by Rhys Bowen
"DI Bragg," the detective introduced himself. "Let's take a look at what we've got."
"From what it appears, sir," the sergeant began, "I'd guess that somebody shot him through the open window."
"You haven't moved him or touched anything, have you?" Bragg barked.
"Oh no, sir. He was so clearly dead when I got here. I don't know whether his wife tried to move him. I was just using my powers of observation."
"Quite correctly, as it turns out," Bragg said. "Now be a good lad and wait for the doctor and forensics to get here while we have a look. There's not enough room to swing a cat in here."
He went through into a tiny box of a kitchen. It was neatly designed with built-in cabinets down one wall, cooker and sink along another. Squeezed in by the window was the smallest of dinette tables with two chairs. It was across this table that the body was sprawled. Evan could see that he was wearing a dark green T-shirt and jeans. He was still half sitting on one of the chairs, which had obviously stopped him from sliding down to the floor. Blood had spattered everywhere, spattering those new white cabinets and even the ceiling above.
"I'd say this one was shot at closer range, wouldn't you?" Bragg remarked, stepping nearer gingerly. "Literally blew his brains out."
"Maybe you should wait for the tech boys to get here, sir," Wingate suggested. "You could be disturbing the blood-spatter patterns."
"I know what I'm doing, Wingate," Bragg said, but he retreated to the hallway.
"The back window's still open this time," he said. "Let's go and take a look outside. Not the back door, Pritchard," he bawled, army fashion. "We don't want to disturb any evidence, do we? We'll approach from the front."
They went back through the front door, around to the right side of the house. On this side there was a narrow concrete driveway, leading to one of those free-standing prefab garages. A Ford Festiva was parked in front of the garage. A side gate, between the house and garage, led through to the back garden. The gate was open and Bragg led them through this way. It opened onto a narrow concrete area with the house on one side of it and the garage on the other. Some straggly bushes had been planted in front of the garage, in an attempt to disguise what was a very ugly building.
It appeared that Megan Owens had carried her groceries through this way from the car directly into the kitchen. This was confirmed as they saw several shopping bags lying on the step outside the kitchen door. She had put down her bags to open the back door, then seen what lay inside and forgotten about them. Bragg stepped around them.
"Another easy target," he said. "You could stand between the bushes and the garage and not be seen, then step out and take a clear shot through that window."
Evan looked around the back garden. It was quite long and narrow, with nothing more than some more straggly bushes, a patch of lawn, and a clothesline. It backed onto a similar garden belonging to the house behind. The gunman would have been well hidden, standing between house and garage. Evan wasn't even sure if anyone would have seen anything from an adjacent upstairs window.
"Do you want me to go and see if anyone is home in the houses on either side?" Evan asked. "They might have had the only view of the shooting. The gunman would have been pretty well hidden between the house and garage, wouldn't he?"
"Let's talk to the widow first and see what she's got to say," Bragg said. "Come on. Back inside before we mess up any footprints."
Like a row of ducklings, Evan thought again. As they came around to the front of the house the police doctor was just getting out of his car.
"This is getting to be a habit," he said dryly. "Nasty business. We're dealing with a wacko-a really sick mind, if you ask me."
"Take the doctor through to the kitchen and stay with him, Wingate," Bragg said. "Pritchard, you go and see if the neighbors are home and whether they heard or saw anything. Evans, come with me. I take it the wife's upstairs in her bedroom?"
This was directed at the sergeant, who still hung about awkwardly in the hallway.
"Yes, sir. I would have stayed with her, but she didn't want me there."
"Didn't want you there? Good God, man, it's not what they want. What if she tries to commit suicide from grief and shock?"
"Sorry, sir. I just thought . . ." the sergeant began but Bragg had already pushed past him, taking the stairs two at a time.
