by David Hodges
The wreath lay on the coverlet of the bed, a card attached by a black ribbon to one side of it. Moving closer, she saw that the card was face up, the message, written in a thick black pen, unmistakable: ‘In memory of Kate Hamblin. RIP’.
‘Don’t touch it,’ Lewis said quickly. ‘SOCO will be taking it with them for forensics to have a look at.’
Kate treated him to an old-fashioned glance. ‘What is it they say about teaching granny to suck eggs?’ she said tartly.
He flushed. ‘He must have put it here when you left for the nick,’ he went on. ‘And there’s worse.’
She faced him. ‘How much worse?’
‘Spare front door key is missing from the hook,’ he replied.
She closed her eyes for a second. ‘So he can come and go as he pleases now, eh? Brilliant.’
He shook his head. ‘I’ve got a local security firm coming over tomorrow to fit new locks to the doors and security bolts to the windows,’ he said.
‘And meanwhile, I have to sleep here?’
‘I don’t think he’ll come back again today. He’s made his point.’ He frowned. ‘I just can’t understand why he’s going to all this trouble. If he wanted to … er….’
‘Kill me?’
He looked embarrassed. ‘Well, you know, he could have done it at the beginning before anyone realized he was back. Why all this charade?’
‘He likes to play, Hayden,’ she said grimly, staring out of the bedroom window. ‘I’m only at risk when he tires of the whole thing.’
‘I think you should go away for a few days – until we nail the bugger,’ he said suddenly. ‘Have a little holiday.’
She glared at him. ‘Like hell I will. I’m going to see this thing through to the end, whatever happens. I’m not running away like some scared little kitten.’ She snorted. ‘Anyway, Ansell’s insisting I go two-up when I’m on duty as a safety precaution. I ask you, a police sergeant with a chaperone? I’ll be an absolute bloody laughing-stock.’
‘It’s better that than dead,’ he reminded her.
She snorted. ‘I am quite capable of taking care of myself, thank you.’
He looked worried. ‘I’m sure you are, but on that score, I have to go back on duty this evening, so you’ll be on your own. Might be better if you bolted the front door on the inside, as our man might now have a key. I’ve already wedged the French doors to stop any forced entries there.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ she said a little tersely.
He nodded. ‘Well, it’s only for today. New locks will be fitted from tomorrow. He hesitated. ‘I can hang on here for a while after SOCO have left anyway, so you should be able to get your head down for a few hours,’ and he grinned, ‘unless you have … er … anything else in mind…?’
‘Don’t even think of going there, Hayden,’ she said. ‘Not for just a second.’
Twister had found his victim’s body a lot heavier than he had expected, but he managed to carry it over one shoulder to the edge of the lake. Then, stripping it completely, he waded into the water and pulled the cadaver under the hide, wedging it in a small cavity below the ramp and securing it to a wooden pile with some rope he had brought with him. ‘That should hold you for a while,’ he murmured, confident that he would be long gone before decomposition of the body brought it to notice.
Returning to the car-park, he dumped his victim’s clothes in the back of his Land Rover and transferred a black briefcase from the front seat of the Volvo to the other vehicle’s front seat. Then, checking to make sure the car-park was still empty, he slid behind the wheel of the Land Rover, started the engine and drove to the entrance, where he left the vehicle for a few moments with its engine running. Finally returning to the Volvo, he unlocked the fuel cap flap, removed the cap itself and inserted a length of petrol-soaked rag into the filler pipe before lighting the rag and taking to his heels.
The car exploded in a ball of flame seconds after he rumbled out of the reserve in the Land Rover and, glancing in his rear view mirror, he saw the angry red and yellow tongues leaping above the trees that separated the car-park from the main road. It was done and the police would be cursing the joy-riders responsible when they were called to the smouldering wreck. Now all he had to do was dump the clothes in the appropriate recycling bin at the local supermarket and move on to the next stage of the game.
