by JANICE FROST
* * *
The morning after his lesson with Laurence, Marcus had been late for work. His clock radio woke him, pounding out rock, and he punched it off. His head was throbbing and any movement made him feel sick. He couldn’t bear the thought of getting out of bed. He visited the bathroom and took a leak that seemed to go on for ever, and smelt strong and unpleasant. Marcus returned to bed. Maybe if he skipped his shower and breakfast, he could sleep for another hour or so, and he would only be an hour late for work. He’d think of an excuse later, when his head was clearer.
As it turned out, no one had seemed to notice when he walked into the workroom an hour and ten minutes late. Vincent wasn’t even around, and a couple of the others were missing too.
“Vincent’s talking to the police,” said Darren, one of the stonemasons.
“Is it about Gray Mitchell again?” Marcus asked.
In the ensuing silence everyone in the workshop looked at Darren.
“There’s been another murder,” Darren said.
“Jesus! No kidding? Who is it this time?”
“Caitlin Forest. She was stabbed. Not here — outside her block of flats. They think it happened in the early hours of the morning.”
Marcus’s heart raced. Someone, possibly Darren, asked if he was alright.
“I . . . er, I’m hung-over,” Marcus said.
“We’re all in shock, lad. We all saw Caitlin in the café yesterday afternoon and now . . . well. Who knows what happened to her after that? Most likely some madman attacked her. I can’t see it being connected to Gray Mitchell,” Darren said. “Go on and get a cup of coffee. You look like you need it.”
Marcus escaped into the small kitchen. Nobody knows I was seeing her, Marcus thought. In the crime dramas his mother loved to watch, the police were always anxious to know this sort of thing. Then, when the caffeine reached his fuzzy brain, he recalled his conversation with Laurence Brand.
He took out his phone to text Laurence. Then a second memory almost floored him. He realised it didn’t matter what Laurence told the police. The last person Marcus had texted was Caitlin. As soon as the police got hold of Caitlin’s mobile they would read the angry, abusive diatribe he’d texted her the night before. It would lead them straight to Marcus. It was a very sobering thought.
* * *
Neal walked into the incident room dedicated to the Mitchell murder investigation. He did a quick scan of those present. It was Neal’s role as senior investigating officer to coordinate the findings of the different members of the team. Ava Merry was present, of course, as well as PC Polly Jenkins, better known as PJ. She was managing the collating and sharing of information. There were two other police constables who had been doing much of the foot-work in the investigation so far. It was their job to knock on doors, show Mitchell’s picture around, call on neighbours, and find out if he’d been seen anywhere he wouldn’t normally go. Neal was also expecting the pathologist, Ashley Hunt, to put in an appearance. Dan Cardew from the scientific team, a young forensic science graduate who allegedly had the hots for Ava, was sitting near her. He looked as if he was trying to think of something to say, but Ava was looking the other way.
“Evenin’ all,” Neal said, in a poor imitation of a Cockney accent. There was a polite laugh. He was never going to be the office joker. “As you know I’m the SIO on this case, but I’m reporting to DCI Lowe and he’s taking a keen interest. He’s already had the mayor and a host of other city dignitaries on his back, asking whether we’ve got a serial killer on the loose. There was a stupid, uninformed ‘article,’ if you can call it that, on the Courier’s website this morning. Everybody’s getting excited about the bloody Christmas market coming up. They want the case wrapped up in Christmas paper with bows on by the end of next week. I don’t need to emphasise that, as far as the media’s concerned, what’s said in this room, stays in this room.”
A low murmur of agreement came.
“Right. Let’s get started. Dan, can you give us an update on what forensics have managed to come up with so far?”
Dan Cardew stood up and crossed to the front of the room. He was obviously nervous about talking in front of people, and his hand shook visibly as he set up his PowerPoint. As the first slide appeared on the screen a titter spread through the room. It showed an image of Russell Crowe in full gladiator regalia, Jim Neal’s head photo-shopped onto Crowe’s body. A speech bubble contained the famous lines, “I will avenge his death — in this life or the next.”
