves that Ray’s Porsche did not drive under the car park barrier from noon on the day of the killings to the moment we found his car. Yet there it was.’
Caskey was confused. ‘There’s only one entrance and one exit, right?’
‘The ticket barrier going in and out.’
‘Then I don’t quite know what your point is. The fact that the Porsche was in the car park proves it must have been driven under the barrier.’ The first doubt infected her voice. ‘Meaning there’s something wrong with the film.’
‘You know what they say about cameras,’ smiled Brook.
&nbs
p; ‘They lie if they’re faulty,’ snapped back Caskey, her sangfroid beginning to slip.
‘In which case there’d be time gaps in the clock.’
‘You’ve watched the film in real time?’
‘Course not,’ conceded Brook. ‘That would take days.’
‘Then you must have missed it.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Brook.
‘How can you be sure?’
‘Easy. You see, Ray didn’t pre-book the car park …’
‘Of course he didn’t pre-book,’ scoffed Caskey. ‘He wouldn’t want a card payment against his name when he’s trying to disappear.’
‘Clearly. In which case, to get in he’d have to take an on-the-day ticket.’ Brook raised an eyebrow, challenging her to understand.
She stared hard at him and then into space before closing her eyes when she understood. ‘And every ticket is time-and date-stamped.’
‘To the minute. Which means …’
‘You can fast-forward to every on-the-day ticket issued to check the number plate and make of vehicle.’ Caskey was sombre now, and Brook saw no reason not to let her stew. ‘But if the car was in the car park after the murders, it must have been driven in.’
Brook took a sip of tea. ‘Wrong on both counts.’ Caskey narrowed her eyes. ‘It didn’t drive in through the barrier, at least not under its own power.’ He scrabbled for a sheet of A4 paper. It was a plan of the long-stay car park. He pointed to a mark on a particular bay. ‘This is where you found the Porsche, right up against the fence, yes?’
‘Correct,’ said Caskey. ‘Ray was cute. He parked at the furthest point from the barrier as possible.’
‘And as far away from the fixed CCTV cameras as possible,’ continued Brook.
‘Maybe so, but the car was there,’ said Caskey. ‘He couldn’t hide that from us.’
‘No, he couldn’t,’ smiled Brook. ‘But then he didn’t want to.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘It’s simple, really. The car suggests he got a flight out of the country, yes?’
‘Yes,’ she said slowly.
‘So not only did he not want to hide the car from us, he actively wanted us to find it.’
‘Why?’
‘So we’d think he got on a plane when in fact he didn’t.’
Caskey took a sip of coffee to give herself some thinking time. ‘You think he’s still here in Britain.’
‘I’ve no idea. All I know from this film is that he didn’t take a flight from East Midlands after the murders. Leaving the car there was a misdirection to make us think he’d fled the country after his parents were killed.’
‘Okay, he misdirected us,’ replied Caskey defensively. ‘Does it matter whether he left the country by plane, train or automobile?’
‘In this case, yes,’ said Brook. ‘You see, the Porsche was dumped at East Midlands before the attack at Black Oak Farm began.’
‘Before? I don’t understand.’
‘Don’t you? Ray wasn’t trying to hide the car, he was only trying to hide when it was parked. That’s why you and Frank couldn’t find it on the film.’
‘He couldn’t possibly have dumped the car before the attack.’
‘That’s what we’re meant to think,’ said Brook. ‘And believing it to be impossible, we’re more likely to conjure up a camera malfunction if we’re convinced the car was driven to the airport after the attack.’ He shrugged. ‘It helped that you already had a built-to-order culprit under lock and key and that you’d developed a clear narrative of the crime.’
Caskey took a sip of coffee. ‘So when was the Porsche left at the airport?’
Brook clicked on the monitor to load a different file and pressed play to start a piece of film. ‘It’s dark and difficult to make out much more than shapes, but you’ll get the gist.’
On the monitor, a large van drove up to the ticket barrier. Caskey could make out two indistinct figures inside, both dressed in dark clothing, baseball caps pulled low over their faces. The vehicle came to a halt at the barrier and a man’s arm reached across to take a ticket.
Brook froze the film. ‘Judging by the height and general bulk, I’d say Jemson is driving.’
‘So you think Ray is the passenger.’
‘Possible. But we don’t get a good enough look.’
‘Which makes this a hell of a leap,’ said Caskey. ‘You can’t even see their faces.’
‘I think that’s the idea.’ Brook clicked on another file. It was a higher view of the car park from a fixed CCTV camera. In one corner of the screen he pointed to a white van, barely visible in the distance. ‘Same van five minutes later, near the bay where you found the Porsche.’