Just half an hour later, he swung the Land Rover into a narrow lane off the back road from Wedmore to Glastonbury and, a few hundred yards further on, turned right into a wide gravel drive flanked by brick pillars and seven-foot-high hedges. Climbing out of the car briefly to open the heavy wrought-iron gates that blocked his way, he drove through, without closing them after him, and pulled up beside an imposing detached house, with squared bay windows and a large double garage. Getting out of the vehicle, he looked around him. The property was well shielded from the road, as he’d seen from earlier reconnoitres, which suited him fine, and he’d been careful to ensure no one had seen him turn in.
Approaching the garage, he unlocked the double doors and pushed them back. Then, returning to the Land Rover, he drove it inside, switching off the engine and smiling at the sleek black Mercedes saloon, which he knew he would be parking alongside. ‘Just the job,’ he murmured. ‘Am I looking forward to driving you.’
The front door of the house opened easily with his stolen keys and he stood for a moment in the hallway, listening. Not a sound; the place was as dead, as he had expected. Taking his time, he carefully checked each room in turn, looking for photographs. There were none. So his research had not played him false then. His victim lived alone and had no family ties – he was the solitary bird-watching freak his inquiries had indicated. Brilliant. A place to doss – provided he kept out of sight, of course – a full larder, and a nice new Mercedes motor to use; what more could a man want?
Making his way back to the study off the hallway, which he had already cursorily checked, he now interrogated the answer phone. Nothing. He nodded his satisfaction. It was all going according to plan, which was excellent – and there looked like being something of a bonus to it all too. Picking up a bottle from the desk with one gloved hand, he read the label, ‘Talisker Single Malt 12 years old,’ he murmured. He beamed as he reached for a glass. Mr Twitcher was a whisky drinker too. Well now, wasn’t that just perfect?
Opening his briefcase on an adjacent coffee table, he carefully checked that the electronic equipment inside was working satisfactorily for later use, then closed it again and settled into the high-backed swivel chair with his generously filled glass, thinking carefully about his next move.
chapter 8
BAD DREAMS. OLD memories coming back. Twister bending over the bed, huge hands outstretched, his dead eyes wide and staring. Kate jumped violently and uttered an involuntary cry. A beamed ceiling jerked into focus as she opened her eyes, her body steaming with perspiration, yet icy cold inside the tangle of cotton sheets that seemed to be sticking to her, as if backed with adhesive.
She rolled over in the bed and tore herself free of their clammy embrace, gasping for air, lying there for several minutes, willing her hammering heart to slow down as she acclimatized herself to her surroundings. The dream had been so vivid that she still couldn’t believe it had only been a dream.
She glanced at the clock on the bedside cabinet, then shot up in a different sort of panic. It was already 8.30 in the evening and she had to be on night duty by ten.
‘Hayden?’ she yelled, but there was no response. Crossing groggily to the window, she peered down at the driveway. His Jag was not there, which meant he had to be still at work. Damn it!
Dragging herself to the bathroom, she slipped into the shower and stood there for twenty minutes, as if trying to purge herself of the dream in the hot clean water. Then she dried herself with a big fluffy towel and padded down to the kitchen in her bare feet, pulling on her dressing-gown as she went.
A quick snack of cheese on toast and coffee, then it was back to the
bedroom to put on her face and slip into her uniform. It was nearly half-past nine when she finally left the house – clean, refreshed and more or less back in control. But her horrific dream was still as vivid in her mind as it had been an hour earlier and, climbing into her blue Mazda MX5 and pulling out on to the main Burtle to Mark road, she prayed for a busy night shift, in the hope that it would provide the healing distraction she needed. She was soon to learn, however, that it is always wise to be careful about what you pray for, because you can easily end up with a lot more than you envisaged.
The duty inspector, Doug Harrison, was scowling when he hauled Kate into his office ‘for a chat’ after the shift briefing at ten. Like her, he had had to run the gauntlet of an army of journalists and photographers, who had shown their dissatisfaction with the terse statement on the murder issued by the headquarters press office by besieging the police station. He was plainly unnerved by it all.
‘Gather you are to have your own bodyguard,’ he growled.
