Tiger Blood (DS Webber Mystery Book 2)

by Penny Grubb

Webber deliberately turned away from the station, crossing the main road as a gust rose to spit raindrops in his face. He hadn’t brought his coat. He’d be soaked in seconds if this storm got going. He could hear Mel’s voice in his head, If you must traipse about in the rain, go and get your coat; it’s a two minute detour, for heaven’s sake.

  But he needed to think.

  Why do you have to be wet to think?

  He didn’t have an answer for that, not one that would have satisfied Mel. If he went in, he’d be caught by someone or something. He’d never get out.

  But her voice in his head and the thought of sitting in damp clothes all afternoon made him turn back. He broke into a run. Having decided to beat the breaking storm, it would be annoying to end up wet anyway.

  He’d liked Trent’s sister-in-law. She was a sensible type. But he didn’t much like what she’d had to say. Trent’s blood alcohol had been high. Not high enough to prosecute, but high enough to have generated a stern talking-to in different circumstances. Had Trent been a secret drinker? Had he had alcohol without realising what he was drinking? Those levels in his blood, if he genuinely wasn’t used to it, could have been enough to cause him to lose control. Or was it one of those anomalous readings, the results of some post-mortem process? He didn’t know but he would find out. He felt the rumblings of anger at the idea of slipshod lab procedures. There was too much at stake to have people being careless, not doing their jobs properly. Hell, if Davis could raise his game, they all could. But still, he had no evidence yet to point to where this anomaly lay. It might even be that Trent’s sister-in-law was a liar.

  He reached his office without anyone stopping him. The rain rattled against the window panes, coming down in sheets now. No light blinked from the phone, so no new messages. He knocked the mouse to bring his computer to life. A dozen new emails but nothing that couldn’t wait. His coat wouldn’t keep him dry in this lot, but he grabbed it anyway. He would head for the shopping mall where he could get undercover; try to walk these puzzles out of his head and into some kind of sense, grab a sandwich. If nothing else, he could think out the best way to tackle Farrar about Ahmed.

  When he scurried back inside later, he was one of a crowd shaking out wet coats, rubbing hands to generate warmth. He felt better for thirty minutes brisk exercise although he’d returned with nothing resolved.

  A voice called out, ‘Martyn, you had a call from the lab. On your desk.’

  Trent or Morgan, he wondered as he went through to check.

  Morgan. It was the woman with the tiger theories. She wanted to know if he was available for a video call later. That was good. It meant she’d got it wrong. She wasn’t coming to see him in person.

  And he could use this. He picked up the phone and called through to Farrar’s office. ‘I’m organising a video call on that DNA anomaly. John’ll want to be patched in if he’s around. Does he have any time this afternoon?’

  ‘He should be back in an hour, then he’ll have twenty minutes before he’s due to meet …’

  ‘I’ll fix it for an hour’s time,’ Webber interrupted. ‘See if you can get a message to him. I think he’ll want to be in on this one.’

  He typed out an email to the lab woman, telling her one hour, that he’d call her. She’d go through whatever she’d found, he would get rid of her as soon as he could. He and Farrar would stay on to debrief. He ran through scenarios in his head, reasons for bringing Ahmed on board as Harmer’s replacement.

  An hour later, Webber opened the call. The rain no longer pounded on the windows. A fine drizzle blurred the outside world as the light faded on a drab day. The lab woman’s icon showed as live. Farrar’s didn’t. OK, he’d get what he could out of her and patch in Farrar as soon as he showed up.

  She was on her mobile phone. He watched her pull off a face mask and cap as she walked. The building behind her was unfamiliar. Not the lab. She must be out on a job. And in better weather than here.

  ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘You’ve sorted out this DNA anomaly, I gather.’

  She nodded, looking tired. ‘Pretty much. It’s always hard this long after the event.’

  ‘Someone got things wrong, then?’ He couldn’t resist needling her a bit.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘Someone got things very wrong.’

  A shaft of sunlight speared down behind her and Webber realised she wasn’t out in the open at all, but in some kind of big barn. A sudden suspicion hit him. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘This is the warehouse where it happened.’

