“A frenzied attack. What does that tell us?” Ruth whispered to Calladine.
“Someone lost it, went wild. A killer with a temper or a score to settle. I’ve got Rocco and Alice doing the rounds, trying to find out who she was. So far, no one’s reported anyone looking like her missing.”
“If she was living rough in that flat, she might not even be from round here.”
“She wasn’t a healthy woman,” Natasha said. “Her liver is scarred — booze, I suspect. The body smelled of whisky when I first attended, and she has an enlarged heart. And then there are these.” Natasha pointed to track marks on her arms and legs. “A regular user with a long-term habit, I’d say.”
“How old d’you reckon she is?” Ruth asked.
“She’s had a hard life and the maggots have been at her face, but at a rough guess, late fifties?”
Calladine felt his mobile vibrate. It was a text from Rocco. He had a name for the victim. After he’d asked at all the flats on the sixth floor, he found an elderly man on the floor below who said he knew her. Calladine nudged Ruth. “Her name is Rebecca or Becca O’Brien. They found a neighbour who knows her. I think we should have a chat.”
At that moment, Julian entered the morgue. He looked up at the pair and nodded. “I’ve looked at the writing left on the wall of the flat and checked that it is the victim’s blood. The word is simple enough to decipher but the image was more difficult. However, with careful cleaning we’ve managed. Hang on.” Julian went up and showed them a photo of it on his mobile. “The word sorry, plus a heart shape with the initials MR in the centre. I’ll text it to you, might prove useful.”
Calladine shook his head. “Sorry, for what? Killing her? On top of all that carnage, the killer takes the time to do that. It’s unbelievable. They beat that woman half to death, finish her off with a blow to the head and then draw a little picture. What does it tell us? What does ‘MR’ mean if her name is Becca or Rebecca? What sort of person are we dealing with here?”
Ruth said nothing. She had an odd look on her face. “That image, the word. It rings a bell, and particularly as we now have a name.”
Calladine looked at her. “Want to share?”
“Give me some time to sort the facts spinning around in my head and to check something. I’ll see you back at the station,” she said and turned to go.
“Hey, what about me? I’ll have to walk back,” he said.
“No need. There’s a uniform with a car outside. I’ll tell him to wait for you.”
Chapter Eight
Now in his sixties, Maurice Fleet had lived on the Hobfield for most of his adult life. The experience had evidently made him afraid of his own shadow. After satisfying himself that the callers really were the police, it took him several minutes to unfasten all the locks and bolts on his door.
Calladine introduced himself and the uniformed officer with him, and showed the man his warrant card.
Maurice Fleet squinted at it. “Can’t be too careful. The kids round here try all sorts. They’ve tried to break in umpteen times, little buggers. Without the locks and the reinforcement, they’d have every stick of furniture I own. Something needs doing,” he said. “I told that young detective who were ’ere but I don’t think he believed me.”
Calladine doubted that. Rocco didn’t need telling about the dangers of the Hobfield, he’d experienced them first-hand. He got straight to the point. “You knew her? The woman one floor up from you?” Calladine asked.
Maurice folded his arms and shook his head, looking nervous. “She wasn’t a friend or owt like that. I saw her around and recognized her from the past. She used to live in that same flat years ago with that daughter of hers. She were another right hard nut too. By the time she were fifteen, she were out of control. Rarely went to school and no sign of a father.” He grimaced. “Entire O’Brien family was a waste of space. I’m not surprised Becca ended up like that.”
“Becca O’Brien. Are you sure that’s her name?” Calladine asked.
“Yes, it’s her all right.”
“D’you know if there are any other members of the family still in Leesdon?”
“Shouldn’t think so. Becca’s daughter had some sort of accident. After that she wasn’t quite right in th’ead. Use to talk to herself and have blackouts. She ended up in a home, I think. As far as I know there was only ever the one child and no other relatives.”
“Did you hear anything the day she was killed?” Calladine asked.
