‘Twelve hundred quid an hour?’ Francis said. ‘I can think of far better ways to spend that sort of money than on you.’
‘But you’ve never tried me, so how could you know?’
Francis winked at Wilander before turning to the other man.
‘And this is Eric Baxter, he’s a Chief Super over at West Mids police.’
Baxter gave Grant an unconvincing smile and a bone-crushing handshake. Grant reciprocated, though he was feeling somewhat out of his depth in this group of men.
‘Hey Bax, you and Grant here have probably got a lot to talk about. This is Professor Steven Grant. You know, the guy who knows everything there is to know about murder.’
Grant felt his cheeks flush, but Baxter appeared unimpressed with the revelation.
‘I thought you looked familiar,’ he said, his eyes narrowing. But that was all he said.
The foursome took their shots from the first tee and soon they were off, trudging around the sodden golf course. Although the day was sunny and dry, the cold autumnal night had left the ground thick with moisture and the low sun could do nothing to alleviate the situation. The bottom of Grant’s trousers were soon sopping wet – not helped by the fact that on each of the first three holes his tee shots were wayward, landing in the long grass of the rough.
By that point Grant already felt something of an outsider among the four. Francis may only have lived in the area for a couple of months but he clearly already had the attention of the other two men – both senior figures in the community, in their own ways. Grant couldn’t really figure how that had happened. Why did Francis have such a hold, other than because he was cocky and arrogant?
Wilander was an extrovert like Francis, Grant noticed, but Baxter was more measured – as Grant had found many senior police officers to be over the years. Baxter, in his fifties, Grant guessed, was a true silver fox with bright grey hair that sat somewhat uncomfortably with his tanned skin. Grant was sure Baxter was a ladies’ man. There was something about his look, and although he was reserved he was clearly full of confidence and self-importance. He didn’t wear a ring on his finger – probably divorced following a mid-life crisis that had involved him putting his penis into a much younger version of his wife.
Or perhaps that was just an unfair assumption by Grant, brought on by the fact he felt out of his depth with these confident men. Regardless, Grant felt wary around the senior officer, whose eyes were forever on the move as he weighed up the integrity of everyone and everything around him.
You can take the man out of the police, but you can’t take the police out of the man.
‘You two really should get together, you know,’ Francis said to Grant and Baxter as they walked along the fairway, as though he were an expert matchmaker.
‘I don’t know,’ Baxter said. ‘No offence, professor, but we’ve had your type in before.’
‘My type?’ Grant said, naturally offended.
‘No disrespect, but there’s a big difference between the theory and actually policing a murder investigation.’
‘I don’t doubt that for a second,’ Grant said. ‘But understanding the psychology of a killer can still be important in finding them.’
‘Yeah, you must have watched Cracker before, Bax?’ Francis added, as though it was a miraculous insight.
‘In my experience it’s not important at all,’ Baxter said. ‘Deranged serial killers don’t really exist in the real world. Not like you see on the telly all the time, anyway. They’re one in a million. Most homicides we deal with are far simpler than you see on Silent Witness. Gang violence. Domestics.’
‘You’re doing yourself an injustice there, mate,’ Francis said.
‘No, just telling it straight. But if we do find ourselves with a crazed multiple killer on our hands who leaves no trace of evidence, you’ll be the first to know, professor.’
‘I’m flattered,’ Grant said, trying his best to not sound agitated.
‘You’d better watch it, Bax,’ Francis said, sniggering. ‘I think the prof is going to drop you in a vat of acid now. He knows all the tricks, don’t forget.’
Baxter smiled at the joke but Grant sensed the policeman wasn’t in the least amused. Quite why he’d felt the need to belittle Grant, he didn’t know.
By the end of the sixth hole Grant’s golfing rustiness was showing: he was already several shots behind the other three, and feeling more and more riled by his poor game. His mood wasn’t helped by the fact that he was becoming increasingly alienated from the group who were often left chatting among themselves while Grant was off trying to find his ball.
The others said nothing about Grant’s poor game. At least not initially. But then the inevitable comments started. Your knees are too bent. Your back’s not straight. The club’s too far away. Your feet are too wide.
Grant was getting more and more angry, not just with them but with himself too. This was the very reason he’d stopped playing golf regularly in the first place. Despite his introvert nature, Grant was a massively competitive person and he couldn’t stand that he wasn’t as good as he wanted to be at the game. Some people were able to scuttle around a golf course with the worst-looking swing in the world – a real hit and hope style – and still record scores way better than Grant, who’d taken lessons for years to try to develop a swing that resembled ‘correct’ form. He just couldn’t get it right though. At least not to his satisfaction.
On the twelfth hole Grant’s second shot landed in a deep bunker next to the green and his heart sank.
‘Hard luck, mate,’ Francis said.
Grant prepped himself for the next shot while the other three stood over their balls, each of them already on the green.
‘Make sure you take a lot of sand,’ Wilander called.
‘Nice and hard,’ Francis said.
Baxter said nothing, just stared.
Grant looked down at the ball and imagined the little puckered object was Francis’s head. Then he swung the club down at speed and crashed the club face into it. He topped the damn thing. The ball jumped up the side of the bunker, sped across the green, rolled up a ridge on the other side and landed straight in another bunker.