“S-s-sorry. Wrong slide.” Dan cast a nervous glance in Neal’s direction.
Neal gave an impatient shrug. A series of photographs followed, and a short film offering a panoramic perspective for those who had not been present at the crime scene. Dan talked them through the slides, describing in meticulous detail how the scene had been processed.
“As you are aware, Mr Mitchell’s body was pushed from a great height and stayed where it . . . er . . . landed. The killer disabled him with a blow to the head and would have had little contact with Mr Mitchell’s person. There was little chance, therefore, of finding trace evidence around the scene, or on Mr Mitchell’s body.”
Dan spoke haltingly. The atmosphere in the room, which had been buoyant to begin with, then slightly bored, was now downright despondent. There was no real evidence that might throw up a lead.
“As you’d expect after heavy snowfall, there were no footprints at the scene other than those made by the caretaker who discovered the body.”
Dan droned on, saying nothing of any significance. Neal glanced over at Ava. She was twitchy. She’d already twice dropped her pencil. Now she was looking as though she was about to spring to her feet and wind poor Dan up to make him talk faster. Hunt arrived and the pathologist slid silently into a chair next to Neal. Was it Neal’s imagination, or did Hunt just give him an encouraging nod?
Dan paused for a moment and looked around the room.
“That lad needs to work on his presentation skills,” Hunt whispered to Neal.
Neal nodded, feeling a pang of sympathy for Dan, who was now having tech problems. There was a sudden bustle in the room. Everyone used the hiatus as an opportunity to stretch, talk, or go to the water cooler.
“Have you tried turning it off and on again?” asked PC Dale, and someone else chipped in, “have you tried shoving it up—”
“Alright. Thank you,” Neal said. “Dan, was there anything else of significance you had to run us through today?”
“Well, I was just about to sum up.”
“Thanks, Dan. Perhaps you could liaise with PJ about circulating your slides to the team?”
“Yes, sir.” Dan gave a sigh of relief that seemed to come from his shoes.
Hunt stood up. “Just as well I brought my own equipment,” he said, holding up his laptop case. He fumbled in his pocket, “Dammit, where’s that bloody memory stick?”
Neal rolled his eyes.
“Gray Mitchell died of injuries resulting from his fall, or more precisely from the impact with the ground,” Hunt began.
An inventory of the damage to Gray’s internal organs followed that made gruesome but compulsive listening. No one slept through a medical report, and Hunt was an engaging speaker. Neal soon realised that the nod must have simply been a greeting. Hunt, too, had little to offer. The victim had received a blow to the head prior to being pushed, evidenced by a fracture to his skull not sustained in the fall. This much Neal already knew, as did everyone else on the case. Did they really need to see the graphic details?
Hunt speculated that the blow might have been administered by a blunt instrument, most likely a hammer. He advised against immediately suspecting the stonemasonry staff. The weapon was just as likely to be an ordinary household hammer. Unless the actual murder weapon could be retrieved, knowing what it might be was not much help.
Gray, the pathologist concluded, had been a fit man, in good shape and could have expected to live a long life. He had been taking his medication and
was likely to have been in good mental health, although it was impossible to say this for certain.
Hunt was a busy man and he wrapped up his contribution quickly.
Neal thanked him and he left. Neal addressed his colleagues. “So, it looks like it’s dogged police work that’s going to move us forward,” he said. He turned to PJ. “Can you give us a rundown of what’s been unearthed so far, PC Jenkins?”
“PCs Hughes and Winters have visited a number of venues provided by Leon Warrior and shown Mitchell’s photo around. Most people seemed to recognise him. The manager of Costcutter remembers him buying a jar of lime pickle on the Sunday afternoon at around half past three, and he collected an Indian takeaway for one from the Happy Chapatti at seven p.m.”
“And prior to Sunday?”
