Death Do Us Part (DI Damen Brook 6)

by Steven Dunne

  ‘Fuck,’ breathed Fry, lowering the glasses briefly. He resumed his vigil, following the figure, dressed head to toe in black or navy, to the end of the lane. He could see the epaulette strips and radio loops on the jacket, and although he couldn’t make out insignia, the distinctive high-vis yellow jacket carried tight under one arm was unmistakable.

  ‘That’s a copper,’ he breathed, his pulse quickening. A second later, the figure disappeared from view on to the deserted main road running through Ticknall village.

  Fry stowed the binoculars, drew out a torch and flicked it briefly over his watch. Gone two in the morning. He had plenty of darkness left to make himself scarce. And even assuming the cops threw up a few roadblocks, he was unlikely to be troubled travelling cross-country any time soon.

  It took him a little over a minute to dismantle his lightweight tent, even in the stygian gloom of the overgrown copse. He stowed the tent and sleeping bag in his go bag, slung the straps over his broad shoulders and prepared to yomp across to his bike. But something rooted him to the spot.

  The code. A code he’d lived by in Helmand. Never leave anyone behind! Not without knowing, not without seeking proof of life. Even when Private Dunphy’s legs had been blown off by an IED, no one suggested an evac, in spite of overwhelming enemy firepower – AKs and 90-mill M79 shells rained down, but no one moved as Doc worked to control the bleeding.

  We held our ground until everything that could have been done had been done.

  Fry clipped his bag to the back of the Norton, resting against a young tree, then pushed the bike to the house a couple of hundred yards away. He leaned it against the dry-stone wall and drew his Glock from his jacket, checking the clip and easing off the safety before starting his sortie. He saw the first body a second after clearing the gate – a young man lying on his back on the path, dead yet with mouth open as if to speak. Shots to head and heart. A clean kill. No need to check the pulse.

  He jogged low towards the house. Peering in through a lighted window he saw two more bodies, and regret pulled on his gut as he gazed at the lifeless couple. Matty and his partner – Jimmy something. Lashed to a pair of chairs. Dead as Dunphy but a lot less messy. One to the heart. Man down. He had his proof. There was nothing more to be done.

  Staring at Gibson, blood pooling in his upturned mouth, he thought through his options. There weren’t many. You are so fucked, soldier. Did you put me in the frame, Matty? Did you finally get to butt-fuck me? He put a knuckle to his mouth. His hand was shaking. Coming to a decision, he reached into a pocket, pulled out the wad of money and threw it on the ground, where it scattered over the damp grass.

  ‘A land fit for heroes,’ he laughed bitterly, ejecting the clip from his weapon and stowing it in a trouser pocket but keeping the unloaded gun in hand. ‘Make men of us. Kill or be killed. But what do we do with the peace, Your Majesty? You bring us home, frazzled and fucked, only to tell us we’re violent misfits. The killing ground is where we belong. And that’s where I should have died. With Dunphy. Did you fuck me, Matty? Did you?’

  Looking around, he saw the open door by the patio and walked slowly through into the kitchen.

  Thirty minutes later, Fry ambled casually out of the kitchen, his jacket unbuttoned, blood on his chin from a last kiss. He carried an unopened bottle of bourbon under one arm and the dregs of another in his hand. He downed the last drop and threw the empty at the half-finished barn, where it shattered loudly, then opened the second bottle and took another hearty swig before screwing the cap back on and stuffing it into one of the voluminous pockets in his combats.

  A light fell on him and a neighbouring window opened wide, a middle-aged man leaning out for a view. He stared uncomprehending at the body on the path for a few seconds, then his eyes locked on to Fry. In a trice, Fry dropped to one knee and raised the pistol to the window. Wailing in fear, the neighbour threw himself to the floor.

  Fry stood, smiling. ‘Keep the home fires burning, citizen,’ he shouted, ambling back to the Norton. He slung his rucksack over his shoulders, then leaned in to give the old machine an affectionate pat. ‘That’s it for you, Graham. You’re even more fucked than me.’

  Striking out towards the blackness, Fry took up a desultory verse of the Camp Bastion anthem. ‘Is this the way to Amarillo …’

  Brook woke from his slumber at the vibration of his mobile in a trouser pocket. He glanced blearily at the display as he sat up on the tiny sofa in his cottage.

