by J. S. Spicer
What had happened to her? How could everything have fallen apart so quickly and so drastically? Just when her life seemed to have taken an upturn someone had pulled the rug out from under her. She’d been so happy, with her flat and her new job; employed and independent, making a new start in a new town. Blackbridge was to have been an exciting new chapter in her life. She had felt hope and promise walking its sombre streets and brushing elbows with blank-faced commuters. Even the robbery seemed to have a silver lining, bringing her into contact with Detective Max Travers, and all the tingling possibilities that association might offer.
She’d been bursting with all this optimism and much of it had spilled out during her shopping trip with Chrissie. She couldn’t believe it was merely hours ago that she was laughing with her sister, sharing their secrets and their hopes and dreams for the future.
Now she was a prisoner, but she had no idea why.
She forced herself to think about what had happened, even though the memory of the night before was fragmented and hazy.
Hugh Bishop. Her boss. Why had he tried to kill her? He kept asking where his stuff was; stuff from the bank. He had to have been talking about the robbery, but why think Jennifer knew anything about it. It made no sense. They didn’t even know what had been taken from that safety deposit box. It had been all the more terrifying because of the dramatic change she’d seen in the man. It was hard to believe it was the same person she’d spoken to at work; he’d always been polite, a little stuffy perhaps, but kind and patient.
Then he came into her home and attacked her.
Hugh Bishop had terrified her, and he’d hurt her, but the man who came afterwards, he scared her far more.
He’d killed Hugh Bishop. He’d brought her to this place.
What would he do next?
She knew she shouldn’t just lie there, she should move, think and act and do something to help herself. The pounding in her head wasn’t helping. The pain of it made her feel so sick that movement was out of the question. So she just kept still, except, of course, for the shivering. She focused on her breathing, keeping her body curled tight against the cold. As the winter sun rose beyond the boarded-up window it grew in intensity. Jennifer closed her eyes against the piercing rays and pulled her arms over her head. The brightness wasn’t helping her headache, but soon the strips of sunlight inching across the worn carpet reached her body. Gradually, as morning began out in the world, she felt some small comfort from those shafts of sunlight as they penetrated her thin robe and finally brought a modicum of warmth. Then she slept.
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
Sunday morning and the station was buzzing with activity. A murder connected to the burglary at the bank had given the investigation greater momentum. Overtime and cancelled leave provided enough able bodies to start digging deeper into whatever the hell was going on.
Priority number one was the guy from the caravan site.
The second priority was finding Hugh Bishop. His neighbours hadn’t seen him since early on Saturday and his car wasn’t there either. Was he involved? Or was he in trouble?
Max was scrawling on the white board by his desk, trying to get all the pieces clear in his head. Lyle Banks was perched on the corner of Max’s desk doing his best to be unhelpful.
“Are you sure this guy that knocked you over was the killer?”
“I’ll ask him when I catch him.” Max assessed what he’d written so far. Had he missed anything?
“Funny the Bank Manager’s disappeared.”
“Funny?” Max turned in irritation. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”
Lyle shrugged. He enjoyed winding up Max. Actually he enjoyed winding up everybody, but Max was his favourite target.
“They must have been in on it together,” Lyle continued. “This Bishop and your mate with the van.”
Max turned back to the whiteboard. He’d noted a description of the van; light blue, old too, he noted it was a 2002 plate but couldn’t for the life of him remember the rest of the registration number.
“Pity you didn’t get the reg,” Lyle went on, instinctively and irritatingly prodding at the very sore spot that was bothering Max.
“I was there looking for Carol Bishop, remember?”
“Well, mate. You found her.”
Max kept his back to Lyle. He was getting under his skin more than usual; probably because Max felt foolish, as though he’d failed somehow. He kept telling himself he couldn’t have known what he’d find. The caravan had been a good lead. Things had just taken an unexpected turn.
But, he’d known something was off about Hugh Bishop. The man had been nervous, jumpy. Why? Was Lyle right? Was he in on the crime?
“Maybe he had no choice,” Max muttered.
“Who had no choice?” Lyle was still perched on the desk. He showed no signs of sodding off anytime soon. Maybe Max needed a sounding board, even one as annoying as Lyle Banks.
He pointed to Hugh Bishop’s name on the board. “What if blue van guy took Carol Bishop as leverage, then made her husband let him in to rob the bank?”
Lyle’s eyes scanned the notes on the whiteboard.
“It could explain why Carol ended up dead. Once he had what he wanted he killed her anyway. No witnesses,” Max theorised.
“And our Bank Manager? You think he’s met the same fate as his wife?”
“It fits,” Max said, but he was still filled with uncertainty. “Except...” This time as he looked at the board he visualised the people too. Hugh Bishop, nervous. Blue van guy, wild-eyed. Carol Bishop; Max had to force the image, his brain didn’t want to cooperate. He realised why.
“Carol Bishop wasn’t just murdered, Lyle. She was brutally murdered. We don’t need to wait for the coroners report to know she was stabbed many times. It almost looked like a frenzied attack. If she was just a hostage being despatched once she was of no further use, then why all the rage?”