‘Not my idea, sir,’ she said. ‘DCI insisted.’
He grunted. ‘Don’t know how we’re going to do this with the numbers we turn out on the streets on a night shift,’ he said, ignoring her explanation. ‘Bloody ridiculous. I mean, are you a police officer or not?’
She flared immediately. ‘With respect, sir, don’t blame me for it,’ she retorted. ‘I don’t like it any more than you do.’
But it was obvious that he wasn’t listening. ‘Bloody press camped outside the nick, clamouring for information,’ he grumbled, ‘two of the shift off sick and now I’ve got to find you a flaming chaperone.’ Striding to the door of his office, he shouted down the corridor. ‘Taylor.’
The young, spotty-faced constable appeared almost at a trot – a first year probationer. Inwardly, Kate groaned. Talk about rubbing it in.
Harrison’s eyes gleamed. ‘There you are, Sergeant,’ he sneered. ‘Your very own personal Rottweiler. I hope you two will be very happy together.’ Then he stalked off towards the custody office.
‘Sorry, Sergeant,’ the young bobby said, his face reddening.
Kate studied him for a moment, noting the close cropped fair hair, bright blue eyes and the fine golden line on his upper lip, marking his attempt at a moustache. ‘What’s your first name?’ she queried.
He looked even more uncomfortable. ‘Eugene,’ he replied.
Kate winced. ‘Great,’ she breathed. ‘The final ignominy.’
‘Pardon, Sergeant,’ he said, frowning.
She clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Never mind, Eugene, let’s get out there and see what’s about.’
The streets were rain washed, lamp standards throwing distorted yellow moons into the puddles and vehicle headlights producing 3D reflections in the black ribbon of the A38. Kate drove slowly, scanning the pavements for anything untoward and giving every vehicle that passed them a brief once-over before returning her gaze to the road ahead.
Eugene Taylor sat in the front seat beside her in silence and Kate could sense his acute embarrassment, as if it were a tangible thing. Several times she tried to make conversation, but on each occasion his answers were hesitant and awkward. In the end, she gave up trying and called Control for a rendezvous with one of the other units.
They drew alongside each other in the car-park of a local public house, facing in opposite directions, and Kate wound down the window. ‘Anything?’ she called across to the driver.
Jimmy Noble was an old sweat and she could sense, even with his arm half covering his rugged face as he leaned an elbow on the sill and held on to the top of the door, that he was laughing at her.
‘Not a thing, Skipper,’ he said, but then couldn’t resist adding: ‘Quiet as a mortuary fridge.’
She scowled. ‘Don’t give up your day job, Jimmy,’ she retorted and, slipping the car into gear, headed back out on to the road, conscious of his chuckles chasing after her.
The call from Control came in just minutes later with a ‘Burglary in progress’ at an address on the Bridgwater Road and the hairs on the back of Kate’s neck quivered. ‘Bloody hell, that’s Pauline Cross’s old house,’ she exclaimed and spun the car round in the road with a screech of tyres to head back the other way.
‘Pauline Cross?’ Taylor queried, animated for the first time. ‘Wasn’t that the wife of the copper who did her husband for the insurance money?’
She threw him a swift glance in the intermittent flashes of light that washed through the interior of the car from passing vehicles. Not being part of the current murder investigation, he would not have known much about the background and he was too new to have been around during Operation Firetrap.
‘You’re very switched on,’ she said, swinging out to race past a slow-moving petrol tanker.
‘I read a lot,’ he replied, for the first time showing his even white teeth in a broad grin.
‘Eugene,’ she said, swinging into the kerb in front of a terrace of houses. ‘I reckon you’re OK.’
Jimmy Noble swung in behind their car as Kate leaped out and slammed through the rusty garden gate of one of the houses. The light from an adjacent street lamp revealed that the tiny handkerchief of a front garden was overgrown and choked with rubbish and the downstairs windows were boarded up with plywood panels nailed to the frames. Pauline’s home had been derelict as long as Wadman’s Funeral Directors and for the same reason – no one wanted to live there.