“A lot of noise — enough shouting and screaming to wake the dead. I would have gone round to check on her, but I value my life too much. Whoever she was entertaining was roaring drunk and angry.”
“Male or female?” Calladine asked.
“Definitely male, and local from his accent. From what little I caught, they were fighting about money. It lasted half an hour or so and then it went quiet again. I was relieved. I didn’t fancy spending the night listening to that.”
“Weren’t you concerned when you didn’t see Becca again after that?” Calladine asked.
“No. I never saw much of her anyway. The woman attracted trouble. When it went quiet, I was just glad of the peace. This flat is directly below hers, and she was always making a noise. I kept asking her to tone it down, but it made no difference. The music, the rows, it never stopped. Half the estate met up in there regularly.”
“D’you know who this man is?”
“Her dealer? Pimp? Who knows? He came often enough, so there was definitely something going on,” Maurice said.
Calladine recalled that the dead woman had been a user.
“That flat was nothing more than a drug den,” Maurice continued. “Most of her visitors were youngsters, with the same half-starved look she had. They came and went, day and night.”
Calladine persisted. “And you have no idea who this man might be? A name? Description? Anything you can give us will help.”
Just the idea of it seemed to turn Maurice grey, and he shook his head. “I value my life, Mr Calladine. Even if the brute didn’t kill me, he’d do me serious harm.”
“You know the man is dangerous, so why not help us get him off the streets?” Calladine said.
“You take him in, he gets charged, goes to court, what’ll he get? Some sentence that’ll see him back on the estate in no time. Then he’ll come looking.”
“Not if we get him for murder,” Calladine said.
Maurice appeared to consider this. “Try the Pheasant,” he said, referring to the pub at the edge of the estate. “You’re looking for a big bullish man with red hair.” He glanced around as if that very man had got in somehow. “That’s all I’m saying.”
Calladine smiled. “Thanks. You’ve been very helpful.”
“Want to take a look?” the PC asked once they were outside. “It’s lunchtime, we could get something to eat.”
“In the Pheasant? You’re joking. I wouldn’t eat in there for a gold clock.”
“Well, just a chat with this bloke then.”
Calladine considered this. “Okay, but no heroics. Someone makes a comment, ignore it. We don’t want a fight, just a few answers.”
Chapter Nine
It was that heart-shaped image with the initials that had sent Ruth scurrying back to the nick. The word “sorry” had bothered her when she’d first seen it in the flat, but now, coupled with the image and finding out the victim’s name, she knew why. It sparked something in her mind, a memory of an incident from years ago and a report she’d read recently.
She’d just removed her jacket and sat down when DCI Greco entered the incident room. “How is the case going?” he asked, looking at the empty whiteboard.
“I’ve just heard from Calladine. He’s got an ID on the victim, and is on the trail of a man she argued with shortly before her death.” She looked up from her computer screen and smiled at him. “Research,” she said. “The word ‘sorry’ plus the image of a heart was written in blood on a wall in the flat the victim was
found in. It reminded me of a case I looked at recently.”
“Interesting,” he said, looking over her shoulder.
“It was a murder, an old one. Here it is,” Ruth said, pointing to the screen. “The remains were found a couple of years ago. You’d have been at Oldston and probably didn’t hear of the case.”
“How come you’re so interested now?” he asked.
“I knew the victim,” Ruth said. “If the investigating team were correct in their findings, she was a girl in my class at school.” Ruth pointed to the report on the screen. “Gorse House was a rambling old place up on the hillside. Millie Reed, my friend, lived there with her granny, who owned it. She had no one else. Roughly twenty-five years ago, Millie’s granny had a stroke and died. Millie disappeared. Missing Persons launched an investigation and found she’d gone to stay with a relative. She never returned and dropped off the radar. Gorse House stayed empty for years. It fell into disrepair and was eventually deemed unfit for habitation and dangerous, so it had to be torn down. During the demolition two years ago, human bones were discovered, someone spotted them amid the rubble. Forensics stated that the body had been hidden in a cavity in the cellar, possibly an old priest hole, and sealed over with wooden panels.”