The bedroom was just big enough to fit in a double bed and a chest of drawers. Luckily there was a built-in wardrobe down one wall; there would have been no space for a freestanding one. The bedroom furniture was white and looked like the Scandinavian type you assemble yourself, but an attempt had been made to make the room pretty with a lilac duvet cover and flowery curtains. Megan Owens had been sitting on the edge of the bed and jumped up as she heard them. Evan got a shock when he saw how extremely young she was. Hardly more than a teenager. She was wearing jeans and a Gap sweatshirt. Her face was free of makeup, and she could still easily ride for half fare on the busses if she'd wanted to. A pretty little thing too-small elfin face and dark hair pulled back into a ponytail. She was ashen white, and she clearly had been crying.
"I'm Detective Inspector Bragg, North Wales Police, Major Crimes Unit," Bragg said quietly. "This is Detective Constable Evans. Do you feel up to answering a few questions? We want to get to the truth here, don't we? For his sake."
She nodded without speaking.
"All right. Sit down, or lie down if you feel more comfortable. Now take us through the morning until you came home and found your husband's body. Every little thing you can remember. You got up when?"
"I got up around seven thirty," she said. "I made some tea. Did some housework. Put a load in the washing machine."
"And your husband? What's his name, by the way?"
"Terry. Terrance William Owens like his dad." She gulped back a sob as she said the words.
"What time did Terry get up?"
"About nine thirty, maybe."
"Was he on a late shift?"
"No, he was unemployed, and it was really getting to him. He couldn't be bothered to do anything, not even get up in the mornings."
"So he got up at nine thirty."
"Maybe a little later. I told him I was going out shopping because we were out of milk and eggs, and he got a bit upset about there being no eggs because he wanted an egg for breakfast. But I told him he'd just have to have cornflakes or wait until I got back from the shops. He got upset really easily recently. It was the stress of being out of work, you know. It's not good for a man."
"So you went to the shops and came back when?"
"I didn't exactly look at the time, but I was as quick as possible, so that he could have his egg for breakfast, if he still wanted one. I was probably gone forty-five minutes. Not more than an hour. I came in through the side gate, put down the bags so that I could open the back door. Then as I opened it I saw Terry out of the corner of my eye and then I looked at the wall and there was red on it, and I couldn't think what it was. I thought he'd been throwing jam around . . . and then, and then I realized and I just started screaming and screaming. I couldn't make my fingers push the buttons on the phone." Her voice had been rising as she spoke and suddenly she was racked with great shuddering sobs. "He killed himself, didn't he? He shot himself. He blew his own brains out because he was so depressed. I should have done something. I should have noticed and stopped him."
Evan went over and sat on the bed beside her. "There was nothing you could have done, Mrs. Owens," he said gently, patting her hand.
"And I don't think that your husband shot himself," Bragg added. "It's more probable that somebody shot him from outside the kitchen window."
She took her hands away from her tear-stained face. "What? Who'd want to shoot Terry? That's stupid."
"This is the third such case within a week," Bragg said. "All shot in the same manner. When our forensic team gets here, they can tell us whether the same weapon was used as the other two."
"But why?" she asked. "Why would anyon
e do that? Is there a madman on the loose?"
"Possibly," Bragg said. "We're still trying to piece the puzzle together. Maybe you can help us. Your husband had been unemployed for how long?"
"Six months."
"And what did he do before that?"
"He worked at an assembly plant near Chester. It closed last year."
"So he hadn't been able to find another job since?" Bragg asked. "He didn't think of taking a job in fast food or something like that?"
"He had his pride, Terry did. He was a trained machinist. Besides, he made as much from the dole as he'd have got serving hamburgers."
"What about you, do you work?"
"I used to," she said. "I was a receptionist at a solicitor's office. It was a nice place to work. I liked it."
"So why did you leave?"
She looked down, studying her hands. "It was bad timing," she said, "but I got pregnant, and I wasn't feeling very well. So Terry said it would be best if I quit." There was a long pause. "Then I had a miscarriage, and I was in hospital," she said. "That was just over a month ago. I told him I'd have to go out looking for a job because one of us needed to be working, but so far I havn't found anything."
