Something Evil Comes

by A. J. Cross

  ‘How’s the case developing?’ asked Julian. He caught Hanson’s quick glance at Laura. ‘Laura understands what you do at headquarters is confidential.’

  Hanson’s eyes went to the flip chart, checking that she’d covered it before Laura’s arrival. She started to load her briefcase. ‘Could be better.’

  ‘Remember The Murder Group, Kate?’

  She did. Around four years ago, members of one of the intellectually quickest tutorial groups she’d had, Julian among them, had started it, studying homicide cases in the media and raising credible suspects, as shown by the subsequent arrests reported in the newspapers. She looked at their expectant faces, guessing what they were thinking. ‘Sorry, no. Not this case.’

  The phone rang as Hanson arrived in UCU. Watts reached for it. ‘Unsolved Crime—’ He listened. She and Corrigan saw disbelief arrive on his face. ‘We’ll be there.’ He put down the phone. ‘One deceased. Sutton Park.’

  ‘Richard Burns,’ she said.

  Watts was on his feet. ‘Think again, doc.’

  They got out of the Range Rover into silent chill and headed down a wide track between rows of tall evergreens. They came into the clearing where officers were gathered, some in forensic suits, one standing with the pathologist, looking at something grey lying on the ground near their feet.

  Chong looked up as they approached. ‘Want to take a look?’ She unzipped the grey body bag and pulled the sides apart to expose the face: Diana Flynn, eyes closed, blonde hair barely ruffled, lips bluish, throat intact. Chong re-zipped the bag and nodded to her assistant and a forensic worker. ‘You can take her now.’ She reached inside her case and turned to Hanson and her colleagues, holding up a half-full brandy bottle shrouded in plastic. ‘A mix of this and Valium.’ They stared at the bottle.

  ‘You’re sure?’ Watts asked. He got a clipped response.

  ‘Yes, or I wouldn’t be saying it, would I?’ She replaced the bottle inside the case. ‘She must have arrived here early this morning.’ She pointed to the case. ‘We collected an empty Valium packet from near the body. It looks like she chose what she thought was a good spot on a Monday. Off the main tracks and not visited much in November. She took the tablets with the brandy. Her breathing slowed. She became sleepy, blood pressure dropped, pulse dropped and she became comatose.’ She turned, watching the body bag being slid inside the black estate car. ‘What more do you need to know.’

  ‘Has Brad Flynn been informed?’ asked Hanson.

  ‘Not yet. He wasn’t at the house this morning. I rang Dominic Flynn. According to him, his father had scheduled several business meetings in the city. We didn’t tell him why we wanted his father. We’re still trying to locate him.’

  ‘No evidence on her body of a struggle?’ asked Watts as Chong reached inside the case again.

  ‘Given what I’ve just said, what do you think?’

  ‘Note?’

  She straightened, holding out an evidence bag. ‘Here. Short and to the point. A reward for your first sensible question.’

  Hanson was in her room, her eyes fixed on a copy of Diana Flynn’s suicide note, the original of which was being processed for prints. It was hardly a note and it hardly needed copying: a name, chaotically written, probably as Diana ingested much of the substances which killed her. Hanson sat back, letting it fall onto the desk, her eyes on its message: Brad Flynn – you should have— Knowing that the woman who had written those words had destroyed herself gave them an awful finality. To Hanson they crackled with blame. She rested her head back and stared towards the window, recalling the scene at the park that morning, thinking about Brad Flynn’s complaint against her and the unlikelihood it would carry weight, given that he himself had become a person of interest in the last day or so. She started at Crystal’s voice.

  ‘Want anything before I take this stuff to Admin, Kate?’

  ‘No, thanks.’ Crystal looked at her watch. ‘Don’t forget your lecture on antisocial personality to the second year undergrads.’

  Hanson was on her feet. ‘Damn!’ Waiting for the unsteadiness she’d had since the attack on her to settle, she grabbed files and her laptop, headed for the door. ‘What would I do without you, Crystal?’

  ‘Survive just fine.’