There was an awkward silence from the other three, who must have by now sensed that Grant was about ready to explode. He stomped his way across the grass, not looking any of them in the eye.
‘More sand this time,’ Wilander said.
Grant clenched his fists as tight as he could as he walked past. He reached the ball and squared up and this time imagined the ball was Wilander’s face, complete with his bleached white smile and that arrogant glint in his eye. Grant swiped at the ball angrily but this time went too deep, talking way too much sand, and the ball jumped all of two feet in front of him then rolled back down the slope of the bunker back to his feet.
Without thinking Grant took another angry swipe and this time topped the ball again and it scuttled across the green back where it had come from, rolling straight into the opposite bunker for a second visit.
Grant couldn’t hold it in any longer. He roared in anger and hurled the club across the green. The spinning metal projectile whizzed past Wilander’s face, missing him by only inches.
Wilander’s face soured. ‘You throw that at me?’
‘What? No,’ Grant said, stepping out of the sand.
Baxter said nothing. Just glowered at Grant with contempt.
‘Quite a temper on you there, mate,’ Francis said, his face showing his disapproval at Grant’s lack of etiquette – a golfing faux pas of grand proportions. Grant really couldn’t give a shit. He only hoped he could contain his rumbling anger for the rest of the game.
Perhaps Ethan wasn’t so different to him after all.
Chapter Twenty
‘What happened?’ Dani asked Easton as she stared at the bloodied and near naked body of the man in the corner of the lounge. There were splashes of blood on the oak flooring and magnolia walls. Other than a colossal TV with DVD p
layer and extravagant sound system, plus a single three-seater sofa, the room was strangely sparse with no other furniture or knick-knacks.
‘You mean what happened to him?’ Easton responded, an eyebrow half-raised as though Dani’s was a dumb question.
‘No. With you. How did you get in here?’
The ground floor apartment in Edgbaston was one of three inside a grand Edwardian semi-detached. At one time the building and the whole street would have been well-to-do. In recent years, as the city had expanded, the area, so close to the city centre, had become another confused neighbourhood, much like Moseley, with clashing cultures, various ethnic backgrounds, religions, languages, immigrants both legal and illegal and both wealthy and poor inhabitants. Judging by the size and quality of the building, and the apartment, Dani guessed that it was towards the higher end of the properties on the street.
‘This was one of two addresses we could link to Reeve,’ Easton said. ‘The first was over near Harborne, but it’s now rented out to a young couple who claimed to not know him at all. There was no answer here when we rang and knocked on the door. DC Constable decided—’
‘DC Constable?’
‘Yeah.’ Easton said, straight-faced.
‘Detective Constable Constable?’
‘Yeah.’
Despite the situation Dani found herself stifling a smile.
‘He’s upstairs at the moment, checking out what the neighbours have seen and heard.’
‘So?’
‘So Constable tried the handle.’
‘For what reason?’
‘You’d have to ask him that.’ The tone of his voice made it clear he felt unnecessarily challenged.
‘And?’
‘It was unlocked.’
‘So you decided to enter, just like that?’
‘I think we had reasonable cause, given what’s happened.’
Easton was certainly on the defensive. That was fine. Dani was pushing him, she had to make sure the judgment to enter the premises was sound. Even though there was a dead body here, the police had entered effectively on a whim. She’d have done the same thing – in fact she had done so over at June Staunton’s house – but that didn’t mean everyone would see it the same way, and the key thing was making sure that Easton had a sound and justifiable explanation.
‘Hindsight is a wonderful thing,’ Dani said. ‘So what do you know?’
‘Very little. I mean, it looks like it’s our guy, doesn’t it?’
Dani looked at the blood-smeared face, which certainly bore a close resemblance to the picture they had of Paul Reeve, aka Jimmy.
‘The paramedics confirmed the death,’ Easton said. Dani nodded. A medically trained person confirming death was a procedural necessity, even if it was damn obvious Reeve would never be getting up again.
‘What happened before they arrived?’ Dani asked.
‘We checked the body first, to see if he was alive. After we called it in, we checked the rest of the apartment to see if anyone else was here. But other than that we haven’t touched or looked for anything. I called forensics, just like you said, then waited for you to arrive.’
‘Ok,’ Dani said, deep in thought.
‘Do you think we should call the pathologist too?’
Dani mulled that one over for a moment. She moved to the body and squatted down onto her haunches.
‘Stabbed to death, it looks like,’ Dani said.
‘I agree. There’re at least two puncture wounds to the gut. Massive blood loss. But also abrasions and bruises to the face, arms and torso.’
Dani sighed. Cause of death seemed clear enough, and even though she could well imagine Ledford’s response to being called out to the crime scene if he felt it unnecessary, she feared that the case might be bigger than even she had thought. They’d wanted to speak to Paul Reeve in relation to the murder of Natalya, and he also had a clear link to another missing woman – Grace Agnew. Plus he had two stab wounds to the gut, the same injuries which had proved fatal to Natalya.
What the hell was happening?
