The Vault

by Karen Long

  THE VAULT

  the Second Eleanor Raven Thriller

  KAREN LONG

  Copyright © Karen Long 2014

  The right of Karen Long to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. Apart from any use permitted under the UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  For Michael

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Mackenzie Webber was not a man of vision, which was why he had been employed by the Westex Landfill Company, in the capacity of site worker and entry grade sanitation officer. Both job titles were subject to minimum wage and as such required only the vaguest of training. So, when the surface fire started, he ran to find his supervisor Larry Beatman, rather than following recognised protocol. By the time Larry had been tracked down, the fire had consumed half an acre of landfill and was threatening the methane collectors positioned on the west side. Larry, whose wage reflected his greater understanding of Health and Safety procedure, immediately instructed Mackenzie to contact emergency services, whilst he started the mini douser.

  The Fire Department rolled up within nine minutes of taking the call from the barely coherent Mackenzie, and after a thorough check, declared the fire extinguished and the site safe. However, what they didn’t dismiss so readily was the charred skeleton lolling in a position some would describe as coquettish, its blackened arms crossed demurely over its lap, the head bent forward, and the legs touching at the knees and angled slightly to the right. The fire had been fast and hot, destroying much of the flesh and all of the clothing that might have been attached. This was the most puzzling aspect of the whole event for Fire Officer Mike Bradshaw, who, after twenty-three years in the service, recognised that this body couldn’t have been secreted under anything more substantial than a blanket, or a couple of bin liners. As he dialled Control, Mike stared suspiciously at Mackenzie Webber, whose body language, if not actually signing a confession, was certainly convincing him it was only a matter of time.

  Eleanor Raven sat at her desk and stretched her leg out, trying not to wince. It had been six months since she’d had the skin grafted onto her thigh, and despite the regular application of creams and unguents, it remained tortuously tight and raw to the touch. This, according to her consultant, was as good as it was going to get and gratitude for not having lost complete sensation in the leg, or more muscle, should be felt. Gratitude was not what Eleanor Raven felt at this precise moment. Her kidnapping and subsequent torture at the hands of Lee Hughes, had left her with three broken ribs, a punctured lung, fractured collar bone, enforced home rest till today, and compulsory weekly attendance at the ‘Serving Officers’ Psychiatric Unit’. Gratitude was not a word she used.

  From the sudden increase in peripheral noise it was apparent that her boss, Chief Inspector Marty Samuelson, was on his way. A man of height, girth, impatience, and simmering outrage, he encouraged his homicide officers to ‘think outside of the box’, but to be aware that meticulous practice was the only way to ensure convictions. He’d always given Eleanor Raven a wide degree of latitude when it came to policing, but after nearly losing her on her last case he had decided to be more circumspect, and had insisted on a probationary period for the next three months. The door to Eleanor’s office flew open, and Marty barged in with two cups of coffee.

  “Sweet Jesus!” he gasped, putting both cups down and dragging the seat over from her partner’s notably empty desk. He stared at Eleanor for a second or two, noting the paleness of her skin, and the heavy dark circles under her eyes. Her long, chestnut brown hair was lazily plaited, and her childish sprinkling of freckles made her look considerably younger than her thirty odd years. “You look like shit,” he said bluntly, taking a slurp of coffee. “You sure you’re ready for this? Take a holiday, go somewhere sunny, and get some colour in your cheeks.”

  Eleanor sipped her coffee, grimacing at the amount of sugar. Marty noticed. “Get it down you – you need to put on a couple of pounds.”

  “And my teeth?” she responded.

  “No-one died of teeth. Being skinny: every day,” he replied, smiling.

  “Well you’re going to outlive us all then boss,” she nodded at his waistline.

  He smiled and lifted his coffee mug. “To long life and big coffins.”

  Eleanor smiled and raised hers too.

  With a sigh he leaned back in his seat and lifted his chin questioningly in the direction of her partner Laurence Whitefoot’s desk. “Where’s Captain America?”

  Eleanor shrugged. “It’s a mystery.”

  “First day back and your partner ain’t here to welcome you?” said Marty disapprovingly. He scrutinised her expression before carrying on. “Did he tell you that he’s applied for a transfer to another precinct?”

  Eleanor said nothing. This was news to her and left her feeling strangely flat.

  Marty leaned forwards and lowered his voice, “What the fuck’s happened between you two? He saved your life, but according to Mo, only visited you twice in hospital. I want to know what’s going on before I recommend any transfers.”

  Eleanor paused for a moment before replying. “I have no idea sir.”

  Marty was working his jaw, about to launch into an interrogation, but mercifully her phone rang. With ill-mannered speed Eleanor grabbed the receiver and listened, jotting down an address and a couple of names before hanging up. “Sorry sir, I’m on. Skeletal remains have been found on a land fill site over on East.” She stood up, hoping that Marty would take the hint, but hinting had no place in Marty Samuelson’s world.