  Watts parked the Range Rover at the end of a row of cars in the space marked with a large yellow ‘No Parking’ cross and headed for the School of Psychology entrance. He hadn’t taken to the place the first few times he’d come here but now he liked it. Red brick. Solid. He felt at home here. He walked up the steps, ignored the lift because he’d got stuck in it once, and took the stairs. He felt heavy, weighed down by the nightmare of a day he’d just had, guessing that Hanson’s had probably been as bad. He was later than he’d anticipated but he knew she was still here. Her car was outside. Not that he had any good news for her. They still hadn’t located Burns. He thumped the door, got a response and pushed it open. ‘How you doing, doc?’

  He looked across the room to where she was sitting at her desk, the low sun shining through the window, flaming her hair. She looked up at him. ‘About the same as you, at a guess. You look shattered.’

  He sat heavily. ‘Go for it: “lose weight. Take exercise. How’s your blood pressure.” Let’s get it over with.’

  ‘I was about to offer you a drink. Tea? Coffee?’

  ‘I’ll have tea. Three … No. Make that two sugars.’

  Hanson went into Crystal’s room and he glanced at the notes on the flip chart. Hauling himself up, he went to it, his eyes moving over the words. Typical of the doc to have everything included, everything categorised, everything …

  ‘Here you go.’

  He turned and took the mug from her. ‘Ta.’

  ‘Anything to report?’ He took a mouthful of tea. Shook his head. ‘I’ve got officers still out looking for Burns under Corrigan’s direction. I gave Chong time to settle, do what she does, then went down to the PM suite to check if she was still convinced it was suicide. Got chewed out because she reckons she’d already said it’s textbook. Came back to UCU. Located Brad Flynn at his city office. Broke the news of his wife’s death. Phoned for a car to bring him to headquarters to identify her.’

  She looked at him. ‘Why didn’t you transport him?’

  ‘Call me over-sensitive if you like, but I didn’t fancy being in a car for half an hour with a bloke who’s just been told his wife has topped herself.’

  ‘Carry on.’

  ‘He confirmed identity of the body. I said we’d want to talk to him sometime. The son came to collect him. He didn’t look a lot better. Said he knew his mother was still very upset at Matthew’s death but he thought she was handling it. He didn’t have much else to say. They left and I came here.’

  ‘Busy day,’ she said. ‘Did you disclose the note to him?’ He gulped tea. ‘He didn’t ask if she left one, so no, not yet. What you up to?’ She pointed to the copy of Diana Flynn’s note on her desk. ‘What do you make of it?’

  ‘Not a lot to make is there? Maybe she was starting a goodbye to him, but the pills and stuff took over and she never finished.’ She looked down at it. ‘I’ll tell you what I think, shall I? I see blame. Accusation.’ She looked across at him. ‘Pity she didn’t have a chance to write more.’

  He came to the desk, lifted the note. ‘You don’t think she was blaming him for Matthew’s death?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She watched him as he drained the mug. ‘I might have had a prowler at my house the other night.’

  He stared down at her. ‘Oh, yeah?’ She told him about it. ‘Who have you reported it to?’

  ‘You.’

  ‘I’ll put one of our extra officers outside your house.’

  She shook her head. ‘No. We need as many people as possible out looking for Richard Burns.’ She glanced at the note. ‘Will you be getting Brad Flynn in for interview?’

  ‘We’ll wait a day or two, in view of what’s happened.’

  A few minutes after Watts l
eft Hanson was on her phone. She needed her caller. Needed some ordinary, normal time. A break from mayhem. What she’d just heard held promise. ‘So, you’re over this way tomorrow?’

  ‘I’m taking a course at the cooking school at The School Yard. I’ll be learning how to pimp my vegetables.’

  She smiled at her friend Celia’s words. ‘Steaming works for me. Meet me for lunch, Cee. Please. I need some downtime.’

  ‘OK, but it’ll have to be at twelve. How about the Boston Coffee Shop?’

  ‘See you then.’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Following a morning of non-stop lectures, Hanson was inside the busy coffee shop, Celia scrutinising her. ‘You look tired.’

  Having eaten a salad, Hanson now took a large mouthful of carrot cake. She hadn’t told Celia about the attack on her and wanted to shift attention from herself. ‘How’s the cooking course going?’ she asked, indistinctly.

  ‘Great. Not your kind of thing but useful as a subject-change.’ She gave Hanson a quick grin. ‘How’s work going, professor?’

  ‘Getting used to the difference in workload. Less students but more opportunity for research.’

  Celia leant on the table, bright-eyed. ‘And how is the force? Still with you?’

