The Horsemen: A Harrison Lane Mystery (The Dr Harrison Lane Mysteries Book 2)

by Gwyn GB

  ‘This won’t take long,’ Harrison said to him reassuringly.

  Jack started the engine and headed towards the barn.

  ‘So why do you think he stabbed Sam but hung Paul?’ Jack was thinking out loud in the car.

  ‘Sam was a big bloke. He could have easily overpowered the man who took Paul’s body to the Fen. The only hope he would have had to kill him was the element of surprise, hence knife in the back.’

  ‘So he could have known his killer, else why would you turn your back on someone who you weren’t sure about.’

  ‘Possibly. The horse racing world is a small one. If they’re in it, which chances are they are, then they’ll know a lot of people,’ replied Harrison.

  They were both tired by now. It had been a long day and the surge of adrenalin that came with discovering the latest victim had slumped and was slowing them down.

  ‘What is it you need to do at the barn?’ Jack asked.

  ‘When I looked through the hole, I was viewing what I already knew to be there. What if the killer saw something different?’

  Jack sighed.

  ‘OK. Sometimes you talk in riddles, but I’m sure it will become crystal clear when we get there.’

  ‘Indeed,’ replied Harrison.

  They let the mind-numbing sound of car tyre on road fill their heads for the remainder of the journey, trying to blank out the image of Sam Brown from their minds.

  By the time they reached the barn, it had gone 7 p.m.

  ‘I need you to come into the barn with me.’ Harrison said to Jack, grabbing the rope from the rear seat.

  A uniformed police officer was sitting in a car waiting for them. He had the key to the big padlock on the barn door, there to prevent anyone from going in and either contaminating evidence or going on some gruesome treasure hunt. There were times the police couldn’t believe some of the selfies that appeared on Instagram or one of the true crime sites following a murder.

  Once inside, Harrison led Jack up the ladder to the hayloft, and over to where he believed the hangman’s noose had been tied.

  ‘I’m going to put this into the position I think the original noose would have been,’ he said, hurling the rope above him so that it wrapped over once on the big beam above. As the other end swung towards them, he caught it. ‘I need something to tie to the end. Attach this end to the ring and hold onto the other, would you?’

  Harrison went back down the ladder to where the forensics officers had earlier been collecting up all the hay. They were all done. A stack of bags sat piled in place of the large loose hay mound. He took one of the bags and carried it back up to where Jack stood waiting, with a quizzical look on his face, and then tied the rope around the neck of the bag.

  ‘It’s not ideal, too short, but it will give me an idea.’

  Jack just watched him and did as he was told. He hadn’t a clue what Harrison was up to, but he knew there would be a reason behind it, and so he went along with it.

  ‘I’m going to go outside and look through the hole. When I bang the side of the barn wall, I need you to untie the end of the noose from the ring and push the hay bundle and noose off the side.’

  ‘So the whole rope and the bag falls?’ Jack clarified.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘OK, got it.’

  ‘Stay standing there too, would you, but don’t fall off. The hay’s gone now.’

  Jack looked at Harrison. Was that an attempt at humour, or him being serious? He couldn’t tell. Harrison was already on his way back down the ladder.

  Once outside, Harrison picked his way around the side of the barn to where he could see the light coming through the hole. It was easy in the dark now that they had taken the plug away for analysis. The hole was at Harrison’s upper chest height, the same height as he’d estimated the man on the Fen to be. He bent his knees and crouched down. It was essential that he got the same angle of view as the peeping Tom would have got. In front of him, he saw the area where the ceremony would have taken place, but the spot where the hay had once sat wasn’t visible. The wooden backed pews and the straw bales severely restricted the view on the ground. He could see Jack and the bag of hay, on the edge of the hayloft, but only just. The central pillar of the barn rose up and blocked most of the view. Harrison moved around, trying to see if he could see more, but it was impossible, whatever angle he tried.