Evan looked at her with pity. She looked so young and innocent, and yet she had been through so much recently. "Do you have friends or relatives nearby you can go to?" he asked.
"My mum doesn't live far away," she said.
"That's good, isn't it?" Bragg said. "You can call her to come and get you then."
"I suppose so." She sounded unsure.
"You don't get on well with your mum?" Evan asked.
She shrugged. "She didn't like Terry. There was always a scene when we went over there, so Terry didn't like me going. She thought he was lazy for not getting a job."
"Why didn't she like Terry?" Evan asked.
"They never hit it off from the start. Terry could be-prejudiced, you know. My mum is overweight. He couldn't stand overweight people. He used to say just looking at her made him sick."
"Was Terry prejudiced about other things too?"
"Yeah. He and his mates-they were always bad-mouthing other races, you know. They blamed immigrants for coming here taking jobs away from local men."
"Did he get into any fights about this? He wasn't a skinhead or anything was he?" Bragg asked.
"Oh no, nothing like that. They got into a few shouting matches down the pub, and he got upset when he saw immigrant families moving in around here. He used to tell terrible jokes. When I tried to stop him, he'd say it was only in fun and I had no sense of humor."
"Can you think of anyone who might have been angry enough with your husband to want to kill him?"
"My mum," she said instantly, then laughed. "But she'd never be able to shoot anybody. You should see how crooked she throws darts. And where would she find a gun?"
"What about the neighbors?" Bragg asked. "Did Terry get on all right with them?"
"We don't see much of them on either side," she said. "The Smiths have got two little kids and they both work, so they're gone early in the mornings, and all weekends it's football and gymnastics and that kind of thing."
"And the other side?"
"They're a snooty couple. Hardly say two words when you pass them. I think they're both supposed to be very brainy. She's a librarian, I know that, and he's in some kind of research. Not our kind at all."
"Mrs. Owens," Bragg said quietly, "I want you to think back to when you went out this morning. Did you notice anything unusual on your street? Any strange cars parked; anybody standing around watching?"
Megan Owens screwed up her face in concentration. "No," she said. "The street was deserted, except the lady who has twins was pushing them in a stroller. She waved when I went past. She seems nice."
"So no strange cars?"
"Wait a minute. There was some kind of van, parked down at the other end of the crescent. TV repair, maybe?"
"What color?" Evan asked.
"Gray? With bright green letters? I'm sorry, I really didn't pay too much attention to it. You don't, do you?"
"And when you returned?" Bragg asked. "Did you see any cars driving away? Anything unusual then?"
"No, but I wasn't paying attention. All I could think of was getting home with those eggs so that Terry wouldn't yell at me."
"He did a lot of yelling, did he?" Evan asked.
"These days. Like I said, he was so stressed that the least little thing upset him. So I tried to make everything run as smoothly as possible."
"Right, Mrs. Owens." Bragg straightened up. "I think that will do for now. Do you want to call your mother and go over to her place? It would probably be best. Just as long as you give us the address and phone number so that we know where to find you."
She nodded passively. "All right. I'll phone her," she said, chewing on her lip like a small child. "I'll come down. The phone's in the front hall."
Chapter 22
"What do you think, lads?" Bragg asked, as they regrouped back at headquarters with a cup of coffee and a sandwich. It was from the canteen this time, pale gray liquid that could be described at best as sweet and hot. "Three murders in one week. As far as we can tell, all three victims shot with the same weapon. Is it possible that we're dealing with a serial killer?"
"If so, it's an odd kind of serial killer," Wingate said. "Not the sort of person we hear about usually."
"Why is that, Wingate?"
"I don't think I've ever come across a serial killer who targets men, for one thing," Wingate said. "I mean a true serial killer, not a hit man who kills who he's paid to kill. Don't they always kill women? Like a sexual fantasy?"
"Not necessarily," Evan said. "Remember that bloke in America? He lured young gay men to his place and then killed them. What was his name? Dahlmer?"
