by Alex Smith
Delia was there, but maybe five or six, and her mother, the two of them standing in what might have been a caravan park. There were pine trees behind them, the corner of a picnic table, a litter bin. Standing hand in hand to Delia’s left were two elderly people, a man who looked too much like the dead woman not to be related to her, and a short, stooped woman that had to be his wife.
It was the guy on the other side of the group that had caught Kett’s attention, though. He was in his late twenties, maybe early thirties, his mousy hair already showing signs of extensive thinning. He wasn’t tall, maybe five-six, and his black shirt was tucked into the front of his jeans, showing off a fair-sized paunch. The beaming smile on his pale, rounded face seemed genuine, his eyes open and welcome. There was something about him that was familiar. Kett had seen him before, and recently.
He flicked the photo over, seeing small, neat handwriting in pencil. Delia, me, mum and dad and Uncle L, 2013.
“Savage,” he said. No reply. He looked around to see her on her haunches stroking the cat, who had followed them in. “Hey, Savage.”
“Sorry,” she said as she walked over. “Poor thing. What’s up?”
He turned the photograph to her.
“Who’s that guy?”
“The younger man?” she replied, squinting at it. She puffed air between her lips. “I don’t know, I don’t think I… Wait, do I?”
Kett heard the growl of a large engine outside in the street, the squeal of brakes and the creak of a door opening. It would be the ambulance. He stared at the photo again, straining for something that was frustratingly just out of reach.
“Holy shit,” Savage said, straightening up. “I know who it is. Picture him thinner, gaunt, in tears.”
Kett looked, shaking his head.
“I can’t see—”
And then he did, just like that.
“Holy shit,” he echoed. “That’s Lucky Percival, the guy who was falsely arrested back in 2013.”
“Lochy,” said the PC, frowning. “Lochy Percival. But what’s he doing here?”
“Uncle Lochy,” said Kett, reading the text on the back of the photograph again. “Delia Crossan is Lochy’s niece.”
He popped his lips, watching the cat as it jumped onto the sofa and began kneading, its purr even louder than the engine outside.
“Maybe your innocent guy isn’t so innocent after all.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Fucking fuckety fuck on a fucking bike!”
It was safe to say that Superintendent Colin Clare wasn’t happy. He paced restlessly in the back garden of the Crossan’s bungalow, the photograph of Delia’s family and a younger Lochy Percival clenched in his latex-gloved hand.
“I refuse to accept this, Kett,” he said, marching over and doing his best to loom. It wasn’t hard. Kett was tall, but Clare was a giant, and when he was angry he seemed to grow an extra six inches. Kett did his best not to stare up the man’s nose, turning to look through the back door instead where a forensic team was collecting evidence. The flash of their cameras lit up the house like there was a lightning storm inside, revealing glimpses of the dead woman who still lay there.
It was impossible not to imagine Billie lying there instead, butchered in a kitchen somewhere, left to rot.
“You do realise that Lochy Percival is off limits,” Clare went on. “After what happened to him last time, the false arrest, the law suit, he’s untouchable.”
“I didn’t exactly plan this,” said Kett, pushing Billie out of his head. “We just found the photo.”
And at least eight others scattered around the house, all of which showed Percival with the family. The early ones were your typical extended family group shots, all smiles or silly faces on holiday or at Christmas. But after 2013 Percival looked like a different man entirely, like he’d aged and withered overnight. No more smiles—at least none that reached his eyes—no more cheerful Uncle L.
Kett could see where he’d been stabbed as well, his body listing to one side like a sinking ship, and more often than not a walking cane gripped in his hand.
“We’ve checked,” Savage added. “Lochy is Evelyn Crossan’s younger brother, Delia’s uncle by blood. He lives across town, a nice place.”
“Yeah, we bought it for him,” said Clare. “With the payout he got when we falsely accused him last time. I will not let it happen again.”
“Even if he’s guilty?” Kett asked. Clare shot him a look that looked like he wanted to actually shoot him.
“Let’s get this straight,” the boss said. “You think Lochy Percival murdered his own sister in order to abduct his niece?”
“She’s the same age as the girl he was accused of murdering in 2013,” said Savage. “Approximately. Even if he didn’t commit that crime, there’s nothing to say he didn’t do this one. That case really screwed him up.”
“The house is secure,” added Kett. “All the windows were sealed from the inside, both doors were locked. There’s no sign of a break-in, other than the rock I used to gain entry. It makes sense that the family would open the door to somebody they knew, somebody they trusted.”
“But why?” Clare said. “It doesn’t make any sense that a man like Percival would go after his own niece. Christ, I sat in on some of the interviews with him back when he was arrested, he didn’t give off the slightest whiff of a serial arsehole. Part of me wasn’t surprised when they found out he was innocent.”
“So we interview him again,” said Kett. “Hear his side of the story.”
Clare shook his head.
“I’m not going anywhere near him,” he said. “Not until you find a handwritten note with his signature and fingerprint and goddamned DNA saying, ‘I just killed my sister and kidnapped my niece.’ Okay?”
