The Rules of Murder

by The Rules of Murder (retail) (epub)

  ‘Of course. Both PM reports should be in your inbox now. Give me another twenty-four hours on tox; hopefully I’ll have something by then.’

  Dani thanked him and was soon on her way out.

  * * *

  As she stepped into the sunshine and took a welcome breath of fresh but stiflingly hot air, she felt more frustrated than anything else. Although cause of death in both murders was relatively clear-cut, and the post mortems had thrown up no unexpected surprises, Dani remained hugely confused as to the circumstances of Oscar Redfearne’s and Mary Deville’s deaths. Not because it appeared anything other than that both people had been killed by the same person, but because the biggest question remained: Why? What linked the two victims? The connection between Curtis and Mary Deville was apparently clear-cut. And Mary Deville, apparently, knew the Redfearnes in some manner or other. But what was the connection between Curtis and Oscar Redfearne?

  As she reached her car she pulled out her phone. She sat down into her seat – the air in the car was barely breathable and she fired up the engine and turned the air-con to full blast.

  She had a missed call and text message from Jason, plus a missed call and voicemail from Easton. She called Jason back first. When he answered he sounded surprised that she’d called back so quickly – it certainly wasn’t to form. What did that say about her current state of mind that she was seeking comfort in him sooner than she’d call her colleague back to update him on the case? There was no doubt she was feeling far more rattled these last couple of days without Jason than she normally did, particularly after the day she’d had – Larissa, Ben, and then the visit to the morgue. She really needed a pick-me-up.

  The brief chat didn’t really help much, but perhaps that was more due to Dani than Jason.

  As soon as the conversation was over, she called Easton back.

  ‘All done in the morgue?’ Easton said.

  ‘Thankfully,’ Dani replied. With the car still far from cool, she had sweat droplets on her forehead and in the small of her back. With the images of corpses still on her mind, a flash of nausea washed over her.

  ‘Anything to report?’ Easton asked.

  Dani thought about that one for a moment, but really she couldn’t think of much that she felt she hadn’t already known, only adding to her sense of frustration. ‘Not really. You?’

  ‘Yes actually,’ Easton said, and Dani was about to get her hopes up before he let out a long sigh. ‘I’ve started going through Curtis’s trial documentation. First up, this is going to take a bloody age. It was anything but straightforward. And if you’re talking about us considering everyone involved in this trial as a potential victim, from witnesses to jury members to legal teams… there’s no way we can find the resource to offer them all protection.’

  Dani and Easton had posed that question, and the problem, to McNair on the phone earlier, on their way back from Long Lartin. The DCI had at that point reconfirmed her belief that there was insufficient cause to provide personal protection for anyone at this stage, but that she’d speak to Baxter about the possibility, and also discuss with him whether an advisory notice of some sort needed to go out to anyone. It was better than nothing, Dani guessed.

  ‘Let’s hope we don’t have to get to that point,’ she said.

  ‘Indeed. But there is something I spotted… and I’m not sure you’re going to like it much.’

  ‘Spit it out.’

  Another sigh from Easton. Dani took a long inhale of air to prepare herself. At least now the air was cooling down and almost breathable.

  ‘I don’t get the ins and outs of all this, I have to admit,’ Easton said, ‘but one of the witnesses on Curtis’s defence was a psychiatrist. She was trying to suggest Curtis was acting with diminished responsibility the night he caused the crash that killed his girlfriend and her kid.’

  ‘But that wasn’t the trial conclusion?’ Dani said.

  ‘I’ve not fully understood why, but I don’t think so, no.’

  ‘So what’s the finding?’

  ‘It’s who the psychiatrist is,’ he said. ‘Helen Collins. The same—’

  ‘The same psychiatrist who tried to convince everyone Ben was insane, so that he wouldn’t be convicted of murder.’

  She said the words monotone.

  ‘That’s the one. What do you think?’

  What did she think? About yet another link back to her brother? Dani really didn’t know. She was simply stunned.

  ‘We need to find Dr Collins,’ Dani said. ‘Now.’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I can’t make this too easy for them. The police, I mean. If I’m to keep going and complete my work, I have to keep them off my back as long as I can. I need to think more cleverly. I’ve seen my name, my face in the paper, so I have to keep my wits about me and my head low, although with two weeks’ stubble and a different hairstyle from what’s been plastered on the local news, and given the fact I’m not exactly hanging out in busy public places day in, day out, will anybody really notice me if I’m careful?

  That’s not the point. They shouldn’t have found out about you so quickly.

  They shouldn’t have, but they have.

  You see, I’m wanted in relation to Oscar Redfearne’s murder—

  You must have made a mistake.

  Regardless, the key now is to be as careful as I possibly can.

  Sophie was a mistake too.