“He’d been seen in many of his usual haunts. Seems Mr Mitchell was quite regular in his habits. Visited Stromford Central Library once a week on Tuesday afternoons, and had afternoon tea at the Tower Café on Thursdays, sometimes with Warrior or another friend, sometimes alone. PC Hughes used receipts found in Mitchell’s wallet to retrace his steps and Warrior confirmed that there was nothing unusual in his spending or anything unusual on his credit record over the past few weeks.”
PJ scrolled through her notes on the screen. “He kept all the appointments he’d made in advance . . . I’m sorry, sir, there’s just nothing so far to suggest that Mitchell was involved in anything that might have precipitated his death.”
She carried on. “As we know, Warrior received a text message in the early hours of Monday morning, saying, ‘am on the cathedral roof and fear I may jump. Please come,’ or words to that effect. The message couldn’t be traced. It was probably sent from a disposable.”
There was a silence after PJ’s words. A sigh was almost audible. Sometimes even dogged police work wasn’t enough.
“The person who texted Mitchell left no name, yet it was enough to make him leave the safety of his home in heavy snowfall in the early hours of the morning. The obvious conclusion is that he thought he knew who the call was from. He had answered what he thought was a cry for help and instead it was a death summons.” Neal’s words only added to the gloom. “Let’s wrap it up, then.”
Then PC Winters raised her hand. “Just one thing, sir.”
“Go on.”
“I was out with a friend last night and showed her Gray Mitchell’s picture. She’d been to the Barley Inn with her husband for an anniversary dinner last week . . .”
Neal nodded.
“She saw Mitchell there with a young man. She remembered because at one point the young lad was in tears.”
Suddenly, all eyes in the room were fixed on PC Winters.
“Could she describe the young man?” Ava asked.
“About five-ten, slight, fine-boned, blond hair. Full lips. Karen, that’s my friend, described them as ‘kissable.’”
As descriptions went, this was pretty good. They should be able to obtain a decent artist’s impression. This Karen would need to come to the station soon. Neal wondered if he should congratulate Winters on doing good work or take her to task for discussing a case out of work. She had been tasked with showing Mitchell’s photo around, so he opted for thanking her. She rewarded him with a broad smile. Against all expectations, the meeting ended on an upbeat note.
Neal barked out some instructions. PC Winters was to contact her friend Karen to see when she could come in and sit with a police artist. Someone would also need to call at the restaurant and ascertain whether Gray had in fact been there, how often, and with whom. Hell, if they were lucky, someone might even be able to name the young man he’d been seen with. Neal and Ava went into his office.
“Warrior’s going to be upset when we tell him his lover was seeing a younger man,” Ava said immediately. “I know there’s no evidence yet but it looks suspicious, doesn’t it, sir? The Barley’s a popular choice for couples. It’s in a very romantic setting by the river.”
“It’s also a way out of town — the sort of place you might go to if you wanted to avoid being seen,” Neal said. He wondered if Ava had personal experience of the Barley. “We need to find out who this young man is, as a matter of priority. Contact Leon Warrior and see if you can meet him this afternoon. Find out what, if anything, he knows about Mitchell and our mystery youth.”
“What if Leon Warrior lured Mitchell to the roof because he’d found out about an affair? Wouldn’t be the first time jealousy provided a motive for murder,” Ava said.
“No. But jealous rages are more likely to result in a spontaneous act of violence.”
Ava rambled on. “What about Caitlin Forest? Had she found out somehow and taken Gray to task over it? Or told Leon? Though I doubt Leon would murder Caitlin for that reason, especially after Gray was already dead. What reason would Leon have to kill Caitlin, really? It’s possible there’s no connection and we’re looking at two different killers.”
There was a knock and PJ popped her head around the door. “Just had a call from Dan in forensics. Caitlin Forest received a text message from Marcus Collins late last night. You’re going to want to know what it said.”
Chapter 11
Laurence Brand sat in his study for a couple of hours, staring at the walls and attempting to calm his nerves. Not since his final weeks of teaching had he felt so angry. He thought of Gray, the man Leon Warrior had once told him was ‘the love of his life.’ Laurence had christened Mitchell ‘The Quiet American.’ Graham Greene was a favourite of Laurence’s. He empathised with the moral ambiguities in ‘Greeneland,’ and his flawed, but human, characters.