  Hanson knew only too well the object of the enquiry: Corrigan. She kept her response neutral. ‘We’ve got a case I’m not going to tell you about, except that it’s a mess.’

  ‘I read about it. Remains interred at a church. I’m profoundly grateful for not hearing the details. How’s The Corrigan?’

  ‘Leave it, Cee.’

  ‘OK. How’s Charlie?’

  ‘Fine. I don’t want him to leave.’

  ‘He’s got his own life, Kate.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And you need a life.’

  ‘If I’m not mistaken, I already have one.’

  ‘I’m talking about a full life, with somebody who adores you …’

  Diana Flynn slipped inside Hanson’s head. ‘In my experience, relationships start out on a high then break down with a lot of lying, bad feeling, conflict, blame—’

  ‘Corrigan is not Kevin.’

  ‘I didn’t say he was.’ She sipped coffee. ‘I know more people who are divorced than aren’t. Actually, I will mention the case because it’s a maelstrom of emotions. Or it was for the woman who died yesterday. I think the only relationships in her life which were rewarding were those with her sons. And even those were probably difficult at times.’

  ‘Sad.’ She looked at Hanson. ‘What can I say? Life’s a challenge. I’m here right now because husband is working and children are hopefully learning, I’m anticipating a battle about having my mother over for Christmas and the sibling rivalry in our house has to be seen to be believed and is driving me nuts.’ She pulled a slice of carrot cake closer. ‘This is my way of “getting by”.’

  Hanson’s phone buzzed. ‘Hang on, Cee.’ She answered it. It was Watts. ‘Hi.’ She listened, nodded. ‘I’ll be with you in fifteen minutes.’ She cut the call and stood, reaching into her bag for her purse. ‘Sorry. I have to go.’

  Celia looked up at her. ‘Kate, I know your stand on commitment but I also know you. Life gets messy for most of us at times. By not accepting that you’re missing out.’ Hanson placed money on the table. Celia shook her head. ‘Lunch was on me. Say hi to the force for me.’

  The dark blue Bentley was on a trailer parked some distance from the entrance to headquarters when Hanson arrived, one of its wings damaged. She went straight to UCU. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Police surgeon’s taking a quick look at him,’ said Corrigan. ‘He ran his car off the road into a fence. He was breathalysed at the scene. We’re planning to have a brief talk with him before his son arrives.’

  She looked from Corrigan to Watts. ‘Can you do that?’

  ‘Yes. He’s a person of interest, not a suspect. He’s agreed to talk to us.’ The desk phone rang. Watts picked it up. ‘OK. We’re on our way.’

  She watched them go. Five minutes later, she followed them to the first floor. Inside the observation room, she got her first look at Brad Flynn. He was staring across the table at Watts and Corrigan, looking exhausted and to her, drunk, an area of redness on the right side of his forehead.

  Corrigan spoke. ‘You’re free to leave but we’d appreciate a brief word with you before you do. Just to check you’re OK.’

  Flynn shrugged. ‘Would you believe I don’t drink much?’ He raised both hands. ‘Yes, I was speeding. I knew I was over the limit but I had to get home. That’s it.’ His hands dropped and he sat back, seemingly satisfied with his own logic.

  ‘You’ve had a lot happen in your family in the last week,’ said Watts.

  Flynn stared at the table between them. ‘That’s one way of describing it. The whole family, everything, was fine. Now it’s all fallen apart. I didn’t always do right by Diana, I know that, but I really tried with Matthew. Dom I never worried about. He’s straight forward, quick minded. I understand him. Matthew, I never did.’ He lapsed into a brief silence. ‘He was always a mystery. I didn’t pressure him. Just let him do his own thing. Trouble was, he didn’t seem to want to do anything. He never wanted anything. That, I didn’t understand. I supported him but half the time he refused what I was offering. We had no common ground. I used to end up getting angry with him.’ He ran his hand across his slick forehead, drank water from a cup provided by Corrigan. ‘Dom didn’t get Matthew either. He thought I indulged him. First it was the drugs, then it was … something else about him that worried me. Not that it matters now.’ He looked up at Watts and Corrigan. ‘I’m talking to you because I want that psychologist off this case.’ Hearing this, Hanson stiffened. ‘She upset my wife who’s now killed herself. Don’t tell me there’s no connection. My name carries weight in this city. By the time I’ve finished telling the vice chancellor of her university what she’s done to my family, she’ll have no job left.’ He paused. ‘Did you know, I’m up for an honorary doctorate?’ Standing at the glass, Hanson realised she was shaking. She made herself listen to what Corrigan was saying.