Caskey looked at him, beginning to understand. ‘Wait a minute. You think they brought the car in inside a van and unloaded it?’
‘It’s the only credible explanation.’
Caskey shook her head. ‘I don’t believe it.’
‘Watch.’ A minute later, the van drove away from the parked cars towards bays nearer the departure building. Brook pointed at the screen to a distant car. ‘You see. There’s the Porsche.’
‘How can you be sure?’
‘It’s Ray’s car,’ insisted Brook.
‘Is that the only view?’
‘I’m afraid so.’ He moved the film backwards and forwards. Although indistinct, it was clear that the parking bay was empty before the van arrived and occupied after it pulled away, although it wasn’t easy to identify the car.
‘That’s far from conclusive,’ said Caskey.
‘There’s more,’ answered Brook. He clicked on a new piece of film showing the rear of the van much closer to the fixed CCTV camera. This time the driver hopped out of the cab and marched purposefully towards the airport hangars.
‘You say that’s Jemson,’ muttered Caskey.
‘Right height, right build.’
‘What’s he doing?’
‘He’s gone to pay for the ticket,’ smiled Brook. ‘With cash, obviously.’ He clicked off the film and sat back. ‘In five minutes he comes back and the van drives away. Not sure where yet, but fingers crossed Cooper can find us a route. And the plates were fake, before you ask.’
Caskey’s eye wandered to the digital display and her mouth fell open. ‘Three days before the murders.’
‘Yes.’
‘We never saw this film.’
‘Because Frank never thought to look at it.’
Caskey was stunned. ‘Three days before the murders. I don’t understand.’
‘I’m not sure I do either,’ said Brook. ‘It all seems a bit elaborate. But the net result of obscuring when the car was parked was that ex-DI Ford and you were more likely to accept that he’d driven from Black Oak Farm on the morning of the murders to catch a plane.’
‘Why was there no mention of this in Ray and Jemson’s texts?’
Brook smiled. ‘Good question.’ Caskey waited expectantly. ‘I don’t know the answer to that either. Yet.’
‘So if the Porsche was at East Midlands three days before the killings, Reardon must’ve lied about Ray being at the farm.’
‘Not necessarily,’ replied Brook. ‘I checked her statement. She said Ray got to the farm late and was gone in the morning. She never saw the car, only her brother.’ He poured more tea from his flask. ‘He may have had a lift.’
‘In the van?’
‘Who knows?’ Brook emitted a one-note laugh. ‘But he didn’t book a taxi.’
Caskey was thin-lipped, her face drained of colour. ‘So where is he now?’
‘My guess is that he never left the country.’
Caskey managed a strained smile. ‘Guess?’
‘It wasn’t my case,’ said Brook. ‘So I have to guess until I can develop my own take. But Reardon Thorogood thinks he’s here. She’s holed up in a top-floor fortress in Nottingham, in fear for her life.’
Caskey’s shock was tinged with anger. ‘You’ve spoken to Reardon?’
‘Thursday afternoon, before I drove up to Wakefield to interview Coulson,’ said Brook. ‘Is that a problem?’
‘Would you care if it were?’
Brook was taken aback by her direct, almost rude manner – he liked it. ‘Not really. I have the Chief’s backing. Ford’s cases are my cases.’
‘But DI … we closed it.’
‘To a point.’
Caskey drained her coffee, unable to contradict Brook. ‘How was she?’ she asked quietly.
‘Reardon? A shadow of the girl I watched talking Coulson down at the farm. She seems diminished, damaged.’
‘I’ve no doubt she’ll get over it.’
‘Given time,’ said Brook. ‘And professional help.’
Caskey shook her head. ‘No way will Ray come back to kill her when he can’t inherit. I told her as much.’
‘You kept her informed, then?’
‘To a point,’ said Caskey. ‘There were precious few developments.’
‘There was mention of a car crash six months ago.’
Caskey nodded. ‘She thought her brakes had been tampered with.’
‘You knew about it?’
Caskey hesitated. ‘Reardon rang me from hospital to report it.’
‘I didn’t see anything in the file.’
‘I looked into it. The mechanic said the brakes were fine. It was driver error. Wet day, wet shoes. Her foot slipped off the brake and she went into a wall.’
‘No witnesses?’
‘None.’ She stood to flick the kettle on again. ‘I didn’t put a report in the file because it was an accident. It had no relevance to events at Black Oak Farm.’
‘Fair enough.’ Brook rustled through papers on the desk. ‘Speaking of the farm, what was your take on these blood smears?’
Caskey pulled the offered photographs towards her and examined them. ‘That’s Reardon’s bedroom carpet …’
‘About three feet from the window,’ added Brook.