  He banged his hand flat on the side of the barn loudly and saw Jack respond. He watched the movement as Jack pushed the bag of hay from the top and briefly saw the bag and the noose plunge over the edge, before they disappeared again behind the pillar. That was it. That’s all the killer would have seen of the mock execution. There was no other viewpoint, no way to have seen the newly initiated recruit land in the bed of hay, or the rope come falling down with him.

  Jack started climbing down the ladder, and so Harrison went to meet him at the barn door entrance.

  ‘Well?’ Jack asked.

  ‘They couldn’t see that it was fake. From their viewpoint you could have watched The Horsemen swear their allegiance on a staff that looked like it was meant for the devil. Then they’d have seen the recruit taken up the ladder, blindfolded, and pushed off the top with a noose around his neck. What they couldn’t see was the rope fall down with him, or the man land in the hay. What they would have seen next was that man up and walking, probably laughing with relief, as though he were back from the dead. To them, The Horsemen are the Devil’s revenants and they’re trying to kill the undead.’

  25

  Harrison returned to his hotel room and went straight to the shower to wash off the day’s death and crime. He was exhausted, eyes tired and head aching from the events of the day. His stomach felt hollowed and empty, but it wasn’t complaining. He hadn’t felt hunger cravings in a long time, his body used to the more natural rhythm of eating and fasting that our ancestors would have followed. Tonight, he would order room service. He couldn’t face making an effort to get dressed again and then have to talk to strangers.

  It felt good lying on the bed in the quiet. The hotel wasn’t full, and he heard only the occasional bang of a door from further down the corridor, or the swish, swish, of someone walking past his room. They’d only been in Cambridgeshire a day, but he was pleased with their progress. There was also a sadness. Had the investigation been handled differently right from the start, perhaps Sam Brown would still be alive.

  He checked through his emails. Ryan had been in touch to say he might be on the track of someone who’d witnessed the murder at Nunhead Cemetery in 1993, and that Harrison had also been called by Leo Fawcett from the National Crime Agency who didn’t leave a number but said he’d call back.

  There were a couple of requests from other investigation teams at the Met who’d found unusual objects at crime scenes. The first one was simple. It was a brown shrivelled hand, which he immediately recognised as being a stolen relic of a mummified Saint. The second request took slightly longer as an inscription had been found in the room where a prostitute had been murdered. The seriousness of the case and the implications of the inscription warranted a longer email.

  The woman’s murder had made the news, but not the front pages. It was a sad and disturbing truth that an attack on a prostitute was not seen to be as serious by the newspaper buying public, and therefore journalists who wrote the stories, as a young woman walking home after a night out. Sex workers were second-class citizens relegated to side columns, and like homeless people, they made easier victims. Most didn’t have the family support to push for justice, or in some cases, even have it noticed that they’d disappeared. To Harrison they were still human beings who deserved justice and as much of his time as he’d give to a middle-class professional woman.

  In this particular enquiry, he was also concerned that the killer might not just be a one-off attacker. There was anger evident in the murder, and in the words he’d scrawled on the unfortunate woman’s wall. Harrison only needed to read the first few words to know what it
was:

  Coraxo cahisa coremepe, od belanusa Lucala…

  It was a long paragraph, an Enochian key, a call out to Satan in his language. This particular one, the tenth, was designed to create anger and violence. Whoever wrote it had probably found it in a copy of The Satanic Bible by Antony LaVey. Harrison doubted he’d have taken the book to the crime scene, so he must have memorised the words. Even the way he’d written it on the wall, with hard pressure used, especially in the downward strokes and a straight right slant on the starting letters, showed anger. This was a man dangerously out of control.

  He conveyed his fears to the detective on the case, confirming their suspicions that the man would have been building up to the killing, so they should look for someone who liked violent sex and had probably overstepped the mark more than once. The sex workers needed to be careful, he’d do it again and would have been emboldened by the surge in adrenaline and pleasure he’d got so wouldn’t take long to seek out his next victim. If he wasn’t caught, it wouldn’t be long before he might graduate from the easy targets and start on the general population. Then the papers would take notice.