  “We deal with conflict and mayhem every day Raven, and I won’t have that shit in here. I want answers before I let this go, and you two will remain in this ‘marriage of convenience’ till I do.” With that Marty stood up and turned to leave. “You don’t work alone any more, and if this turns out to be bigger than a dead hobo you hand it over to Timms.”

  Eleanor stared at him.

  “We on the same page?”

  “No question,” she replied.

  It had become apparent to Eleanor over the years, that once an individual had acquired homicide status, the chances were that he or she would make their way, in a black bin liner, to the Westex Landfill site. Current statistics put the number of victims reclaimed at nine, since the plant opened in the eighties, all but four having been solved and the perpetrators incarcerated. Sadly, two of the bodies were under five years of age and caused untold distress to everyone who had the dubious privilege of working these cases. One of the big plusses to having sealed up a body in a bin liner before having it dumped on the sit
e, was that generally the bag contained sufficient trace evidence to make apprehension not too difficult. Over half of the bags were covered in incriminating fingerprints, generally spousal.

  As she approached the security gates of the landfill site, she noticed that the air quality had taken a sudden lunge. Rather than closing the dashboard vents, she drew in the vapours, trying to distinguish those naturally produced by the disposal of thousands of tonnes of household waste and contaminants, and those that might be linked to the cremation of flesh and bone. Seeing Mike Bradshaw, she pulled her Tauris over to the side, and stepped out.

  “How you doing Detective Inspector Raven?” he said warmly, as he walked towards her.

  “I’m good Mike,” she held out her hand. “What we got here?”

  Mike slipped off his glove and grabbed her hand, holding it protectively rather than shaking.

  “We have a strange, and interesting situation,” he said, steering her gently in the direction of the site office. “We were called in at nine twenty-eight am, to tackle a small surface blaze of unknown origin. By the time we arrived, the fire had been controlled and extinguished. We did a detailed check of the area, to make sure there was no threat to deeper layers, and discovered this.” Mike stabbed at his phone, and handed it to Eleanor. The image was initially difficult to interpret but by adjusting the depth of field Eleanor could make out a blackened skeleton.

  “How hot was the fire Mike?” she asked, skimming through the images.

  “Hot, but not cremation hot. There couldn’t have been much in the way of flesh beforehand because there’d be more left. Not that that’s set in stone, just an opinion.” Opening the trunk, she swapped her shoes for a pair of rubber boots and drew a couple of pairs of latex gloves out of a bag.

  Eleanor nodded and looked around. Taking his cue, Mike began to walk in the direction of the fire.

  “Where’d it start?” she asked, noting that the sooty air felt granular as she drew it in through her nostrils, a sharp stink of volatile chemicals searing her palate as she inhaled. He pointed over to his left.

  She wrinkled her nose, and turned to Mike. “You think this was started deliberately?”

  Mike raised his eyebrows, and shook his head slightly. “Wouldn’t surprise me but it didn’t start by the body.”

  In a natural gesture, Mike took her hand and helped her climb over the sodden mounds of debris that had been forked out when the site was checked. “Steady,” he said, as she caught her foot on a length of twisted metal.

  The skeleton was leaning against a pile of unidentifiable burned rubbish and was at first difficult to single out, particularly as the wind was picking up a little and twists of smoke were being swept straight towards them, making their eyes water.

  “That smells like an accelerant to me,” said Mike darkly. “Maybe he did start it.”

  “Who’s he?” asked Eleanor, following Mike’s line of sight. A slightly-built man swathed in too large a work suit, hopped nervously outside a small hut.

  “That’s Mackenzie Webber and he called it in,” said Mike turning to the skeleton.

  Eleanor looked at Mackenzie for a moment or two and then gave her full attention to the body. The bones were heavily burned and several of the long bones showed signs of heat cracking. She picked at some small fragments of material around the body. Mike peered over her shoulder. “What’s that?” he asked.

  “Not sure yet but there’s a pattern here. Clothing I think,” she said, carefully placing it in the position she had collected it from.

  “You need to bag that?” asked Mike.

  “Crime Scene are on their way. Now might be a good time to go talk to Mr Webber.”

  Eleanor sat in silence and stared at Mackenzie Webber. He was sweating profusely and kept rubbing a grubby index finger across his forehead, as if trying to massage a convincing response to the barrage of questions that were about to come his way. She had elected to interview Mackenzie in his cramped hut, as it would give her time to assess the man before she heard his story. Of the existence of a story there was no doubt in her mind. The hut was filled with an eclectic collection of objects selected from the landfill. Lamps, a scabrous moose head, a small table, two chairs, and a chaise longue crammed into a corner attested to Mackenzie’s commitment to his job. Interestingly, neatly stacked on a small oak table were, what looked like, two dated photograph albums.

  She waited, the longer the better in her opinion. But after three minutes Mackenzie crumbled. “I don’t know nuffin’ about no body,” he said, flinging himself back in the seat heavily. The seat groaned ominously. Eleanor raised an eyebrow, conveying her disbelief to Mackenzie. His eyes saccaded to the left and he began to worry a fingernail. “It didn’t look like a body,” he muttered so quietly that she had to strain to hear.