  ‘While you’re here, Mr Flynn, can you confirm whether you ever heard of or met somebody by the name of Callum Foley?’

  Flynn put a hand to his forehead, not looking at him. ‘No. Who is he?’

  ‘He was around the same age as your son, Matthew. They attended the drug counselling group together. Did either of your sons ever mention anyone of that name?’

  Brad Flynn frowned across the table. ‘No. Neither of them.’

  ‘How did you find out that St Bartholomew’s ran a drug support group?’

  Flynn gazed at him. ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘Yes, you did, Mr Flynn,’ said Watts. ‘We’ve gone through the records. Found your name as Matthew’s referrer.’

  Flynn looked fuddled. ‘I don’t recall. It was a long time ago.’

  Hanson saw doubt on Corrigan’s face, outright suspicion on Watts’s. She watched Flynn’s face clear.

  ‘I think somebody from the church came to the office, looking for hand-outs, you know how they do. He told us about what the church did. The business community supports charitable stuff so Dom and I both gave him a cheque.’ He shrugged. ‘Tax deductible.’

  ‘Give us the name of the person who came,’ asked Watts.

  ‘Not a clue.’ He stood, still unsteady. ‘I need to get home.’

  Corrigan also stood. ‘I’ll check if your son has arrived.’

  Hanson watched her colleagues walk Flynn from the room. Had he forgotten who it was from the church who had called at his office? She recalled what Robbe, Matthew’s years-ago teacher had said about Brad Flynn. That his financial support of the school meant he felt entitled to exert pressure on him to adjust Matthew’s grades. He doesn’t remember the name of whoever called for donations. What he does recall is that his donation was tax deductible. She left the observation room. A businessman through and through.

  They retur
ned to UCU. ‘Don’t let Flynn upset you,’ said Watts, eyeing Hanson. ‘He hasn’t got a clue what he’s saying.’

  Hanson knew different. ‘He thinks I’m responsible for his wife’s suicide. He wants me to feel as bad as he does.’ She paused. ‘I shouldn’t have implied anything about an affair to his wife when I saw her. I should have waited. I was too quick to get in there. Too focused on the case. I have to go.’

  Hanson was back in her room, immersed in student papers when Crystal appeared holding an email. ‘Hi, Kate. Urgent message from the vice chancellor.’

  She stared at it in Crystal’s hand as if it were a viper. Brad Flynn had lost no time getting onto the VC. Another thought followed. Or had the VC somehow heard of Maisie’s assault on another student? ‘I’ll have a strong coffee then go and see him.’

  Crystal frowned. ‘Why? He only wants key details of your PhD students’ research areas.’

  Hanson took the email. As Crystal returned to her office Hanson logged into the desktop and gave the VC the information he’d requested. She took a deep breath. Get going. Back to square one with the case while you’ve still got both of your jobs.

  Seizing a sheet of paper and with occasional quick checks of the flip chart she listed all the possible leads she and her colleagues had amassed during the investigation of Matthew Flynn’s murder: his drug caution, the drug group, Callum Foley, the reported harassment Matthew had experienced in his neighbourhood. She opened her notebook. There was something else, less a lead, more a puzzle: Matthew’s scarf around his neck in death, devoid of bloodstains. She leant back on her chair, her eyes on the words. She returned to the harassment. They had no confirmation that Matthew Flynn was gay. The woman he had worked most with hadn’t said so. She’d told Hanson he had a girlfriend. Said it with no trace of surprise which surely she would have shown if she’d assumed or knew he was gay? Hanson’s eyes were back on the flip chart. Matthew had never reported any of the incidents of physical harassment. It was his brother, Dominic who had done so, following Matthew’s disappearance. She frowned at the meagre descriptions of the attacks, the reference to theft, the targeting of Matthew twice in daylight by the same youths. Watts’s criminal contact had not been impressed by the reported harassment incidents. Considering them now, neither was Hanson, but for a different reason. If they were not reliable, why would Matthew Flynn fabricate them?