  ‘John!’ He licked his dry lips. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘You were right.’ Noble’s voice was tight as a drum and he sounded very far away.

  Brook glanced myopically at the clock. ‘About what?’

  ‘It wasn’t Gibson.’

  Twenty-Seven

  The countryside air was damp and the cold pinched at his nose and ears, though the protective suit and overshoes allowed gusts of body heat to warm his face and neck as he walked. Brook plotted his way past the puddles along the dark lane, illuminated by the remorseless flashing of squad car lights. Windows glowed in every house, framing residents as they watched the grim proceedings unfold, forbidden to leave their homes with a deranged gunman at large.

  At the end of the track, an old motorbike leaned against the boundary wall, being examined by DS Morton and a pair of suited scene-of-crime officers.

  ‘Fry,’ said Brook, gazing at the bike, his heart sinking. Charlton was going to have a field day over his failure to take the ex-soldier seriously.

  ‘Yep,’ said Morton.

  Brook turned his gaze to the distant building but got no further than DC Banach, examining a body in the garden. Morton gestured to a taped walkway taking pedestrian traffic around the body and away from potential footprints, already being marked and photographed by a SOCO.

  By the light of a single arc light, Brook recognised Sean Trimble, on his back on the gravel path, mouth open, arms out as though preparing for a hug. Rivulets of blood fanned in all directions from the dark hole exploded on to his forehead. Another wound, black as night, showed that a second bullet had smashed into his ribcage.

  Banach looked up briefly at his approach. ‘Sean Trimble,’ she offered superfluously. ‘Wrong place, wrong time.’

  ‘Aren’t they all,’ observed Brook.

  ‘Twenty years old,’ she added with an edge of bitterness in her voice.

  Brook was briefly held by her show of disgust. ‘Anger is an emotion that blinds, Angie. The slower it burns, the easier it is to function.’

  She nodded. ‘I’m okay.’

  Brook nodded to the pale flesh on the ground. ‘Higginbottom?’

  ‘Been and gone,’ replied Banach. ‘No doubt about cause. The two at the house took one in the heart apiece. Sean was heart and head.’

  ‘The classic double tap of the professional,’ said Brook. ‘What are we thinking?’

  ‘That he was an afterthought,’ said Banach, indicating the position of the body. ‘On his back, head towards the gate, feet pointing to the house. My guess is he was returning home when he was shot. Fry didn’t expect him to be here, which is odd as you’d think he would’ve been watching the house. There’s a smell of beer about him, so he might have nipped out for a drink and come back sooner than expected.’

  ‘Stumbling upon the killer making his escape,’ nodded Brook. ‘We’re checking local pubs?’

  ‘We are.’

  Dropping on to his haunches, Brook could smell the beer. Fortunately the body was fresh, untainted by the usual stench of evacuated bowels and bladder. Death had come so suddenly to Sean Trimble that he’d barely had time to feel the fear. And in the cold air, what blood there was had not yet taken up the sweet coppery odour of decay.

  ‘Not much of an escape,’ he said, straightening up.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘His bike’s still there.’ Brook gestured to the large double garage. ‘Gibson’s vehicles?’

  ‘Untouched. Next-door neighbour says Fry left on foot, heading cross-coun
try.’

  ‘On foot? How long ago?’

  ‘Maybe two hours. Dog teams are on the way. Chopper, too. They’ll have infrared. The RPUs are throwing up more roadblocks.’

  ‘He’s not heading for the roads or he would’ve taken one of Gibson’s cars.’ Brook looked out into the night, his head moving in a smooth arc around the black horizon, coming to a stop at a wooded copse rising above the flat meadow on a ripple of higher ground. ‘When you get a minute, have someone take a look over that vantage point.’

  Brook continued on towards the house, past the half-built barn and a brazier still kicking out a glowering heat, past a shattered bottle being photographed and carefully collected for fingerprinting. Dead fireworks lay on the ground. To his surprise, he also noticed several twenty-pound notes on the ground being photographed then carefully bagged by a suited SOCO.

  Arriving at the kitchen, he registered the open bottle of champagne and the single flute, nearly empty. Two full glasses of red wine stood beside it.