‘Call Ledford. Maybe he’ll pick up on something here that we won’t. I’d rather be safe than sorry.’
‘I’ll do it now.’
Easton headed off into the hallway. Dani slipped on the pair of blue latex gloves she was carrying in her pocket.
The dead man in front of her was wearing nothing but a pair of black boxer shorts. His body was covered in blood, and although he had other scrapes and cuts, there didn’t appear to be any serious wounds other than the two in his belly.
She looked over his hands. There was grime under his nails. Together with the scrapes and bruises on his body, he’d definitely been involved in a fight or struggle at some point, but it was possible those marks had been inflicted at an earlier time. Hopefully Ledford could provide some clarity on that.
Dani looked around her. Other than the blood smears in the room, there were no obvious signs of a struggle. She thought about moving the body to inspect for other wounds on his back. She didn’t. Ledford would soon be there and he’d want to do things his own way.
Instead Dani straightened up and took a look around.
There was nothing else of interest in the lounge so she headed out to the hallway. The apartment had two bedrooms, both with en suites, and a large kitchen/diner. Everything was neat and ordered, expensively fitted but with little by way of warmth or homeliness. No ornaments or photo frames or art on the walls. One of the bedrooms had a single bed, with a bare mattress on top and an empty wardrobe. Dani walked into the other bedroom which had a much grander king-size bed, with mussed up shiny bedclothes on top.
She moved over to the large chest of drawers nestled next to an ornate dark wood fireplace. The first drawer contained t-shirts. Expensive t-shirts at that. The second contained similarly pricey clothes. The third down was something of a dumping ground with all manner of correspondence and stationery and forms and records. Dani picked up a utility bill, just a couple of weeks old. It was addressed to Mr J Colton.
She rifled through the other items and found several other letters addressed to J or Jimmy Colton, including a mobile phone bill, a credit card statement and a letter about a gym membership. Then she found a bank statement. A little over five thousand pounds was the balance just a few weeks ago, though the ins and outs over the period shown were several times more than that.
‘Mr Paul Reeve,’ Dani said out loud as she looked at the addressee.
‘What have you got?’ Easton asked. His unexpected voice made Dani jump. She spun around. Easton was casually hanging in the doorway.
‘Jesus, Easton, why are you sneaking up on me like that?’
‘Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.’
‘Over here.’
Dani went back to her search. She lifted up a plain white envelope and found underneath it three passport photos from a square of four. The man in the picture was definitely Paul Reeve. And Dani was sure it was also the same man who was now lying dead in the other room.
‘What’s with the false name, do you think?’ she asked as she stared at the photos.
‘Who says it’s false?’
Good point, Dani thought, but didn’t say. They’d already confirmed that Paul Reeve was a genuine identity, and had assumed Jimmy was just an alias he used. But was there really a Jimmy Colton too? If not, then Paul Reeve, or someone else on his behalf, had gone to a hell of a lot of effort to create the fake identity. It was way more than just using a different first name to chat up girls in bars. Why?
‘Constable is still off speaking to the neighbours,’ Easton said. ‘Forensics are outside, just getting kitted up. Ledford will be here within the hour.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I’ve also got an address and a phone number for Paul Reeve’s parents. So what now?’
Dani shut the third drawer and opened up the last one. Socks. Boxer shorts. Neatly folded and designer branded. Dani frowned. She stuck her hand into the drawe
r and pulled the underwear aside. Sure enough, the drawer was shallower than the other three. She felt around the edges. It wasn’t a false bottom. Dani slid the drawer back slightly then tilted it up and pulled it back out, lifting it off the runners. She looked inside the unit’s carcass.
‘Bloody hell,’ she said.
Easton crouched down beside her.
‘Bloody hell indeed,’ he said, as Dani gazed inside the drawer unit. More specifically, she gazed at the myriad little plastic bags of white pills and powder. There were also two brick-sized lumps covered in brown tape.
‘I think we know how he could afford this place then,’ Easton said.
Chapter Twenty-One
‘What exactly do we know about Paul Reeve?’ Dani asked Easton as they drove from Edgbaston and across to Shirley where Paul Reeve’s parents lived. Her question was as much a refresher for herself as it was a means of learning new information. They’d already scoured what data they could on Reeve but Dani was struggling to put the pieces of his life and death together in her mind.
‘Twenty-two years old,’ Easton said. ‘A former semi-pro footballer for Tamworth football club. Apparently everyone thought he’d make it to full professional when he was younger, but a knee injury saw all that come to an end when he was still a teenager. You’d be amazed how many careers fall apart at a young age like that.’
‘You’re speaking from experience?’
‘Not me, I was never that good. But more than one of my mates had professional contracts when they were younger, that never worked out. And afterwards, they’re left with nothing. Clubs don’t care, the agents walk away with their cut and move onto the next one to bleed dry. In my eyes the clubs and the authorities need to do more to protect these kids and make sure they have something even if their premier league dreams don’t work out.’
She looked over at him and was pleasantly impressed with the determined look on his face. She’d assumed his spouting about football agents before was just the pipe dream of a football fanatic, but perhaps there was more to it than that.
‘And what’s Reeve been up to since?’ Dani asked.
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