Robbing the Dead (Inspector Jim Carruthers Book 1)

by Tana Collins

  She passed between a group of kite flyers on the landside, and in the water a few kayakers. As she edged closer to Pinetum Park Forest, the drone of an aircraft became apparent. One circled right overhead and Siobhan tilted her head back and watched it until she became dizzy.

  She started to think about how well she’d known Rhys. He had been intelligent, good humoured, easy going. Well, that was at the beginning. The last couple of months he’d changed, becoming withdrawn, nervy and irritable, especially when Dave’s name had been mentioned. She’d stupidly thought it was because he was having no success finding his birth mother. Now she realised it was so much more.

  Something had changed in the nature of his relationship with Dave. She was certain of it. He seemed almost scared. Yes, that’s it. She hadn’t put her finger on it until now, but now she thought about it, she realised Rhys had been afraid of Dave. Suddenly, for Siobhan, it all fell into place. Rhys had been scared of Dave. The police were looking for Dave in connection to the car bomb, and Rhys had been murdered. He must have found out what Dave was planning and tried to stop him. That’s why Dave hadn’t reported his disappearance to the police. It was the only explanation that made any sense.

  She turned away from the wide expanse of golden sand and, with head down, started the long walk back.

  ***

  ‘Superintendent McGhee’s looking for you, Jim,’ Fletcher said as she rushed down the corridor at the station. Carruthers swung round from the water cooler.

  ‘They’ve got a lead from the facial composite,’ said Fletcher, eagerly. ‘Taken several calls from the RAF base. It’s possible the man in the picture’s Dave Roberts.’

  ‘I had the same call from Siobhan Mathews. I’m heading over to interview her now.’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ said Fletcher gathering her belongings.

  ‘I’m going to go on my own.’

  ‘You really need someone of the opposite sex with you,’ said Fletcher.

  ‘For some reason, she trusts me… stall McGhee for me, will you?’

  ‘Yes, but Jim, McGhee wants you over at the RAF base with him. He’s organised a meeting with some of the leading RAF personnel.’

  Carruthers, pretending not to hear, was already out the door. The less time he spent with McGhee the better, and the idea of McGhee getting hands on with Fletcher made his skin crawl. But he trusted Fletcher to know better. Mind you, he’d also trusted Mairi.

  ***

  If Carruthers had been a post-graduate like Siobhan Mathews, he hoped he would have been in better housing than Edgecliffe.

  This time it was Siobhan who opened the door. As she led him into the living room he noticed a vase of freshly-cut flowers. He found himself wondering why people always bought flowers for the bereaved and where that tradition had come from. He always found the cutting of flowers for the dead rather distasteful. He particularly hated seeing flowers in their cellophane packaging laid at the site of a car accident or murder. It reminded him of the flowers at the side of the road where his brother had died. His mother had taken him to look at them, and the cards. As she had walked away with him, holding his hand so tightly it had hurt, he had wrenched his hand out of hers, ran back and bulldozed into the flowers kicking them high into the air. The counsellor had told his mother he was suffering from grief. Grief and guilt. After all, his brother had been knocked down going after the football Jim had accidentally kicked into the road. Carruthers forced his mind away from these terrible memories.

  He knew he’d get a bollocking when he returned to the station, but McGhee could wait. He instinctively knew he would uncover more personal information about Roberts from Siobhan Mathews than talking to the personnel at the base. He was sure the two crimes, the probable murder of Evans and the car bomb, were linked. And even though there was no concrete evidence linking Roberts to either case yet, Carruthers was convinced he had to be the man on the stairs. The question was, why had he been on the stairs?

  He was feeling weary and it wasn’t yet 6pm. It had been a long day. Hell, it had been a long three days and he was keen to go back to his cottage and unwind. He thought about a home-cooked supper. He enjoyed cooking. Perhaps a tomato-based pasta dish with a nice bottle of red wine. Dream on. By the time he got home it would probably have to be a takeaway, Indian if it was still open. So be it. As long as he could end the night with a much-needed bath and a finger or two of Talisker while listening to some Neil Young, he would be happy. He hoped the investigation wouldn’t take yet another unexpected turn to rob him of those little pleasures, too.