  The bloody woman had gone all the way to Dorset after he’d specifically said not to. He held back the reprimand. That could wait.

  ‘What are you all togged up for?’ he snapped. ‘What are you expecting to find after thirty years?’

  ‘It’s more as a protection from the dust and stuff. This place was used to store chemicals for years.’

  ‘And was it worth the trip?’

  She had the grace to look sheepish as she met his eye. ‘I couldn’t figure it just from the photos. The crime scene tells the story of the crime. I had to see the place. And yes, I …’

  ‘Hang on.’ Webber stopped her as he saw Farrar come online. He patched in the Chief Super and gave him a brief outline.

  Farrar looked annoyed. Webber hoped it was the Dorset trip. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Spit it out. What have you found?’

  ‘You remember the report,’ she said, as she turned and walked towards the edge of the large space. ‘They worked out that Robert Morgan had been about here to start with. They said he must have heard the kerfuffle and tried to keep out of the way, not realising what was happening. So he’d have been through here – there was a doorway back then – and partway up the staircase. That’s gone too, but it went up from …’

  Webber stopped her. ‘Move back where you were, your signal’s breaking up. We’ve read the report. Just tell us. We don’t need to see every inch.’

  She shrugged and retraced her steps. ‘OK. Well, you remember how they tracked where he’d run; his injuries, all that?’

  ‘Uh huh.’

  ‘And they had him end up this other side, trying to get to that window.’ The view tipped as she angled her phone upwards. ‘Old crates piled high back then, so there was something to climb.’

  The scene tipped again as her face reappeared.

  ‘Psychology’s not my thing,’ she said, ‘but the animal rights lobby had had some really bad press round then … round here … They weren’t exactly treated sympathetically.’

  ‘Your point being?’ Webber tried to suppress his impatience.

  ‘I think it was one of those trial-by-tabloid mass hysteria things. Make it look as bad as it could be so they could crucify the ones who’d done it. And I think the CSIs at the time must have been caught up in it. I don’t think they did a great job.’

  Webber took a glance at Farrar. He was watching intently.

  ‘Go on,’ Webber said.

  ‘Robert Morgan couldn’t have climbed up there.’ She pointed towards the window. ‘Crates or no crates, not with the injuries he had at that stage. I don’t think he even tried to hide in the first place.’

  Webber felt the crawl of something over his skin, something nasty. ‘The crime scene tells the story of the crime,’ he murmured, repeating the woman’s words from earlier. ‘You’re telling us this isn’t the crime scene.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ Farrar broke in.

  ‘I’m saying it was all the work of the tigers,’ the woman said. ‘The patterns fit big cats fighting over his body. It doesn’t fit him making any attempt to get away. Robert Morgan was dead when the tigers found him.’

  ‘The DNA?’ snapped Farrar’s voice.

  ‘Oh, I rechecked that,’ she said casually. ‘I told you, it’s a match. No doubts. Not a relative. Not an error. It’s him.’

  Something inside Webber wanted to grab the phone to Mel, to tell her Robert Morgan hadn’t died that awful death pursued by big cats and ripped to piece
s. He wanted to be able to say it to Pamela, to tell her there was no need to do what she’d done. But of course it was too late for that. Years too late.

  It was Farrar who spoke into the silence. ‘Solves the mystery of why Morgan should have walked into that warehouse in the first place. He didn’t.’

  Webber nodded. Robert Morgan had been brought there, already dead, his body dumped. If that made it one of the animal rights lot, it had to have been the ring-leader; the rest were no more than kids going along for the ride. And if it hadn’t been the animal rights lot, it must have been someone who knew about the planned release of the tigers, used them as cover for the killing.

  He glanced again at Farrar, wondered if he was thinking the same thing. Thirty years ago, Robert Morgan’s body had been driven to Dorset in a car that Brad Tippet had waited over twelve hours to report stolen.

  Chapter 16

  Webber put his phone on speaker and clicked in his home number as he waited in a queue of building Friday traffic. The answerphone cut straight in, the line in use. He wondered who she was talking to.

