by Leona Turner
In his opinion, moving non-country folk in would be a nightmare. Unfortunately, though, it wasn’t his decision to make. All the land that had originally belonged to the farmhouse had since been divided up between the surrounding farms, which meant the only use the farmhouse would have would to be a family residence.
As he pulled into the top of the driveway, he had a prime view of the building; it may have been completely derelict, but as the morning sun streamed over it the view was breath taking.
There was a long sweeping driveway into the front yard area. Far in the background a hillside fringed by a wooded area masked the horizon. And Robert could see why people from the town would want to live in such a place. The seclusion and solitude it provided would serve as a balm in even the most hectic of lives.
As he manoeuvred his car onto the drive, he was once again reminded of how much work would be needed to bring this place up to scratch. The driveway was full of potholes, and as his wheels found another one and grazed the underside of his new Mercedes he cursed quietly under his breath.
The door to the property was wide open. Getting out of the car, he first walked round to inspect the damage done. There was a small scuff mark along the bottom of the skirts that troubled him even though he’d had to actively look to notice. He sighed noisily and made his way to the front door, checking to see if it was still attached; it was, but only just. Walking into what was once the kitchen; it was like travelling back through time. The kitchen cabinets were unfitted and painted, something he reflected, that you rarely saw anymore. What had once been carpet tiles on the floor were virtually all rotten and peeling up at the corners. Robert grinned to himself. It all reminded him of his youth. His parents had been farmers; in fact, before they had retired, they ran a farm less than ten miles from here. He could still remember the mornings; they always felt like the busiest time of the day. He would have to be up at seven to get ready for school, and as he was dressing in his freezing cold bedroom, he’d hear his mother in the kitchen below scraping the ashes from the hearth, ready to start the fire for the day. By the time he bowled into the kitchen she’d have all the breakfast plates laid out. His two sisters would already be there, bickering between themselves. And then his father would come in, bringing fresh milk for the day, and they would all sit down and have breakfast together, which, depending on the time of the year would consist of either toast or porridge. Once they’d all finished their breakfast, he would run back upstairs to have a wash in tepid water that the kitchen fire had only just managed to take the edge off of. By the time he got back down to the kitchen, his mother would be dashing around trying to find her keys to take him to school.
Taking a final look around the kitchen, Robert made his way into the hallway; the stairs went off to the right, spiralling as they did so. He was under strict instruction from the estate not to go up there under any circumstances. He had been assured that the staircase would be rotted through by now, and clumsy footing could see him starting the renovation work earlier than intended.
Going back outside again, he decided to take a walk around to the back of the property to explore the possibility of turning the stables into a garage. A quick scan about told him everything he needed to know: they’d serve that purpose brilliantly, but a new roof would be required.
Pondering the idea of fitting patio doors into the main house, he strode over toward the old barns that had disrupted the view. The doors looked about fit to collapse, but a quick analysis of their situation couldn’t hurt.
The first barn had no roof and the brick was already beginning to crumble. As Robert started toward the second barn the one directly in the line of view from the house, he stopped.
There was something just outside of it. Something was there, shining. It was in a pothole, which was probably why he hadn’t seen it from the house. He walked over to investigate further and found a cigarette lighter. He bent and scooped it up; the cigarette lighter had once belonged in a car. It stuck out because everything around him that was manmade was in decay, but not this—this looked brand new, not tarnished, scuffed, or weatherworn in any way. Wondering if this place had become the chief hangout for the local kids, he put it in his pocket and continued into the barn. This barn, like the first, was in shambles with crumbling brickwork and gaping holes in the roof. Robert scanned the floor, wondering what it would take to have the lot removed and lay down some turf instead; a building this size would make a nice family a home, and the parents would want a garden for the kids.
As his eyes moved over the concrete flooring, his line of sight moved to the back of barn. There was something there, in the shadows. Maybe it was his eyes; the morning sun was bright outside, and although the roof needed replacing it was still dark enough inside to mask certain areas of the floor.
There is something there.
Robert felt a small chill going down his spine.
Maybe it’s an animal—a fox?
No, it’s too big for a fox.
His rational side kicked back in. He chastised himself for being afraid.
You’re too far away from it to make that decision.
Maybe it’s something the last tenants left behind, machinery or something.
As he drew closer, he could tell it wasn’t machinery. His mind started to race.
A homeless person? He mentally scolded himself again. Why would someone come out to the middle of nowhere to sleep in a barn? The house is a derelict but it would still be preferable to this.
Just to be sure, he called out to the bundle, but there was no reply.
Well, that settles it—it’s not human, so no need to continue any farther.
But he couldn’t stop; his legs weren’t listening, and something inside of him had to know what it was.
As he came up on the remains of Richard and Jon, he heard a scream.
One of them is alive.
Robert was unsure of how much time elapsed before he realised the scream was coming from him.
Before he knew what was happening, he had his mobile in his hand and was furiously pressing buttons.
Within thirty minutes, three police cars and an ambulance were there.