  ***

  ‘Andrea, where the hell’s Carruthers?’ demanded Superintendent Bingham who was standing at Fletcher’s desk beside a very disgruntled looking Alistair McGhee.

  McGhee’s face bore a scowl the like of which Fletcher had never seen. She studied his usually lively features intensely. Talk about being able to curdle milk. She’d heard his moods could be mercurial and wondered how he had managed to get promoted to a senior rank with an unpredictable temperament. She decided she wouldn’t cross him. Not for the first time she wondered if there was any truth in the rumour that he’d slept with Carruthers’ ex-wife.

  ‘Said he had to go over to the far side of Castletown, sir. I don’t think he’ll be long,’ she answered Bingham.

  ‘What the hell is he doing over there? He’s needed over here with Superintendent McGhee. We’re in the middle of a potential terrorist investigation, or doesn’t he realise that? What the hell does he think he’s doing?’

  ‘What about Superintendent McGhee’s men? Thought they were on their way?’ asked Fletcher making an attempt to change the subject.

  ‘Been delayed. Going to be another couple of hours. And don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing changing the subject. I admire your loyalty, Andrea, but make sure it’s not misplaced.’

  ‘I’ll go, sir. I’ll go over to the RAF base with Superintendent McGhee. I have nothing that can’t wait.’

  ‘In light of Carruthers’ absence, you’ll have to do. Is that OK with you, Alistair?’

  ‘I’m sure I’ll be able to find a use for her. No doubt it will make the men’s day. Much better looking than Carruthers. Hopefully a bit more approachable too.’

  The last bit he said under his breath to Fletcher, whilst carefully appraising her. Even Bingham looked a little uncomfortable. She knew she was looking good, though, wearing a pair of low cut cream cotton trousers with a slight flare at the ankle, and a figure hugging cherry red sweatshirt. Thankfully she still had a figure to hug, though that wouldn’t last long.

  ‘Well, as long as you can handle it, Andrea,’ said Bingham.

  Fletcher didn’t know if he meant the interviews, or McGhee’s attitude. ‘I can handle it just fine, sir,’ said Fletcher looking McGhee straight in the eye with what she hoped was a no-nonsense expression.

  She waited for Bingham to walk away. ‘More approachable than Carruthers? Why would you think that? Just because I’m female? Doesn’t make me any more available to the RAF lads than I am to you.’

  ‘Bite me,’ said McGhee looking like he would rather enjoy the experience.

  ‘Only after a full set of inoculations.’

  McGhee threw his head back and roared with laughter. The laugh completely transformed his face. Not exactly the response Fletcher was expecting. ‘OK, let’s go then,’ he smiled.

  ‘I’ll just get my bag,’ said Fletcher standing up. ‘I’ll meet you at the front door.’

  ‘That’s right, mustn’t forget your lipstick and tampons,’ said McGhee walking away.

  So much for the charming man, thought Fletcher. He’s just plain obnoxious.

  She retrieved her bag and met McGhee at the front door. As she was walking out of the building with him she managed to catch her bag on the door handle, spilling personal items onto the floor. McGhee turned round. Both knelt down to pick up her belongings. She tried to stuff a magazine about pregnancy back in the bag before McGhee had a chance to see
it, but it was too late. He picked it up and as he did so he looked at the front cover. Silently he gave her the magazine with a conspiratorial wink.

  Fletcher swore under her breath.

  ***

  The man’s eyes narrowed as he watched Dave Roberts struggle against the ropes that bound him to the chair in the farmhouse cottage. He noted the swollen and closing eye, the blood dripping from a cut on his face.

  The man lit a cigarette. Took a drag. Blew the smoke into Roberts’ face. Roberts coughed.

  ‘You’re about to find out what happens to people who disobey my orders,’ he said. ‘Ever had a cigarette burn?’ he asked the bare-chested Welshman. Held the cigarette about an inch off the younger man’s chest then stubbed it out just below his left nipple. He watched Roberts grit his teeth. The smell of burning flesh filled the air.