  The victims were already drinking when Fry arrived.

  The dazzle of a camera drew him to the murder room, a sparsely furnished lounge with polished parquet flooring and minimalist furnishings that abutted the kitchen. Two leather armchairs had been pushed incongruously into the middle of the room; each supported a corpse.

  Like Frazer and Nolan five weeks before, Matthew Gibson and James Trimble were lavishly tied to prevent resistance. The severity of the bindings left just enough play for a touch of hands, hanging limp now. In a departure from the two previous crime scenes, Gibson had blood smeared around his chin and top lip.

  ‘They fought it.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you?’ said Noble, appearing at Brook’s side.

  Brook glanced briefly at the DS, deciding that a half-truth would be less distracting. ‘Of course.’ He returned his unblinking stare to the scene, storing everything in his memory so he could interrogate every detail at a later time.

  ‘One bullet each,’ confirmed Noble.

  ‘Two guns?’

  ‘Unknown. But the neighbour only saw one. Fry smashed a bourbon bottle, woke him up as he was leaving.’

  ‘He wasn’t woken by the shots?’

  ‘Bonfire Night,’ said Noble.

  Brook nodded. ‘This kill is different, John.’

  ‘Escalation?’

  ‘More than that. He’s reached the end and he’s chucking in the towel. That’s why he’s drawing attention.’

  ‘I’ll say. As well as the eyewitness and the bike, there are clear fingerprints on the broken bottle, the wine glasses and the champagne bottle. We’ve even got muddy boot prints on the floor.’

  ‘He’s signing off,’ sighed Brook.

  ‘Great. Now all we have to do is catch him.’

  Brook’s brow furrowed. ‘This doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘Sure it does,’ said Noble. ‘Fry and Gibson had a thing. Gibson tried to shut him up with money and Fry threw it back in his face before he killed them.’

  ‘But it was Fry who asked for money.’

  ‘Maybe he had a change of heart.’

  ‘Crime of passion?’

  ‘Well the neighbour saw blood around Fry’s mouth.’ Noble gestured at the blood on Gibson’s face.

  ‘Sealed with a kiss of death.’ Brook shook his head. ‘Then why go to the trouble of tying them both up? He’s a crack shot. Why not just shoot them where they stood?’

  Noble cast around for an explanation. ‘It’s a crime of passion. He wants to follow the method but he snapped because he’s at the end of his tether. We know that much. Post-traumatic stress. And he has a temper. So maybe Gibson and Trimble professed undying love for each other, and jealousy kicked in and he lost it. No bubbles for you two. Bang bang.’

  ‘Jealousy begets disorder and violence, John.’

  ‘Which is reflected in higher levels of disorganisation, as you see. And most normal people would consider shooting someone fairly violent.’

  ‘I suppose,’ grumbled Brook, unconvinced. ‘Either way I’m not covering myself in glory on this case, am I?’ No answer from Noble. ‘The victims didn’t drink the champagne.’

  ‘There’s only a glassful missing. My guess is Gibson and Trimble didn’t play ball and refused to drink, so Fry tried pouring it in their mouths. You can smell it on their shirts. He loses his rag, pops them both. It’s the end of the line so he has a drink to celebrate and stops worrying about trace.’

  ‘But why kill Matthew’s parents?’

  ‘No idea, but there’s a clear connection to the family at least.’

  ‘There isn’t to Frazer and Nolan.’

  ‘We’ll find it. You saw the son?’

  Brook nodded. ‘Something else off script.’

  ‘It might have brought him to his senses, because he had the neighbour in his sights but didn’t fire.’

  ‘Remorse,’ replied Brook, rolling the thought around in his head.

  ‘Makes sense,’ said Noble. ‘He’s supposed to be sending couples off to eternity together but has to kill Sean – who dies alone. The guilt snaps him out of his psychosis.’

  ‘And he doesn’t steal a car to make a break for it because he’s preparing for suicide by cop,’ concluded Brook, thinking it through. He shook his head. ‘But where’s the loss in Fry’s life? His wife is alive. Where’s the trigger?’

  ‘Dead boyfriend in the army?’ suggested Noble. ‘Who knows?’