As a fellow sufferer from bipolar disorder, Gray had been interested in Laurence’s problems. He had cheered Laurence by pointing out that a condition such as theirs was an integral part of their personality. It added depth to their character. It wasn’t something that labelled or limited them, but was liberating.
The longer Laurence sat trying to be calm, the more agitated he became. Once before, a perfect storm of circumstances had combined to tip Laurence over the edge. That was back in Maxine’s social work days, before she had given all that up in favour of cupcakes and afternoon teas. They had met when she was working cover in the mental health team. Laurence was at a particularly low point in his illness, which had culminated in a suicide attempt. Maxine had baked him a fruit cake — how apt — and brought it to the hospital psychiatric wing where he was on suicide watch for a few weeks. She seemed to like him, something he could never quite fathom. Their eventual marriage had provided the stability he needed to stay one step ahead of his condition. Still, there were the occasional lapses and Gray’s murder was triggering one of these now.
Finally, Laurence had to do something. He found himself, only an hour after leaving Leon’s house, standing back on the pavement outside it. A brick was in his hand.
If only Maxine had been around to counsel him. Instead, Caius was directing him. Caius had a way of popping into Laurence’s head whenever he was conflicted. Unlike Laurence, Caius had a strong character. The centurion was never paralysed by doubt. Rome had risen to greatness on the shoulders of men like him. “Carpe diem,” Caius whispered in his ear. Laurence’s hand tightened around the brick.
He strode towards Leon’s front porch. Just short of the entrance, Laurence veered off the drive to face the window looking in on the sitting room. Leon and Gray had held their soiree in this lovely room only a couple of weeks ago. He could see Leon inside, sitting alone at the grand piano. His head was bowed and his hands moved across the keys. As he drew nearer, Laurence could hear that Leon was playing one of Chopin’s nocturnes and he paused to listen. He had heard Leon play before, but never music like this. He hadn’t realised Leon had it in him. For a moment his grip on the brick relaxed, Caius retreated and a sort of calm came over Laurence. But it was short-lived. The music stopped abruptly and Leon pounded on the keys. The harsh, angry sound brought Laurence’s rage surging back. He drew back his arm and hurled the br
ick at Leon’s window, Caius’s triumphant whoop ringing in his ears.
The window smashed and the brick flew across the short distance to the piano. It skimmed across the polished surface to hit its target on the side of the face. Then it fell to the carpet with a thud. Laurence launched himself at the shattered window, punching out the remaining shards of broken glass with his bare fists. He hauled himself onto the windowsill and kicked his way through.
Leon stumbled backwards, blood streaming down the side of his face. He fell over his piano stool and landed awkwardly on the carpet. He lay there wheezing.
“Get up, you coward!” Laurence bellowed at him. He stood over Leon, fists up.
Leon raised his hands as he shuffled along the floor, backing away from Laurence.
“L-L-Laurie, what the fuck is wrong with you?” Leon spluttered out between wheezes.
“You know what’s wrong with me!” Laurence boomed.
“Is . . . is this about Godfrey?”
The name sounded so unlikely that it took Laurence aback. Godfrey?
“It’s about you betraying Gray, you cradle-snatching bastard! How long, eh? Did the pair of you work together to get Gray out of the way?”
Leon groped towards the brick, struggling for breath. An inhaler sat on top of the piano. He moved quickly, launching the brick at Laurence, then crawled across the broken glass.
For the second time, the brick impacted with human flesh and bone, though it only grazed Laurence on the cheek. Leon had thrown it from a prone position and it had little momentum. Nevertheless, Laurence was stunned for a few moments. Leon grabbed the inhaler.
Laurence came at Leon again, but this time he was outclassed. Leon had trained with the best fight choreographers in the business. He danced around his opponent and then took Laurence out with a single blow. At that moment a siren blared from the road outside and a police car pulled up.