  “How did it appear then?” she responded with interest.

  “Like a…a dummy you know. A shop dummy,” he replied.

  She leaned towards him and smiled, encouraging him to carry on.

  “That’s what I thought it was…Until the fire and then…” Suddenly he had an idea. “Perhaps that’s what it is!” he yelped. “A dummy.”

  “Mr Webber. What you see out there are the remains of a human being. Perhaps you’d like to explain to me why you thought it was a shop dummy?”

  Mackenzie opened his mouth but snapped it tightly closed, as a brisk knock accompanied the hut door being opened.

  Eleanor experienced a wave of irritation as she felt the ease of the interrogation pass through her fingers, in no way relieved by seeing that the interruption was due to the arrival of her partner, Detective Laurence Whitefoot. She hadn’t seen him for several months and their parting had been anything but pleasant. She greeted him with a curt nod. With a functional smile, he put out a hand to Mackenzie, whose eyes narrowed with suspicion. “This is my partner Detective Whitefoot, Mr Webber. He’s here to observe only.”

  She didn’t miss the hardening of Laurence’s mouth, as he manoeuvred cautiously between the moose head and Eleanor’s seat, and sank into the ill-sprung chaise longue. Turning her attention back to Mackenzie she said warmly, “I’m astonished as to why people throw out so many wonderful things.”

  Suddenly, Mackenzie was all nods and positive body language. “You ain’t wrong there. Look at all this stuff,” he flung his hands around expansively. “There’s tonnes more. I ain’t got room for it all ’ere, but I give it to…”

  “These are interesting photographs Mr Webber,” said Laurence quietly, from the chaise longue. Eleanor turned and saw that he was leafing through one of the photograph albums. He swivelled it round, so that Eleanor and Mackenzie could see what he was looking at.

  “Could you explain who this is?” he said, pointing a finger to a polaroid shot of Mackenzie, with his arms flung round what looked like a fully clothed woman, positioned in practically the identical posture to that of the skeletal remains. What was particularly disturbing about the image was that the woman appeared to have a green patina of mould covering her face and hands. Her hair was mid length and dishevelled, the eyes open and staring vacantly into the distance. Mackenzie leaned possessively into the woman, an idiotic smirk across his face.

  “Tell me where and when you found the body,” said Eleanor.

  “I found her a couple of months ago…”

  “Months?” gasped Laurence incredulously.

  Mackenzie scowled. “Yeah… months. I was working over on the east side…”

  “Working?” asked Laurence, ignoring Eleanor’s frown.

  Mackenzie stared warily at Laurence. “The trucks bring the garbage in and me and Kev make sure that they’re spreadin’ it evenly. Kev drives the earthmover and flattens it all, but I check that they’re not bringing in too much food waste, ’cos that has to go to another area. The drivers don’t give a shit what they dump, they just wanna drop and go.”

  “So how do you check this?” asked Eleanor, wrestling back control of the interview from Laurence
, whose mouth was just opening.

  Mackenzie’s lip curled, as if this question was too stupid to respond to. “I open up some of the bags!”

  “That’s how you found the woman?” said Eleanor.

  “The shop dummy!” snapped Mackenzie. “Yeah. She wasn’t in a bag. I like to give everythin’ a good goin’ over and when I dug around the top layer I saw a leg. So, I dug it up and bought it back.”

  “How did you bring her back?”

  “In the van. I drive the pick up and thought…” his voice trailed off, as if unable to comprehend just what he had thought.

  Eleanor and Laurence waited.

  “I thought she’d be company,” he said quietly.

  Eleanor needed a few moments to digest the implications of what Mackenzie had just said. “Where do you live Mr Webber?”

  He looked nervous. “I live here. I do the security here as well.” He glanced around at the possessions in the hut. There was a kettle and a small hob tucked into a corner of the room, a chipped enamel jug and bowl neatly placed under the wooden surface. “I don’t cost no-one nuffin!” he said, defensively. “I get all my stuff off the site and the wages pay for food. I like it ’ere.”

  Eleanor nodded. “Who took the photograph of you and the… dummy?”

  Laurence cast her a swift look.

  “I did,” he said proudly. He turned round and opened a cardboard box, gingerly lifting out an old-fashioned Polaroid SX-70 camera. “Found this last year, but couldn’t use it ’cos I ain’t had no film to put in. But…” he lifted out a half empty, instant film cartridge. “I found this before Christmas and take the odd one to put in my albums. And look!” He gently unhooked the closing mechanism and twisted the camera into operational mode. “See that!” He pointed to the button, his eyes sparkling. “If you twist that to the right, it will give you thirty seconds before it clicks.”

  Eleanor nodded. “Would you mind if I borrowed this and the remaining film?”

  Mackenzie looked worried. “I ain’t got no more film other than that.”