  ‘I don’t see it, John. And how did he get control of Trimble and Gibson? The brazier is lit. If they were outside having a bonfire, why would they let Fry march them indoors and restrain them?’

  ‘He had a gun.’

  ‘But no element of surprise. Gibson would have realised what was coming, especially if Fry was carrying rope. He wouldn’t let himself be tied up without having a go.’

  ‘History’s full of corpses rooted to the spot as death walks up,’ said Noble. ‘Everyone’s different. And if Fry waited until Sean went out, he might have told Gibson and Trimble that he’d grabbed him up and if they didn’t play ball, he’d be dead.’

  Brook nodded, impressed. ‘You should’ve run this inquiry on your own, John. I’ve been a lead weight because of Terri and this Black Oak Farm nonsense. You were right about the escalation and right to give me grief. Where’s Caskey?’

  ‘I called, but her phone’s turned off.’

  Brook was thoughtful. ‘She lives in Ripley, doesn’t she?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Try again. And failing that, get a squad car round to her place, tell her to get herself here immediately.’

  ‘It’s an hour’s drive. I think we’ve got this covered …’

  ‘Immediately,’ repeated Brook, fixing his gaze at Noble to eliminate any doubt.

  Noble took out his phone and held it to his ear. ‘Something I should know?’

  ‘Let’s get some air,’ said Brook, setting off through the kitchen towards the patio. ‘Where are we on the canvass?’

  ‘We’re waking the whole village. Ticknall’s a quiet place, people are likely to notice things.’

  ‘Put the emphasis on catching Fry for now. Make sure everyone’s got a description and a Last Seen Wearing. He’s smart and may have doubled back to throw us off, though I doubt it.’

  ‘We’re a bit short of bodies.’

  ‘Then get as much manpower as Charlton can rustle up from County. What about a local branch?’

  ‘Nearest stations are Swadlincote and Ashby, but there’s a village hall we can commandeer for an incident room.’

  ‘Good. Co-ordinate the chopper, RPUs and the dogs from there.’

  ‘Armed Response?’ When Brook hesitated, Noble pressed the point home. ‘Fry was here. People are dead. He has a gun. If we don’t pick him up before daylight, this could get ugly.’

  Brook acquiesced with a dip of the eyes. ‘He won’t run, but get a firing squad here anyway.’

  ‘Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.’

&nb
sp; ‘Fry’s a misfit who doesn’t belong, John. He didn’t help himself to a high-powered car and he’s no intention of giving himself up. There’s only one other option.’

  Through the trees, Fry trained his night-vision binoculars on the distant helicopter.

  He smiled and took another long pull on the bourbon. No dogs yet. He should be fine until daylight. That was as long as he needed. He downed another large measure of the bourbon and lay back against the crumbling brick wall of the outhouse at the furthest edge of the Calke Abbey estate. He’d torn off the derelict barn’s rotting wooden shutter in case he needed to dive for cover from the infrared cameras once the chopper’s grid search expanded. Even so, without dog handlers to co-ordinate on the ground, he was safe for a few hours. He took another warming slug.

  Sit rep critical. FUBAR. SNAFU. With you soon, Dunphy.

  He grinned at the thought of his fallen comrade, at the sense of brotherhood, of common purpose and camaraderie. It warmed him more than bourbon ever could.

  ‘Next time I see you, you’ll have your legs back.’ He stared glassy-eyed into the darkness. ‘And I’ll be the man I want to be.’

  He took out the unloaded Glock and put it on the ground, then pulled out his smartphone from a pocket of his jacket but didn’t turn it on. He didn’t want to activate the GPS just yet, but more importantly, he didn’t want to drain the power he’d need for a final message to his wife. He just needed a signal. His surprisingly buoyant mood dissipated when he thought of her, so he took another tug on the bottle. Time to think. Time to compose what he wanted to say to his long-suffering Roberta.

  With you soon, Dunphy.

  Brook and Noble stood in the damp field allowing SOCO to swarm all over the site. They could feel the cold seeping into their bones and Brook felt the urge to go for a stiff three-mile walk to get his temperature up. ‘No response?’

  ‘Her phone’s still off,’ said Noble, ending the call.

  ‘Check if local plod got a response when they knocked on her door.’