“Because the guy who killed her is a nutter,” Lyle offered.
Max remembered the wild eyes again. Was that it?
“You’re over thinking this, Travers. I’m going for a smoke. Maybe you need a break too.”
Max continued staring at the board. He did need a break. Not a rest, a breakthrough. He had no leads to follow and it was frustrating the hell out of him.
He glanced at his watch. The forensics team would be on their way to the Bishops’ small suburban home by now. He’d already searched the place himself. Still, maybe something would turn up there.
The house looked just the same as before, except now the forensics guys were everywhere, swarming over every square inch of the place. Max drifted from room to room. He felt useless, ineffective, but right now it was the place he thought he ought to be. He had Carrie back at the station trawling through her trusty computer for a match to the blue van he’d seen. They may not have a full registration number but Travers was working on the assumption that the guy who’d knocked him to the ground would have a record. He was involved, with the burglary or the murder, or both. Carrie had the unenviable job of cross-referencing criminal records with Travers’ sketchy physical description along with the DVLA’s record of blue vans with 02 plates. She’d call if she got a hit. Travers wasn’t holding his breath. It was worth a try but he acknowledged it was a long shot. He spent the morning getting underfoot, hovering over the forensics team as they slowly and methodically searched the premises.
Travers was in the smallest bedroom which served as an office, sifting through piles of paperwork, when one of the forensic guys poked a head round the door.
“We’ve found something in the kitchen.”
Travers hurried down the stairs, through the narrow hall, and into the bright, clean kitchen.
Jocelyn Rashid, Senior Crime Scene Investigator, was leaning against the fridge looking crumpled in her paper overalls and latex gloves. She looked tired, the bags under her eyes drooping even more than usual.
“Jocelyn, what’ve you got?”
Travers glanced about him. Everything looked pristine. Jocelyn smirked at the questioning look.
“It’s been cleaned up.”
“But you found traces?”
Rashid pointed to the floor beneath Max’s feet. “We found it in the cracks between the tiles. Someone did a pretty good job of cleaning up. I’d guess they were liberal with the bleach, there’s still a faint smell of it.”
Max remembered his unofficial visit the day before. He’d noticed the disinfectant-like smell; it had been stronger then.
“So there are traces of blood just here?” He pointed to the same spot Rashid had indicated.
She shook her head. “Not just there, Max. We didn’t find much of it but what we have found is spread over the whole area.” She spread her arms wide, taking in the scene.
“The whole floor?”
“The whole kitchen!” said Rashid. “As well as between the floor tiles, traces have been found in the grain of the wooden cupboards, beneath the fridge, even on the walls.
Max turned on the spot, taking in the innocent looking room; so suburban, so neat, so ordinary.
“This is where Carol Bishop was killed.” He wasn’t asking, just realising out loud.
“We’ll have to be sure the blood is a match for our victim,” said Rashid. “But, yeah, something very bad happened here.”
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
The station was quieter when Max returned that afternoon. They had officers canvassing the neighbourhood where the Bishop’s lived; maybe somebody saw something useful. What slim leads they had were being followed up.
The only thing Max was certain of was that Carol Bishop had been murdered. It now looked likely she’d been killed at her home, in her own kitchen. Then the body had been taken to the caravan. The two questions uppermost in his mind were why, and who?
Then there was the question of the husband, Hugh Bishop? Was he still alive? Did he even know what had happened to his wife?
Carrie was still glued to her computer screen, which rose up out of the chaos that comprised the rest of her desk. A smattering of files joined forces with empty coffee cups and various half-eaten snacks to cover almost every inch of the caramel-coloured desk. As he approached Max noticed most of the food was low calorie cereal bars or bags of seeds. She was grazing but given the amount of leftovers it was without much appetite for the contents. Carrie was constantly ‘dieting’ without ever losing any weight.
She was so engrossed in her work she didn’t even look up when he arrived at her desk.
“Any luck?”
She jumped at the sudden voice next to her ear.
“Sorry,” Max managed to smile through his own building tension. “Just wondered how you were getting on.”
“Actually, I think I may have something.”
Travers felt a glimmer of something close to hope. “Go on.”
Carrie flicked through her open programmes. There were a lot; she’d been busy.
“Here, this is Aubrey Davis.” She brought up his arrest record, complete with photograph.
Travers squinted closely at the picture. It was just a head and shoulders shot. His glimpse of the man who had ploughed into him at the caravan site had been fleeting at best. He moved his eyes across the written information; noted the man’s height.
“Could be him,” he conceded. He certainly couldn’t rule him out. “What led you to this guy?”
“I wasn’t really getting anywhere at first,” Carrie admitted; only she could manage to look ashamed at failing to find a solution straight away when given such a difficult task. “So I narrowed the search parameters. As you can imagine there are quite a few convictions for burglaries in the Blackbridge police files.”
He gave her a wry smile; quite a few was putting it mildly.