  ‘Mel, it’s me. I have to call in and see John. It shouldn’t take long but you know what he’s like. Don’t wait to eat if I’m not back. If I’m really late I’ll pick up a take-away.’ He paused. He’d overheard Davis making a similar call, which he’d ended quite casually by telling his wife he loved her, then he’d turned back to the briefing and carried on as though it was nothing out of the ordinary. That’s what he should say to Mel now. There was no audience to worry about, no one else would hear the message.

  The traffic ahead began to move. ‘Bye,’ he said and clicked off the phone.

  Farrar had had to leave the video call to get to his meeting. Webber had stayed on and quizzed the lab woman for all the forensic detail she could give him, probably more than she could give him. They’d been talking for half an hour. She was getting ratty, telling him she was a scientist not a psychic when Farrar’s icon popped up again and he re-joined the call. The woman had taken the opportunity to duck out saying she’d given them all she could for now. Farrar had been in a hurry, issuing the summons to Webber to get across to see him, and to bring anything and everything he could find on Tippet. Webber could imagine the worry. This was a case Farrar had been involved in decades ago. Tippet’s involvement had been minor. Farrar had no reason to remember details at this distance, but a concern hung over the latest revelations. Forensics had made a balls-up of it, but had someone closer to home missed something?

  There had been no obvious opening to bring up Suzie Harmer’s maternity leave or Ahmed’s situation, but encouraged by the normality of the exchange, when they’d agreed next steps, he’d said, ‘John, while you’re on, there was something I wanted …’

  Farrar had interrupted him. A raised hand, a steady stare from out of the screen that had made Webber think his thoughts were etched on his forehead. ‘Best you don’t say anything, Martyn. Get that info for me and we’ll talk later.’

  He wondered about it now. Had Farrar known what he was going to raise? That’s how it had felt. After all, Farrar kept his eye on the ball and must have had word of what had been happening over in Scarborough. The tone hadn’t been discouraging. It was almost as if Farrar was warning him not to make the request explicit, that that would stymie it.

  Beside him on the seat, he had a set of files; some fat, some thin, everything they’d dug out for him that had any relevance to the events thirty years ago: Tippet’s car, the post office raid and subsequent arrest of two of the three brothers. And the Morgans. There was next to nothing on the latter. The crime scene had been a long way away. He’d contacted who he could, asked for records to be searched out.

  * * *

  Farrar’s glance ran across the heap of papers Webber slapped down on the desk. ‘If you’re thinking of lobbying me about Suzie’s maternity leave,’ he opened. ‘Don’t.’

  Webber nodded and felt pleased. Ahmed’s situation must have come to Farrar’s notice. He and Farrar had been thinking along exactly the same lines, but for whatever reason, Farrar didn’t want the suggestion to come from Webber. That was fine. It was the outcome that mattered.

  Farrar tapped his finger on the file. ‘You interviewed Tippet the other day. What’s bugging you?’

  ‘Two things,’ said Webber. ‘One’s the car theft. He knew it had been taken that night, I’d put money on it, though what we can prove now, God knows. Any brief worth his salt will tell Tippet to stick with not remembering.’

  ‘Knew it had been taken or drove it off himself?’

  Webber pulled a face to match the frustration of insubstantial information. ‘I haven’t had the chance to get at this lot yet, but I went through the post office stuff when they first pulled the car out. Tippet was looked at. It was his car after all. Not that anyone was thinking of a trip to Dorset, but there was a neighbour who’d called round or phoned or something. I guess that ambivalence over when the car disappeared must have been obvious at the time.’

  Farrar nodded. ‘I’m hoping something in here will jog my memory, but he must have been checked out. He was at school with one of the brothers who did the post office. I wonder if the neighbour’s still alive. You said two things. What’s the other?’

  ‘He’s holding one hell of a grudge against you.’

  ‘Yes, I remember that. It was a big deal at the time. First complaint I’d had against me. I thought he’d wrecked my career.’ Farrar gave a wintry laugh. ‘If I’d known then what I’d have to weather over the years, I’d not have given it a thought. It came to nothing. I can’t even remember what it was about.’