And Robert Hollister had been tranquilised.
“Sir, we’ve found two more.” Henson’s voice came through loud on Holt’s mobile.
“God, please tell me one of them is Jon Hamilton.”
“It looks like it, sir. The chap on top’s missing the fourth digit on his left hand.”
“The chap on top? Never mind, Henson, where are you anyway?”
“We’re seven miles outside town. Come out of town as if heading towards Newton Leigh, and about four miles along the road there’s a turn on your right, take it and follow the road for three miles, and the entrance to the farmhouse is on your left. I’ll have a couple of uniforms standing at the top so you don’t miss us.”
“I’m on my way.” Henson could hear Holt open his car door.
“Hurry, sir, the coroner’s here already and he’s getting impatient.”
“Be with you in ten.” And with that, Holt hung up.
Henson stared down at the phone in his hand for a few minutes. Why had it taken so long to get hold of him? They were in the middle of a major investigation and Holt was becoming the scarlet pimpernel—not good, considering Dennis Grant wasn’t known for good-humoured patience. Dennis Grant was the acting coroner and had all the good temperament of a rabid dog. When he’d arrived on the scene and Holt hadn’t been there, he’d spent ten minutes chewing Henson’s ear and wouldn’t tell him anything pertinent about the bodies at all. He’d referred to Henson as “boy,” something that had gotten the young DC’s back up straight away.
He said he wanted to speak to “the organ grinder, not the monkey,” and had then gone on to berate DI Holt’s slapdash attitude to the case in general. Anyone would think the man was in charge of the investigation himself.
Ten minutes later, Holt’s car pulled into the driveway. Dennis Grant walked
over to meet the upcoming vehicle, his head to one side, the most petulant look he could muster on his face. As the car pulled up and the door opened, Dennis opened his mouth to speak, seeing this Jimmy raised his hand.
“Dennis, I don’t have time for this. I’m sorry I’m a little late.” Dennis raised his eyebrows and went to speak again. Jimmy cut him off once more.
“However my DC was here and now so am I, so if you’d like to make a formal complaint please feel free, but for the time being can we just do what we’re all here to do?”
Dennis turned on his heel and stormed back toward the barn.
Henson had seen the exchange between the two men and suppressed a grin. Holt was really good at cutting people off dead—he had a real presence about him when he chose to.
Holt was walking in Henson’s direction and knew he wouldn’t be happy with what little information he had garnered about the discovery.
“What do we know, Henson?”
“Well, sir, I believe the body on top to be Mr Jon Hamilton.”
“And the other?”
“Not sure, we’re rechecking missing persons. We think it might be a Richard Abbott—went on the list over a week ago.”
The two men strode toward the barn, following the irritated Dennis Grant into the building.
“Who found the bodies?” Consulting his notepad, Henson answered,
“A Mr Robert Hollister, the estate manager for the area; you won’t be able to speak to him yet, though.”
“Oh yes, and why’s that?”
“He’s been tranquilised.”
“Tranquilised?”
“Yeah, poor guy went into shock.”
Holt was amazed but ultimately pleased to hear some compassion in the young DC’s voice.
Walking into the dim barn, Holt was reminded of how secluded this area was; the killer had really done their research on this particular location. If the PCs hadn’t been standing at the top of the driveway, he’d probably have driven straight past. As he neared the bodies he started to smell the decay—they’d probably been here a while.
“Who owns these buildings?”
“Oh, they’re part of an estate. We spoke to Robert Hollister’s boss earlier, and apparently the place his been empty for over twenty years. They’d sent him down to assess the state of it and then they were going to renovate. What with the property market as it is, I guess they figured they could really cash in on it.”
“Good job they did, otherwise we might never have found them.”
Holt was surveying the remains of Jon Hamilton and Richard Abbott.
“Any idea of time of death yet?” Holt queried. Dennis Grant, having gotten over the previous set-to with Holt, answered.
“Around two weeks ago—this one was first, the other a week or so later. I won’t know properly until we get them back into town, but it does look like the one on top was moved into this position post-mortem.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Well, the discolouration of the feet, mainly; if the victim had died in this position the mottling would be all down the front of their body, including the face.”
“What about rigor mortis? Surely it would have been practically impossible to move him after he’d died.”
“Not necessarily. Rigor mortis only affects the body after the first few hours, then after twenty-four hours the effect wears off and the body becomes pliant again.”
“There’s no doubt that the one on top is Jon Hamilton, then?”
“No, I don’t think so. Build, height, and clothing fit, and of course there’s this.” Picking up Jon’s left arm, he held out Jon’s hand.
“He’s missing his ring finger.”
Henson pulled a small, sealed bag out of his jacket pocket, and held up the evidence bag to Holt.
“A cigarette lighter? To cauterize the wound, I assume.”
“Looks like it. It was found over by the door. Before they knocked out Robert Hollister he mentioned he’d found it, obviously he had picked it up, so we’ll need to get his fingerprints so we can rule him out.”