  Harrison asked the detective to send over some more photographs of the crime scene, because it might help him build a better profile of the killer for them. The victim’s eyes had been covered for one thing, and there were other indicators which Harrison thought might show a complex relationship with a female figure, possibly his mother, or maybe a wife.

  Reading emails like that didn’t help Harrison relax for sleep. It made him both sad and angry for the victims. For a while, he lay on the bed thinking about the fact that out there right now, someone was being attacked. Then he thought about Tanya, and that made things worse. DCI Barker had been in touch to say that all was quiet. The SIO on the other case was on-board and taking their information seriously. There was a review of the investigation underway, and they were expecting to re-interview the sociopath boyfriend tomorrow. It was good to know Sandra was on top of it, but he’d still rather be in London close to Tanya, just in case.

  Room service arrived with a quick knock on the door. The young lad who brought it clearly took pride in his work. He was African, dressed immaculately in his hotel uniform, and handed Harrison’s dinner over with a huge smile. He tipped him a couple of pounds and thanked him. Just those few seconds of pleasantness with another human being, had taken the edge off the darker thoughts in his head.

  Harrison had opted for a club sandwich with fries, and surprised himself at how quickly the whole lot disappeared. Perhaps he’d been hungry after all.

  Food eaten, Harrison resorted to turning on some music to take his mind off reality. At times like this, when his head was full of the violence of the day, it was difficult to meditate and go to a more peaceful place in his conscience. The music gave him a rhythm to relax to, lyrics to concentrate on, and thankfully he was so tired that he was asleep within half an hour.

  Jack arrived at his in-laws to find they’d waited for his return before having dinner. Daniel, appeared to have been totally worn out by the day’s cuddling and photographic shoots, because he’d been fed and put to bed and they’d not heard a peep out of him. Marie was sitting on the sofa, relaxed and smiling. Jack walked into the sitting room to find her chatting with her parents, a glass of wine in hand. The scene had brought an instant smile to his face.

  Marie’s parents weren’t well off, but like most working people of their age, they’d saved and had pensions and so there was a nice nest egg to add to their home, which they’d bought at a fraction of today’s prices, back in the 1980s. The house was a semi-detached with slightly outdated decor, but comfortable. In the rear was a mature garden where in summer her parents would sit under the overhang and have breakfast most mornings, and watch the birds. It was the home that Marie had been brought up in. An ex council property purchased at a massively reduced rate thanks to Margaret Thatcher’s right to buy policy to encourage home ownership. Every room was filled with warm memories of her childhood, and Jack felt that warmth wrapped around her and in the smile on her face.

  He’d always got on fine with her parents, but sitting around the dinner table, talking about Daniel, Marie as a baby, and all the other every day family talk, had made Jack appreciate them more than he’d ever thought possible. Not only were they a total antidote to the day job, but they’d helped his wife smile again. There was a light in Marie’s eyes, which he hadn’t seen in months. The girl he’d married was starting to come back to him after months of post-natal depression, worry, and stress. He wondered if her parents had noticed it. If Marie’s mother saw the haunted look in her eyes, or the flicker of fear when she looked at Daniel. Tonight, it was gone. He knew that there would still be difficult times ahead, but this was a huge step forward for them, and as Jack tucked into an extra helping of Beef Stroganoff, he felt the warmth of his family all around him.

  26

  In the morning, Harrison didn’t bother with breakfast. He was too eager to get going, and was up and on his bike heading for the station for an 8 a.m. arrival.

  The incident room was fairly quiet when he arrived, last night’s long hours evident in the debris that two cleaning staff were attempting to clear away. There was no sign of DS O’Neil, but the incident board had been updated. Alex Michaels was no longer the chief suspect, although the names of the other Horsemen had been added as persons of interest. Harrison doubted any of them were to blame, but knew every possibility had to be checked out.