  ‘He says his sister was murdered by her husband. He told me he gave you the gen and you did nothing about it.’

  Farrar blew out a sigh. ‘It’s ringing a vague bell. I’d have taken it back to my inspector, an accusation like that. I must have done.’

  ‘Tippet remembers it all like it was yesterday.’

  ‘OK,’ Farrar poked at the files. ‘Let’s take a look.’

  They spread out the papers in front of them. Farrar ran his finger down one of the older ones. ‘Any of this lot digitised?’ he asked, reaching for his keyboard.

  Webber thought of the time that had elapsed, of all the people who must have been involved. Put the tiger incident in the mix and the cases crossed boundaries. Getting everything together wouldn’t be easy, might not be possible. ‘Anything immediately accessible is here,’ he said. ‘I’ve put out feelers for the obvious gaps, mainly Robert Morgan of course.’

  ‘Was Morgan’s body in the boot of that car when it left Tippet’s? Was he killed in Tippet’s garage? Does he have a garage?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Webber said. ‘The car was taken off the drive. But from the original forensics, we can say the body probably wasn’t in the boot at the time.’

  He’d quizzed the lab woman on exactly this. She’d told him that although she thought Robert Morgan had been dead when the tigers found him, the original results suggested that he hadn’t been dead long. ‘I can see where they might have concluded he was alive,’ she’d said. ‘It’s the chase hypothesis that holds no water at all.’

  ‘People have been known to do incredible things in extremis,’ Webber had pointed out.

  ‘They don’t defy the laws of physics,’ she’d countered. ‘And anyway, he was dead when he was wrapped in that plastic. I told you before, that wasn’t a survivable head injury.’

  ‘But could he have died in that warehouse?’ He’d pushed the scenario as hard as he could, needing to reach the extremes of what was and wasn’t possible, wanting her to convince him. And she had. Morgan’s body had been wrapped in that plastic sheet; the sheet had been in the car boot.

  He summarised this for Farrar, ending, ‘Best guess, he was killed nearby, bundled in the boot and driven to the warehouse. The sheet was to keep the car clean.’

  ‘Any chance we can place the car down there?’

  ‘Unlikely after all this time, b
ut you never know,’ Webber said. ‘When the circus found the tiger cage gone, the animal rights people were in the frame straight away. They’d held protests, majored on lax security as well as cruelty. They’d arranged for an anonymous statement to arrive at the local press the next morning. Then Robert Morgan was found and they turned themselves in. The investigation went to town with the case against them, tracked their movements, took statements from all and sundry, didn’t want to leave them with any loopholes.’

  Webber was silent for a moment as he thought about the avalanche of reports and statements heading his way.

  ‘Ah, here’s Tippet.’ Farrar pulled a sheaf of papers free and studied them. ‘Yes, a neighbour,’ he said as he read through. ‘Mrs Bell, friend of Mrs Tippet. She called round mid-evening, stayed nearly three hours. They sat in the kitchen. Tippet was in the front room watching TV. There was a rugby match on. It pans out, and anyway,’ Farrar frowned as he flipped the pages, ‘I went there. I interviewed him at his house. I remember it as of a piece, small, through lounge-diner, straight on to the kitchen. Unlikely you could pretend someone was there for hours if they weren’t. And she talks about him coming through to get a drink.’

  ‘The car,’ said Webber. ‘For it to have travelled to Dorset and be back in time for the post office raid, it had to have been gone by the time she left, even if it was still there when she arrived.’

  ‘Back door,’ said Farrar, still reading. ‘She came and went through the kitchen, gap in the hedge. It was a regular thing. Unless she’s in on it, it looks like Tippet was at home.’

  Webber opened another of the files. ‘Here we are, John. Tippet’s allegations against Michael Drake, the brother-in-law.’

  Webber skimmed the pages, passing them one by one across to Farrar. He was interested to see that Tippet had originally provided detail on the financial angle, saying that Michael Drake had taken out a large life insurance policy on Quintina before poisoning her. Farrar had been right. He’d reported the matter upstairs, but after that, hadn’t been involved. An investigation had concluded there was nothing in it.