Bragg's eyes lit up with interest. "Is that the connection, do you think? That all of these men were secretly gay?"
The four men stared at each other, digesting this suggestion.
Evan opened his mouth to say that this theory was ridiculous. Luckily Wingate voiced it first.
"It would have to be very secretly gay," Wingate said, "because there's been no hint of it from anyone we've talked to."
"Well, in the case of Martin Rogers, he had his reputation to consider, didn't he? And both Luigi Alessi and Terry Owens were blustering types who came across as one of the lads." Bragg slapped his hand on the table. "Right, so we've got a new line of inquiry. Wingate-gay bars, gay clubs in the area. List of members. Take photos with you-see if anyone recognizes any of our three victims."
"I wouldn't mind going back to the university again," Evan said. "We've got three men on that faculty who are unmarried. There's just a possibility that one of them is that way inclined and could have had a relationship with Professor Rogers."
"Just because a young man is unmarried, doesn't mean he's gay, Evans," Bragg said. "Look at Wingate and Pritchard here, healthy, red-blooded males, the two of them. Even I am not married. I can assure you there is nothing queer about me!"
"I wasn't hinting that they were necessarily that way," Evan said, feeling his hackles rising. "It just occurred to me that if one of them were gay, then they'd know whether Martin Rogers also had those sort of tendencies."
"Worth a try, I suppose," Bragg said. "God knows, anything is worth a try at the moment. You want to tackle that then? Think you can be tactful enough?"
More tactful than you, Evan thought. "I think so, sir," he said.
"So let me get this straight," Wingate said. "These weren't in any way killings done by somebody with a lust to kill. That sort of killer takes his time, enjoys his victim's panic. Shooting through an open window is an impersonal way to kill. Almost execution style. So I'm wondering if we're looking for someone who targets gay men because he abhors homosexuals? A righteous and overly moral crackpot?"
"That's possible too. Ex-military type, still has a Japanese pistol from the war." Bragg nodded.
"In w
hich case," Wingate continued, "that type writes letters to newspapers and may well have made a nuisance of himself before. He may have tried to get a gay club shut down. Someone should check through newspaper files."
"Job for you then, Pritchard," Bragg said. "But I have to tell you, in my gut, I don't feel this is heading in the right direction. Martin Rogers-yes, I suppose he could have been a closet gay. But the other two-don't seem the type. Terry Owens is newly married. Why get married? You don't have to be secret about sexual preferences these days. Why not be openly gay?"
"And Megan Owens was recently pregnant," Pritchard chimed in, "so that shows he was doing his stuff."
"Unless he wasn't the daddy," Wingate said.
Bragg chuckled. "Assuming he was. That pretty much rules him out, in my opinion."
"So you don't want us to check out these things after all?" Wingate asked, with a touch of annoyance.
Bragg shrugged. "Might as well. It's not as if we've got a stronger lead or a stronger connection between the three. We should follow up on that TV repair van that was parked nearby, I suppose. I'll do that. And I think I'll go and have a chat with Megan's mum. She'd probably love to dish any dirt she has on Terry. Meet me back here at two thirty. We should have forensic reports by then."
Evan hurried in the direction of the car park. If he got through his interviews at the university quickly enough, then there was nothing to stop him from checking in with Watkins and seeing how the search for Jamila was proceeding. He had scarcely driven out of the car park when his cell phone rang. He answered it, praying it wasn't Bragg, having changed his mind and wanting Evan to be his page boy again.
"Evan, it's me," said Bronwen's soft melodious voice into his ear. "Sorry to ring you when you're working but this is important. I did borrow a car and go to Jamila's school at lunchtime. I spoke with several of her friends, and they are all extremely worried about her. Apparently she actually told one of the girls that her brother had threatened to kill her if she ever tainted the honor of the family. Would you let Inspector Watkins know this?"
"I will. I'll go over there right away," Evan said.