  Dropping the butt to the ground, he lit another. ‘I went to a lot of trouble to get that Semtex. And what do you do? Decide to double-cross me by not finishing the job. Why?’ He stubbed the second cigarette viciously into the man’s chest. The smell grew more pungent. Roberts remained silent but the man was rewarded by seeing beads of sweat on the younger man’s forehead. ‘What went wrong, Davey boy? Why wasn’t Holdaway in his car when it exploded? That was the one job you had to do, apart from set the bomb. Make sure he got to his car on time. What happened? Did you lose your bottle?’

  ‘I couldn’t do it. Couldn’t go through with it. Couldn’t kill someone in cold blood.’

  ‘Interesting. Not strictly true though, is it? You killed Rhys Evans in cold blood.’

  As he watched Roberts he curled his lip. The man was a thug. He’d watched the way he’d killed Evans. With an excess of violence. Even malice. He thought about the girlfriend who had come out of the mortuary crying.

  With hands tied tightly behind his back Roberts tried to twist in the seat. He jerked so violently the seat toppled over. He must have trapped and broken a couple of his fingers, and his cry of pain filled the air.

  ‘Everything was so carefully planned… until you ruined it.’ The man walked around Roberts. ‘You really are as thick as horseshit, aren’t you?’ He kicked Roberts in the stomach. Roberts yelped like a pup. ‘Even smiling up at the CCTV as you planted the bomb. They’ll be playing that back at the station. You do realise the police have had an artist draw up your likeness. It’s even out on fucking telly. Would only have been a matter of time before you got picked up. I bet you would have spilt your guts too. Sang like a canary. Luckily we got to you first. Get him up, boys.’ Two men stepped out of the shadows. They walked over and hoisted the chair and its occupant to an upright position. ‘Cut him free,’ said the older man.

  The man saw the look of relief in Robert’s face.

  ‘Oh no, not done with you yet,’ he said. He turned to his accomplices. ‘I want him tied by his hands to that beam. Take his shoes and socks off.’

  Roberts started to struggle wildly and screamed in terror.

  ‘You can scream all you fucking like, boy. You’re at a farm in the middle of nowhere. Nobody around to hear you.’

  As Roberts, sweating heavily, was trussed up to the beam of the farmyard cottage, the man turned away and, picking up his gun, loaded it.

  ELEVEN

  ‘Siobhan, the station’s taken several calls from the RAF base identifying the man on the stairs as Dave Roberts,’ said Carruthers a short while later.

  Siobhan nodded. She looks so fragile, thought Carruthers. Fragile but beautiful. She had her hair in a short ponytail. One dark tendril had escaped and had been tucked behind her right ear. She leant forward to sip her tea and the tendril fell across her face. Carruthers had an overwhelming desire to lean forward and wrap his fingers round it, and gently push it back for her. That would probably be seen as a pass, something he was in no position to make. However, what he felt for Siobhan, he realised, was less about sex and more about wanting to protect her. There was no denying it, though. He was deeply attracted. All the same, he knew he would never cross that line.

  ‘How are you feeling now?’ he asked her.

  ‘Empty,’ she responded honestly. ‘Tell me, have you ever lost someone you loved?’ she asked him quietly.

  ‘Yes, I have.’ Once more his brother came into his mind.

  ‘Do you ever get over it?’

  ‘I don’t think you ever get over it, especially when it’s a violent death, or someone you love dies young.’ He swallowed the golf ball in his throat. ‘You hope to come to terms with it. The pain does fade, but it’s always with you.’

  Siobhan sighed and Carruthers wished he knew how to comfort her. She asked him no more questions for which he was grateful. He knew that it wasn’t wise to get too emotionally close to a murder victim’s girlfriend and he felt instinctively that there was a growing bond between them. He wished he had met her under different circumstances.

  ‘I don’t know about you, inspector, but I could do with a proper drink. I know it’s a bit early but would you like a glass of wine?’

  Carruthers couldn’t think of anything he would like more than a glass of wine, except perhaps a glass of wine over a meal, with the rest of the evening spent in the company of Siobhan Mathews. He also knew that was never going to happen.