Kett looked past the boss to the swing set at the bottom of the garden, the little chalk mural on the fence, two figures whose bright eyes and smiles had survived the rain. It didn’t need to be said, because everyone was thinking it, but Kett said it anyway.
“What if he has the other girls?”
“Ah fuck you,” said Clare, stomping down the garden and resting his head against the fence like a schoolkid sent to the naughty corner.
“That’s some mess,” said DI Porter as he stepped out of the kitchen, a napkin pressed to his mouth. For a big man, he looked awfully squeamish. He caught sight of Clare, keeping his voice low as he approached Kett. “So, he took the news well then?”
“Oh, sure,” said Kett.
“No, seriously,” Porter said. “He actually is taking it well. I once saw him throw a chair through a window when he had a warrant denied. You think this is Percival?”
Kett shrugged. Clare was already on his way back.
“I wouldn’t bet on it, not yet,” Kett said to Porter. “Any indication of what killed her?”
“My guess is the knife in her heart,” the DI said. “One wound, driven upwards beneath the ribs, the blade was still in there.”
“That’s not the move of an amateur,” said Kett. “There would be smaller wounds, hesitation. A crime of passion would have multiple injuries. This feels more like an assassination. Whoever killed her wanted her out of the way, and fast. Doesn’t exactly sound like Percival, but we need to speak with him anyway.”
“Fine,” muttered Clare. “Christ, bring him in. But do not make an arrest. We just need to speak with him. Is that clear?” He looked back. “Do not arrest him, even if he’s coming at you with a samurai sword in one hand and a chainsaw in the other. Porter, take Spalding.”
“And me, sir?” Kett asked. Clare looked him up and down, glaring.
“I think you’ve done enough for one morning, don’t you?” he spat. “I need you and Savage back at the station on paperwork duty. If, and it’s a big if, Percival has anything to do with this then we need to make certain this case is watertight. Is that clear?”
Kett nodded, and so did Savage—although her expression made it clear what she thought of the idea
. Clare looked at them both, then at the photograph in his hand. Finally, he tilted his head back and bellowed at the big, blue sky overhead.
“Fuck!”
“This is exactly what I dreamed it would be,” said Savage as Kett pulled them out of Drayton Close Road. “Riding around in a Volvo, heading back to the station to do paperwork. It’s not exactly Bad Boys, is it?”
He glanced at the young constable as he pulled up to a set of lights. She was doing her best to smile, but her mouth was set in a grim line and her eyes were full of something dark and painful.
“They’ll offer you counselling,” he said. “If you’re like me you’ll say no, then regret it. Don’t be like me. It can be a lifesaver.”
She looked away from him, staring at the street outside as they started moving again.
“I’m okay,” she said. “Honestly. I kind of psyched myself up for it, I did for years. It wasn’t exactly what I thought it would be, but I wasn’t completely unprepared. My mum was a doctor, she never sugar-coated death. We grew up hearing about it.”
“Was?” asked Kett.
“Was as in retired, not passed,” said Savage, finally turning to him. “Well, she still works, but over at the university hospital. She is the most mechanically minded person I’ve ever met. To her the body is an engine with a billion moving parts. Anything can go wrong, almost anything can be fixed. But she’s religious too, church every week, had me and my brother baptised. I could never get my head around that.”
“People will do anything to make it through the day,” said Kett, hitting a line of traffic.
“How do you get through the day?” she asked, looking like she immediately regretted the question. “Sorry. Is that too personal? I just… I looked you up, read about your wife. I can’t even imagine what that must have been like. How do you go on?”
Kett exhaled through pursed lips, easing the Volvo forwards.
“Sorry,” Savage said again. “Forget I said anything. It’s the detective in me, I’m just nosy.”
“It’s fine,” said Kett. He snorted a humourless laugh. “Okay, it’s not fine. None of it is fine. I just feel guilty, you know? Like I should still be down there, still looking for her. But it wasn’t fair on the kids. Every single day Billie was missing I was missing too, I just wasn’t there for them. I vanished.”
He drummed the wheel with the heel of his hand—seeing Billie, hearing Billie, smelling Billie, then forcing her face from his head. And it suddenly struck him, what he was doing—chasing her away the same way he chased away the visions of dead people so that they wouldn’t keep haunting him. Something exploded inside him, a wave of phosphorous-bright panic that almost made him steer the car onto the pavement.
Breathe, he ordered himself. In. Out.
That’s how he got through the day. One breath at a time.
“I do it for them,” he said. “Alice, Evie, Moira. Everything I do is for them. When you have kids, they become the very centre of your universe.”
“I’m pretty sure the centre of the universe is a black hole,” said Evie with a gentle smile. Kett managed one too.
“Yep, that fits my analogy perfectly. A black hole that pulls you in and swallows everything you ever were or ever could be. A force so strong that nothing can escape.”
He thought of them now, and all of those ‘what ifs’ began charging through his head like a strip of old movie. Alice being sent out of her classroom for fighting, Evie bawling because he wasn’t there to take her into nursery, Moira screaming and screaming and screaming because she was surrounded by strangers.
What the hell am I doing? he asked himself as they approached a junction. I came up here to be with them, and here I am losing myself to a case again—and this one isn’t even personal.