  He logged on to the system and looked through the material that the rest of the team had gathered, including the interviews with other friends and family. The big hope had been that Sam’s CCTV might have caught his killer, but whoever it was, wasn’t daft. They’d gone in and erased all the recordings and although the team were looking to see if there was any way they could be retrieved, it wasn’t looking hopeful.

  Sam was in with Dr Marshall later that morning, so they’d get confirmation around lunchtime that it was the same killer.

  A telephone rang behind Harrison and an officer answered it. He could just hear what was being said above the whine of the hoover which had now been dragged into the DCI’s office.

  ‘DS O’Neill’s phone. No, OK. Great, I will, thank you.’

  Harrison was typing up some notes from yesterday when he heard footsteps behind him, and a young detective appeared at his side. It was the same officer who had connected the barn in Felton Woods with their murder scene.

  ‘Doctor Lane?’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’

  ‘That was the forensic lab. They found a DNA match on the horsehair and envelope which was at Paul Lester’s house.’

  Harrison was suddenly very interested. The young officer consulted his notes.

  ‘It’s a Gavin Eamonn Simons, arrested in 2005 for being drunk and disorderly. It’s a good match, a one in a billion chance that it’s not him.’

  By the time Jack arrived, looking well rested, a warrant to search Gavin Simon’s property had already been obtained, and a team was on its way to make the arrest.

  ‘So, it’s like Gabby said then,’ Jack looked at Harrison. ‘Why are you not looking a bit more cheerful?’

  Harrison was leaning back in his chair, with a frown of concentration, twirling a pen in one hand.

  ‘I think some of it fits. But it’s the same as it has been throughout this case, we somehow only seem to be getting half the picture.’

  ‘He’s got motive though right?’ pressed Jack.

  ‘Yeah, for Paul, he thinks he framed him for the ketamine. But why Sam? That doesn’t add up.’

  ‘Maybe he thinks all The Horsemen are the same and bears a grudge against them all?’

  ‘That’s some grudge.’

  Jack gave a half nod in tacit agreement.

  ‘The superstition stuff. From what we saw in his office, as well as what he said, it did look to be superficial, a marketing ploy. I need to get into his property, take a look around to really know.’
<
br />   ‘The DCI wants us leading on the interviews. He’s asked if you can brief DC Potter and I. We’ll conduct it, you listen in.’

  ‘OK, assuming he denies the murder, I want to know why he went to all the trouble of faking The Horsemen invite and getting him to the barn? Why not just knock on his door and have it out with him? Was someone else there with them? Did he hurt him in any way, even if he didn’t kill him? Knock him out or something? Could he have been the manual strangler prior to the hanging?’

  Jack scribbled all Harrison’s advice down, along with a few other suggestions, before heading off to find DC Potter.

  The three of them arrived in the custody area, just as a young officer was walking out with Gavin’s mobile phone in an evidence bag. His lawyer was already in the briefing room with a totally deflated Gavin, who had his head in his hands and now and then would lift it up for just long enough to shake it.

  DC Potter went to make sure the interview room was organised, while Jack and Harrison lent up against the custody suite desk, waiting for Gavin’s lawyer to give them the word that they were ready. Both men were watching Gavin’s body language through the glass wall of the briefing room.

  The relative peace was suddenly smashed as a snarling skinhead burst through the door into the custody area from the garage. He was swearing and hurling abuse at the two young police officers who were attempting to get him inside without any of them being injured. One of the officers was black, and the prisoner was being vociferous with his unsavoury words about his colour. Harrison could see both officers were at the point where they were weighing up the damage to their careers that a swift punch would deliver.

  ‘Need a hand, lads?’ Harrison asked, standing up to his full height. He didn’t look at the police officers. He reserved his gaze for the squirming skinhead in their grip, and it was a gaze that didn’t mess about. The intensity of his stare and the sight of him stretching out his arms ready to help, was enough to stop the prisoner mid-sentence. If you could call it a sentence. Turned out he wasn’t so tough after all.