  ‘Call me Jim, please, and I’m both on duty and driving, so I’ll have to say no, but thanks.’

  ‘Tomoko’s got some really good Japanese beer in the fridge,’ Siobhan persisted. ‘Sorry, I don’t mean to be pushy, but I just thought you looked like you could use a drink, too. She wouldn’t mind.’

  The last thing he needed was a conviction for drink driving. It just wasn’t worth the risk. ‘No, I’d better have a soft drink. Have you got a coke?’ He had already crossed the line coming over without another officer being present. Damn Fletcher for being right. Bless her too.

  He studied her form as she walked to the fridge. She was wearing a green shift dress over blue jeans, with a long blue-green beaded necklace. He was reminded of the similarity between her and his former wife, both slight of form, both dark haired and green eyed. However, his wife’s taste in clothes was very different.

  ‘So, tell me everything you can about Dave Roberts,’ said Carruthers, when Siobhan had come back from the fridge. He’d taken a seat on the sofa at the far end of the one room that comprised the flat’s communal area. ‘Your impressions of him; what sort of man he is; how he interacts with other people.’ He had refused a glass, and brought the can of coke to his lips, never once losing eye contact with Siobhan.

  ‘I didn’t like him.’

  Carruthers took a swig, put the can down. ‘Go on.’

  ‘I know this sounds awful but as I got to know him I realised he wasn’t particularly intelligent, and I couldn’t stomach a lot of his views.’

  ‘What sort of views?’

  ‘He was a racist, pure and simple, always going on about blacks and pakis and how they should be sent back to their own countries. I have black friends myself and to be honest I found his views really pretty repulsive. Christ, and don’t even get him started on Muslims. I got the feeling he didn’t like anyone very much.’

  ‘Did you ever hear him talk about Welsh nationalism?’ Carruthers found himself holding his breath.

  ‘Well, he made a few jokes about driving the English out of Wales but that’s what I thought they were. Just jokes. It was hard to tell with him, though. When he was joking, I mean, and when he was being serious.’

  ‘Did Rhys ever show any pro-nationalist feelings?’

  Siobhan spoke slowly whilst she thought about it. ‘I think Rhys was sympathetic to the concerns about the English buying second homes, and effectively pushing Welsh people out of the housing market, but he wasn’t a nationalist. As he was adopted and didn’t know who his birth parents were, I think he realised that for all he knew they could be English.’

  Carruthers put his can down and leant forward. ‘Wait. Rhys was adopted? Why didn’t you tell me this before?’

&
nbsp; ‘I didn’t think it was relevant. Anyway, I had other things on my mind.’

  Carruthers felt chastised. ‘Yes, of course. Sorry. Wasn’t thinking. Did Dave know Rhys was adopted?’ Carruthers was trying to work out what, if any relevance, this may have to the case.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure he did. Communities are close-knit in Wales, even in a city like Cardiff and they knew each other from schooldays. Rhys wasn’t so much adopted as abandoned on a doorstep of the couple who eventually took him in.’

  ‘That’s very unusual.’

  Siobhan looked at him.

  ‘Unusual being taken in and adopted by the people who found him, I mean. Tell me more about his being abandoned.’

  ‘It caused quite a scandal at the time, even in the 1990s. It got into the local papers. Well, I guess it would, wouldn’t it? Baby abandoned on doorstep makes for a good news headline. The middle-aged couple that took him in gave him their name. The Evanses both died in a car crash six months ago. They were devoted parents according to Rhys. It was very sad.’

  Carruthers was trying to take in all this information. ‘It was a big undertaking on their part. Any idea who his birth mother and father were?’ he finally asked.

  Siobhan shook her head. ‘His birth mother was young. That’s all Rhys knew. He was trying to find her. He’d decided to try to trace his birth parents. I got the feeling last time I spoke to him he’d made some sort of breakthrough.’

  ‘In what way?’

  She smiled sadly. ‘I don’t know. He never got the chance to tell me. But I know he was on his way to see me with some information he’d found out in the last couple of days. He said something about bringing a folder. Any chance I could get that back?’