“I very much doubt we’ll find anything of any real use on it anyway. The killer’s been very methodical up to now, and I wouldn’t be surprised if it’d been left there to taunt us. Let’s face it: he’s miles ahead of us at the moment”
“Can I take that as a direct quote, Detective Inspector?” The voice was loud in the room and the arrogant mocking tone was one that could only belong to a certain type of person—press.
“What the hell are the press doing here?” Holt whispered angrily under his breath.
“Get them out now, and get these bodies covered up until they’re gone. That’s all we bloody well need.” Henson went to make a move and felt a hand clutch his arm.
“Confiscate everything they’ve got—cameras, notepads, tape recorders, anything—and warn them that if any of this finds its way into any of their shit rag papers tomorrow, I’ll be round with warrants for their arrests.”
“What for, Inspector?”
“Jeopardising an on-going investigation, trespassing, and whatever else I damn well feel like. Now go.”
It took little under twenty minutes to completely rid the farm of reporters. Once it was clear, Holt allowed the removal of the bodies.
“I want them back at the station and ready for identification as soon as possible, no need to draw that out any longer than necessary.”
Henson nodded.
“Ring me when they’re ready. I’ll go and collect Mrs Hamilton myself.”
Holt turned and headed back to his car. Dennis Grant marched up to Henson, who was watching Holt’s retreating back.
“And where does he think he’s going?”
Henson turned to look at Dennis Grant, whose mouth was still open.
“I didn’t like to ask.”
Holt had spoken to Loretta to let her know he was on his way, and, for the first time in a long time, Holt felt the urge to smile when she answered the door.
“I’m sorry to turn up like this.”
“It isn’t a problem, go through and make yourself comfortable. The kettle’s just boiled. Is instant ok with you?”
“Yes, instant would be just fine.”
Holt walked through into the living room and sat down.
Loretta brought the coffees in, and passing one to Holt she sat down and waited for him to start. Holt thanked her for the coffee and let out a long sigh.
“Honestly, Loretta, what’s wrong with the world?”
Loretta sat patiently, waiting for him to continue.
“This town’s being torn apart and all I seem to be able to do is watch. You know where I’ve just come from? A double murder scene. Two men—well, one man and one boy trussed up like a Christmas ham. I mean, here we are, trying to get into the mind-set of the killer, and the more I see the more I realise I just don’t want to. Who wants to be able to understand the kind of insanity that’s been happening recently?”
“Well, that’s what criminal profiling is about—understanding the motives so as to anticipate the next move.”
Holt nodded.
“I know, I understand the principle, but I’m going to have to accompany two women to identify their loved ones later on today. What am I going to tell them? We don’t even know why they were chosen as victims, much less have any potential suspects.”
“Do we know the cause of the deaths yet?”
“No, not yet, we’re going to have to wait on the results of the post mortems.”
“Well, once you know the results, you can always come back here and we can discuss them.”
“Thanks, I do appreciate all your help, but to be honest you’ve done enough, and besides, with more bodies turning up…” Holt left the sentence hanging, so Loretta finished it for him.
“You are going to be under the microscope.”
“Not helped by the fact that the press seem to be getting extra information from somewhere.”
“Extra inf
ormation?”
“Well, I’m not entirely sure what they know or where they’re getting it from, but let’s just say I’m going to be under very close scrutiny and the last thing I need is certain factions questioning my competence.”
“Understood. Well, I wish I could have helped more, but you’re right, it’s probably best if you keep your distance for now, if only for your reputation.”
“Thank you for all your help, and not just with the case; to be honest I’ve been glad of the company.”
“Me, too, I’ve quite enjoyed having someone to share a meal with.”
“Maybe once the case is over we could meet up again in more social circumstances.”
“That sounds great.”
Loretta was following Holt towards the door.
“Take care of yourself and once again, thanks for your help. Until next time.”
Loretta closed the door behind him.
Holt paused for a moment. He had never felt more alone in all his life.
Regaining his composure, he decided he’d head back to the station and see if Henson had any further ideas on who they were looking for. He smiled at the futility of the thought.
“Why were Richard Abbott’s arms tied behind Jon Hamilton’s back, sir? Do you think it was sexual?”
“Firstly, Henson, we need to establish if the body underneath is Richard Abbott’s. The boy’s mother is on her way. I hope for her sake it’s not. Secondly, if it was sexual, why not remove the clothes?”
“I don’t know, sir, maybe the killer was disturbed by someone or something and maybe that’s why they dropped the lighter, rushing to get away.”
“The whole place is a derelict, no one’s so much as stepped in the front door in over twenty years, but while our killer’s busy at work, an unsuspecting dog walker happens upon the farm? I don’t think so. Besides, the cigarette lighter’s given us nothing—the only DNA evidence on it belongs to the late Mr Hamilton and the only fingerprints to Mr Hollister. The killer was in no rush, believe me; if what Dennis suspects to be true is the case, time was not an issue.”