“Do we know anything about the bones?”
“They were those of a young female. There was a large crack in her skull, so it was presumed she’d suffered a blow to the head with something heavy, or else she fell, and that’s what killed her. There was no way of knowing for sure. There were remnants of clothing found too, the skirt and blazer were polyester, thought to be part of a school uniform, Leesdon Academy, or Leesdon High as it would be then. There was a bloodstain on what was left of the skirt but with nothing to compare it with, not much use. The body was identified from a watch still hanging around the bones of the wrist. It had the name ‘Millie’ engraved on the back. DI Long and his team were assigned the case. He investigated but soon reached a dead end. Millie Reed hadn’t been seen in years, her granny was long dead and had been cremated, so there was no DNA to match against the blood or bones. Given the age of them — the uniform, the watch, and the fact that Millie had disappeared — it was presumed the tale about her living with a relative had been wrong and the remains were hers.”
“So what are you saying? That the grandmother killed her and hid the body?” Greco asked.
“There’s no way of knowing exactly what happened, sir. All we know for sure is that Millie suddenly stopped attending school twenty-five years ago, shortly before her granny had the stroke, and no one’s seen her since.”
“Didn’t anyone look into it at the time? She was a young girl, surely people were curious about what had happened to her.”
“Millie would have been sixteen, a couple of years older than me. The grandmother was practically a recluse, and they were both thought to be odd, living up there on their own. Plus, it was a long time ago.”
“Even so,” Greco said.
“Who knows? It is easy to assume that the bones are hers, but we have no concrete proof of it. Without her granny to look out for her, Millie would have been vulnerable. She was bullied at school, and the girls who tormented her wouldn’t have stopped. The fact that she was on her own would have made her seem like an easy target. So it is possible that she simply took off.”
“If that’s right, then it begs the question of who the bones belong to. Any ideas?”
“No, sir.”
“What was she like, this Millie?” Greco asked.
“She was small and delicately built, pretty with blonde hair. Those girls from the Hobfield picked on her, bullied her mercilessly. She had a prominent mole on one of her cheeks and came in for a lot of name-calling because of it. She had no parents or other relatives, which is why she lived with her granny. No one ever got close enough to find out much about her parents. I did a check through the records and discovered that both were dead, killed in a car accident when Millie was three.”
“It strikes me that that old house must have been a dangerous place to live in,” he said wryly. “What’s happened to arouse your interest in the case now?”
“When the place where the remains were found was examined, the word ‘sorry’ was written in white paint on the inside of the wooden board used to cover up the hole Millie was found in. There was also a drawing of what looked like a heart shape with the initials ‘MR’ in the centre. I saw the same thing drawn in blood on the wall in that flat, but the important bit is that the press got wind of the word ‘sorry’ at the time but not the drawing. That bit of information was never released. The initials are the same — MR, Millie Reed.”
“That is odd. You say you saw the same image in the flat?”
“Yes, drawn alongside the word, just like that other one.”
“Unlikely to be a coincidence then,” Greco said.
“Exactly what I think. Something links the deaths — I know it does. And whatever that is could be the reason why Becca O’Brien got murdered. I’m sure one of the girls who tormented Millie was called Jade O’Brien, perhaps it was Becca’s daughter.”
“It’s been a long time, Ruth. If you’re right, then where have they been all this time and why return now?”
“They may have been here all the time, Becca on the Hobfield and Jade somewhere close by. Although I have to say I don’t recall seeing her around. No one knows what really happened back then or why. Three girls from the Hobfield and Millie Reed — in all these years no one has ever spoken about it, and I have no idea where those girls are now.”
“It might be an idea to find out,” Greco suggested.
“DI Long did his best two years ago but he had nothing to go on and his enquiries came up blank.”
“Speak to Calladine,” Greco said. “See what he has to say after he’s found the man O’Brien argued with. Hopefully, there’s a far simpler explanation for this killing than some connection to a cold case.”