“But not very many would be quite as clean as the job at the bank; no trace evidence, no signs of forced entry, a real pro.”
“And you think this may be our pro?” He pointed at the image still filling Carrie’s screen.
“This Davis chap got out of prison a few months ago. He was in for burglary; a jewellery store. He was caught in the act apparently. He’d disabled one alarm but didn’t know there was a second silent alarm system in place. Still, if he hadn’t triggered the second alarm and got caught it could be a perfect match for our burglary.”
“What about the van?”
Carrie fought the proud smile threatening to take over her face. “The vehicle registered to Aubrey Davis is a Ford Transit van. Pale blue. 02 number plate.”
The clouds seemed to lift. “Yes!” Max punched the air and grinned at his colleague. “Carrie, you are a star.”
“I don’t suppose we have an address for this arsehole.” He almost held his breath as Carrie turned back to her screen. She clicked once with her mouse then swivelled her chair to retrieve the piece of paper whirring out of the printer behind her. She handed it to Max with a flourish.
CHAPTER THIRTY
A quick check online had given him the departure times he needed. There was a train leaving just after three o’clock that afternoon. He’d be in Folkestone by early evening. As night fell he would be on a ferry crossing the channel. He had a few hours to kill. He could go back to Gemma’s, but that probably wouldn’t be wise. She needed time to calm down; probably a lot of time. It was raining, a fine mist that filled the air saturating everyone and everything. Aubrey pondered his options; he could just wait out the day at the station until it was time for his train, but security at those places was taken seriously and a black guy with a backpack hanging around for hours on end might arouse suspicion. The solution that presented itself was The Admiral, just a ten minute walk to the station. He could drag out a lunchtime pint and keep out of the weather until it was time to leave.
The Admiral had been there for years and hadn’t changed much, squashed onto a corner between two streets of cheap terraced houses. It wasn’t close enough to the town centre to attract much more than a few thirsty locals so its creaking barstools were home only to a few regulars; brittle old men with raspy voices and hacking coughs.
Aubrey felt eyes on him as he ordered a pint; cold suspicion aimed at the stranger in their midst. He almost changed his mind. He could knock the drink back fast and leave. Then what? Walk the streets getting drenched just to avoid these grumpy old men. They’d made this their domain, probably had their own seats and tables, territory they’d marked out long ago.
The barman gave him an understanding smile as he reached for his money. To hell with it; they’d forget he was there in no time. “Actually, could I order some food too?”
The chicken pie was bland but the thick gravy helped. Aubrey was right, he was soon invisible. He sat in a quiet corner and focused on clearing his plate. The barman turned on an ancient television mounted precariously above the optics. The sound of the horseracing commentary became a background drone and the flickering screen drew the attention of the sluggish patrons.
Aubrey started to relax. A quick check on his phone confirmed there were no issues with the trains. He was tucked away, nicely out of sight, and could loiter there in comfort for another couple of hours; time for another drink.
Whilst the others in the bar gazed at the TV, Aubrey’s eyes were drawn to the window. In the darkening afternoon there were few passers-by, and those that did drift past were mere shadows. Aubrey thought again about Carol Bishop. Things shouldn’t have gone this way. Bad luck was piling on his back and riding him mercilessly. Carol’s death, her murder, was bad enough, but being seen at that caravan had made things much, much worse. He would have liked to get his money before leaving, but didn’t dare risk visiting his contact right now. Besides, if he was going to be out of the country for a while then there was no point getting paid in Sterling; he didn’t want the hassle of changing large amounts of money if he could help it.
An old chap perched at the end of the bar broke into his thoughts as he slurred something u
nintelligible and waved a gnarled finger at the TV. The barman switched the channel without question and the screen switched to the one o’clock news.
Aubrey kept half an eye on the TV as he sipped his drink. Would there be any mention of Carol’s murder? He’d been monitoring the news for the last twenty four hours. There’d been a small piece about a woman’s body being found but it was far from headline news. He was surprised it hadn’t been more high profile. He’d seen her body. He’d never forget it. She’d been brutally stabbed and left to rot out in that caravan. He’d been terrified the policeman had got a good look at him, but maybe it all happened too fast. Besides, Aubrey knew the husband, Hugh Bishop, was the killer. He had to be. She’d been trying to get away from him, start a new life. Somehow he must have found out what she was up to. Maybe the police were already onto him. They could tell all kinds of things from a crime scene, they probably had enough DNA evidence and fingerprints to nail Hugh Bishop to the wall.
As the newsreader ran through story after story, Aubrey relaxed further. He felt safe, almost anyway. He had a plan, a good one. It didn’t look like anyone was looking for him yet, but he just had to get out of the country, then it would be plain sailing. The news switched to international stories then onto sport. As the weather forecast wrapped up Aubrey felt positively smug. Hugh Bishop would pay the price for what he’d done to Carol. Meanwhile Aubrey would walk away with a small fortune. He hadn’t realised he was smiling to himself, not until that smile was wiped away in an instant.
Suddenly, shockingly, his own face filled the TV screen.