Someone seemed to have shown some interest now, however, for the front door was half open, the padlock which had replaced the broken Yale lock lying in pieces on the step.
Kate paused, experience warning her to exercise caution.
‘What is it?’ Taylor whispered hoarsely at her elbow, almost pushing her forward in his eagerness to get inside.
Very carefully she pushed the door open and shone her torch down the rubbish strewn hallway, noting the electric cables hanging in festoons from the broken asbestos ceiling and the radiator leaning out from the wall, its copper pipework missing.
A heavy goods lorry thundered past towards Bristol and she waited until the noise had faded before stepping over the threshold into the hall.
Taylor was behind her, but Jimmy Noble had disappeared. She guessed he had driven off to go round the back.
‘I’ll check the bedrooms,’ Taylor whispered and before she could say anything to stop him, he was gone, his feet producing loud cracking noises on the stairs.
The front-room was empty, bits of furniture littering the room and the usual graffiti plastering the walls. The dining-room was the same, except for one important difference – candles. Kate noticed the faint glow as she approached the doorway and she stiffened when she peered through and saw the little display on the overturned tea chest. There were six candles in all, arranged in a neat circle, in the same way as on a birthday cake. But this particular display had nothing to do with birthdays and her eyes widened as her gaze fastened on the bulbous, wooden vase-like object in the middle of the circle, its brass inscription plate winking at her in the flickering light.
She was still staring at it, as if transfixed, when she heard footsteps crunching through broken glass in the kitchen and sensed someone behind her. ‘What the hell—?’ Jimmy Noble breathed. ‘It’s a bloody cremation urn.’
‘I know what it is,’ Kate said tightly. ‘Read the inscription for me, will you.’
Noble stepped past her to peer at the urn more closely, then whistled. ‘You won’t like it,’ he said.
She nodded. ‘I guessed I wouldn’t. What does it say?’
He hesitated, then straightened up. ‘Kate Hamblin. 1984–2012,’ he said.
‘The bastard,’ she grated. ‘So that’s what this shout was all about – another bloody threat.’
He grunted. ‘Likes his candles, though, doesn’t he – your man? Must have a private store.’ Then he added: ‘Anyway, where’s young Eugene? He’s very quiet.’
Something jolted in her stomach and she threw a quick alarmed glance in his
direction. The glance was unnecessary, for the same thought had occurred to them both simultaneously. In a second Noble was following her back along the hallway at a run. Then they were taking the stairs two at a time, regardless of the loose uneven treads and the structure shivering beneath their pounding feet.
The young policeman was in the small bedroom on the right of the stairs, but Kate didn’t see him until the door had started to close behind her and she turned to go out again. PC Eugene Taylor had served just four months in the force and had been keen to follow in the footsteps of his policeman father, who had risen to the rank of chief superintendent before retiring, but on this wet dismal night in an unremarkable Somerset town, his career had come to an abrupt end. Someone had broken his neck and left him hanging from a hook on the back of the bedroom door.
chapter 9
DAWN HAD LONG broken by the time a distraught Kate got back to the police station from the murder scene and her hands were shaking as she sat on the edge of the chair in the incident-room with a cup of coffee clutched perilously between her knees.
‘Why?’ she jerked out in a cracked voice that sounded nothing like her own. ‘He was no threat – he was just a kid.’
Detective Chief Inspector Ansell nodded, his pale face even more ashen as he dropped into a chair opposite. ‘We’ll come to that later, Kate,’ he said gently. ‘But I need some questions answered first. I’d already arranged a press conference on the Jennifer Malone murder for ten this morning and the jackals will be all over me when they hear about this new incident.’
She nodded, staring at the floor. DI Roscoe stepped forward and grabbed her mug as it began to tip over towards her lap and placed it on a nearby table.
‘First the obvious question, did you see anyone at all?’
She shook her head. ‘When we got there, there was no sign of the intruder, just a broken front door lock. Jimmy Noble checked the back garden while I did the ground floor and Eugene upstairs, but there was nothing. Then we went upstairs and … and….’