“We’ll see, sir, but don’t bet on it. Old hatreds abound in this part of the world. Cross someone, make enemies, and the repercussions reverberate down the years.”
As soon as Greco left the incident room, Ruth called Calladine on her mobile. “You should get back. We need to talk. I think we could have a problem.”
Chapter Ten
The Pheasant was empty apart from two men propping up the bar and chatting to the landlord. As soon as they spotted Calladine they fell silent. They knew who he was, most people on this estate did.
“I’m looking for a smallish bloke, skinny with red hair,” Calladine said, showing them his warrant card.
The landlord shrugged. “No one who looks like that comes in ’ere. You’re out o’ luck, mate, got the wrong pub.”
It was the same every time, and Calladine was sick of it. “No,” he said. “Right pub, wrong answer.” He slammed his fist down on the bar. “I will find the man with or without your help, even if I have to leave a couple of uniformed officers in here to keep an eye out for him.”
The barman looked at the two customers and shook his head. “Look, mate, I don’t want any trouble. All sorts come in ’ere. What’s this red-haired bloke done anyway?”
“None of your business, but hold information back and I’ll do you for obstruction.”
“Johnno Higgs, that’s who you want,” one of the two customers said. “He dosses down in Heron House sometimes with that bird of his.”
“Becca O’Brien?”
“Becca, yeah, that’s her.”
“See, that wasn’t hard, was it?” Calladine scowled at the lot of them, beckoned to the PC and left. “Right. Back to the station.”
“Is that your phone ringing, sir?”
Calladine reached in his pocket to take the call from Ruth.
* * *
“I have a name.” Calladine came breezing in to the incident room. “Johnno Higgs. According to the old man I spoke to he was arguing with the victim shortly before her death, and word is that he provided her with d
rugs. Find him,” he fired off at Rocco. Ruth was still busy at her desk. “What’s this problem you rang about?” he asked.
“A case from the past, one of DI Long’s.”
“Is it relevant to the O’Brien case?”
“I think it might be,” she said. “D’you recall the remains found up at Gorse House?”
Calladine nodded. “Vaguely. A young girl, thought to live there with the old woman that owned the place.”
“Yes, Millie Reed, the woman’s granddaughter. Her remains were thought to have been hidden in a space in the cellar of that house for years. The space was covered with wooden boards, but — and this is the interesting bit — written across them was the word ‘sorry’ in white paint, also a heart with the initials ‘MR’ in the centre. Remind you of anything?” she smiled.
Calladine sat down opposite Ruth. “Hmm. Same as with Becca. How come? Got any bright ideas?”
“Not really. I’m still trying to come up with a theory, but it’s not easy. We don’t even know who those bones really belonged to.”
“Long reckoned it was the Reed girl they found, and that the granny must have killed her,” he said. “But he had no reason to think that. There was just nothing to work with. Personally, I had my doubts.”
“Me too,” Ruth said. “I think the Gorse House killing and that of Becca O’Brien are linked, possibly the same person is responsible for both. And if they are, that means it can’t have been the granny. She’s been dead for years.”
“What d’you base that theory on?” he said.
“The drawing of the heart shape left at both scenes and I’ve looked at the file. Agnes Reed had cared for Millie since she was an infant. She loved that girl, and I know she tried to protect her. I went to school with Millie Reed. She was always well turned out and clever, too. Any problems Millie had weren’t caused by her gran, more likely it was the girls at school. I saw what a crap time she had. She was bullied, and the ringleader, the girl who tormented her the most, was Jade O’Brien, our dead woman’s daughter.” She slapped down a file on the table in front of him. “I dug this out of the archives. It makes interesting reading. Shortly before Millie disappeared, there was an incident up at Gorse House. There’d been a fight and Jade O’Brien, along with another girl, was injured, at least that’s what the girls at school told the young detective who investigated.”
DEAD SORRY a totally addictive crime thriller with a huge twist (Calladine & Bayliss Mystery Book 11) Page 4