What a bastard.
“Look,” he said as he pounced on a break in traffic and turned left. “I’m honestly not sure how much more help I can be. I should probably just drop—”
PC Savage’s radio squawked, loud enough to make Kett jump. The voice that came through was rough with static.
“All units, we have a confirmed sighting of Christian Stillwater in Hellesdon, on the Low Road. Spotted walking south past the junction with Hospital Lane. Repeat, all available units head to Low Road.”
Savage didn’t hesitate.
“Dispatch this is PC Savage, I’m currently just three minutes from Hellesdon.”
She broke the call, looking at Kett. The question was written in her expression.
Yes or no?
And even though his head was full of Billie and the girls, the answer in his smile was silent, immediate, and unmistakable.
Fudge yes.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The Volvo didn’t have sirens, but it had a horn.
Kett rammed it as he overtook the cars in front, earning glares and worse from drivers in the opposite lane who had to swerve to avoid him. Savage slapped a hand on the hazards then wound down her window, leaning out as far as she dared so that her uniform could be seen. Most people got the hint, pulling in to let Kett past as the old car roared down the main road.
“Next right,” Savage yelled, and Kett jabbed his hand on the horn again before twisting the wheel. The car swept in a wide arc, almost glancing off the front of a bus. Then they were on a quieter road with trees on both sides. The sun burst through the branches, splattering across the windshield like paint, but Kett kept his foot on the accelerator, hitting fifty as they passed the entrance to a hospital. An old lady was pulling out and Kett slammed the horn again, blasting past fast enough for the shockwave to rock her little Fiat.
“Easy, sir,” Savage said, one hand on the dashboard and the other gripping her chair. “Sharp left up ahead.”
There was, and he almost didn’t slow down in time. The car shuddered as it decelerated, crayons and teddy bears rolling off the back seat into the footwell. A kid in a Golf was coming the other way, taking the racing line around the bend, and the two cars passed close enough for their wing mirrors to clip.
“You’ve done this before,” Savage said.
“Not for a long time,” he replied, and the truth of that was in the way his heart seemed to pound against his tonsils.
“This is Low Road,” Savage said after the turn. “Some big houses down here.”
She wasn’t lying. On the right-hand side of the road was a row of mock Tudor mansions with wide fronts and black beams. Opposite them was dense woodland.
“They said right after the junction, didn’t they?” Kett asked.
“Round here somewhere, yeah,” Savage said, scouring the trees.
“Where are you, you bastard?” Kett said, slowing the car to a crawl. Somebody in a Corsa honked as they overtook, but he ignored them, watching as the Tudor houses gave way to some art deco brick ones. “He could be in any of these.”
“Or none of them,” said Savage.
A patrol car appeared ahead, its lights blazing. Kett flashed his headlights at them, winding down the window as they neared.
“Anything?” he asked. The two PCs frowned at him, then one of them caught sight of Savage in the passenger seat.
“No sign,” he said.
“Close off the road at the north end,” Kett ordered, nodding over his shoulder. “If he’s on foot he can’t have gone far. Radio for somebody to shut it down at the other end too. Then we go door to door. You guys start with that great big mansion back there. Anything suspicious, call it in.”
“Sir,” said the driver, gunning the engine and driving off.
Kett started moving again, scanning each house.
“Any reason he’d be down here?” he asked.
“Not that we found. His address is across the city, and his family live down by the Suffolk border. He doesn’t have any immediate links to this side of town.”
“Did Walker have a route on this street?”
Savage shook her head.
“Too far out, but somebody would deliver papers here.”
“I’m on it,” said Savage, pulling out her phone. Kett kept driving, kept searching, nothing but pristine houses on the right, so grand that he almost missed it.
A break in the woods to the left. A metal gate.
A For Sale sign.
He pulled the wheel, bumping the car up onto a dirt track.
“You see something?” Savage asked.
He didn’t answer, he just put the Volvo in park with its nose to the gate, then popped his door. The heat of the day flooded in, almost suffocating. He hobbled over the ridges of dry mud, seeing that the track stretched up a little way before curving into the trees.
“You know if there’s a house up here?” he asked.
“No idea, but there’s got to be something, right?” Savage replied. “It’s for sale, so it could be empty. I’ll do a Land Registry check, and search Right Move, but that sign looks like it’s been here for donkey’s years.”
“It’s quiet, out of the way,” Kett said. “Good place to keep a few girls.”
“Sir…” said Savage, and he could tell by her tone what she was about to say.
“It’s your call,” he said, turning to her. “I don’t want you to get in any more trouble.”
She puffed out her cheeks, popping her lips, deep in thought.
“It’s just trouble, right?” she said. “How bad can it get? But I’m calling for backup, and I’m coming with you this time.”
She vaulted the gate with impressive ease, dropping down the other side while speaking into her radio. Kett was glad her back was turned as he slipped on the first bar, almost chinning himself. He grunted over the top and eased himself slowly back onto the track. They walked side by side, keeping close to the trees. They weren’t far from the city here but it felt like the middle of nowhere. After a couple of minutes Kett couldn’t see the road any more, just a wide, open, grassy space with a distant fence to the south-east.