  Sophie isn’t my concern right now. If she plays things right, then when this is all over she’ll walk away.

  With her scars and forever living in fear from the trauma you’ve caused. She’ll suffer even more.

  I shake my head to try and focus. I don’t need to think about any of this right now.

  I close my eyes for a few seconds and think through my plan for being here.

  Yes, everything is in place.

  I open my eyes again and look around. The road I’m parked on is quiet. I haven’t been to this place much before, but I wonder now why not. It’s nicer than the city. There are a few parked cars dotted about on the road I’m on, which leads up into the hills, but very few people about. Houses line only one side of this street, off to my left, though they’re each on wide plots and there’s only six on the whole street. To my right are farmers’ fields stretching away into the distance.

  Satisfied, I step from the car and throw the backpack with my tools and equipment over my shoulders then casually walk away.

  Today has been another hot and sunny day, and even though it’s early evening now, the sun is still fierce in the blue sky and I have a baseball cap to shield my face both from the sun’s rays and from anyone who might be looking for me. Not that anyone around here will recognise me. All of the police alerts I’ve seen have focussed on the Midlands. I’m certainly not national news. Yet. I plan to keep it that way.

  You’ll keep it that way so long as you listen to me.

  I take a glance over my shoulder. No one there. Then I turn sharply off the pavement and up the drive of a house I know from my earlier drive past is derelict and up for sale. It’s the only one on the street that’s obviously unoccupied. No doubt someone will soon make a mint turning it around so that it’s as handsome as the others on the street. For now, its disrepair and neglect provide me with an opportunity.

  I head to the side gate to the left of what is a traditional limestone house – a style that remains so prevalent in this area. The dilapidated gate is unlocked, and I carefully swing it open, trying not to make any noise that might arouse the interest of the neighbours, although as I traipse down the weed-filled side passage, I don’t hear anybody about in their gardens on either side.

  The back garden of the house is a mess. Old furniture and rubbish heaped together, grass and weeds three feet high all over. I clamber across. My heart rate is quickening now as, despite the mess surrounding me, I feel exposed. Anyone looking out the back windows of the neighbours’ houses will see me. But I still think it’s the safest way, and even if
I’m spotted would anyone really care that much?

  I think about glancing over my shoulder to look back to the houses. I’d rather know if there’s a problem.

  No, just keep going. You’re almost there.

  I reach the crumbling fence at the end of the garden and clamber over far more ungracefully than I’d imagined. The damn thing nearly collapses under my weight, but I’m safe still and unscathed.

  I land among a neatly planted border that leads onto a manicured lawn. The small block of flats is just in front of me now.

  Of course, I could have approached the front entrance of the block from the road it sits on, but on my drive-by a little earlier, I spotted the unmarked car across the street with the bored-looking chap in the driver’s seat. I can’t say one hundred per cent, but I’m sure he’s a policeman. It makes some sense that they would try to find me here.

  I’m soon at the back entrance to the block. I’ve recently perfected this new skill and I’m genuinely pumped when it takes me only a couple of minutes to pick the lock with the small torsion wrench and pins I’ve brought with me. I push open the door and step inside into the overly warm interior.

  The block of flats is perhaps twenty years old and is far from a shithole, but it’s not particularly modern or upmarket either, and clearly it doesn’t have air conditioning or anything like that. On a hot day like today it’s like a tin can in a microwave.

  The other thing I notice is the smell. The musty smell of old people. Although not a retirement home, this place may as well be as I can’t imagine there’s a single resident in this type of accommodation, in this location, who’s under seventy.

  I pass no one as I move up the stairs to the first floor. When I reach apartment fourteen I stop and stare at the door for a moment. I think about knocking but then I recall that unmarked car out front again. If I knock, I give him the opportunity to alert someone.

  I need to remain stealthy as long as I can.

  This lock is more tricky than the first, or perhaps it’s just that I’m more nervous now, the closer I get. It takes a few minutes but finally I’m there, and I ever so gently push down on the handle and inch the door open. As expected, it catches on the chain. Not a problem. The gap is easily big enough to slip my hand through, and with the small screwdriver clasped in my fingers, I begin to work on the screws for the panel holding the chain in place. Far easier and less noisy than trying to snap the thing, or even crunching through it with bolt cutters.

  I deftly catch the first screw in my hand when it falls loose. The second falls to the floor and makes a small clatter when it hits the thin carpet below, but after holding my breath for a few seconds I’m pretty sure I’m still in the clear. I put the screwdriver away and open the door fully then step inside.

  I’ve been here before, though not for a few years. Although familiar, there’s nothing particularly warming or welcoming about my return, no happy memories or anything like that.

  I can hear the TV is on. Some shitty talk show, by the sound of it. I reach the doorway to the open-plan lounge and stare inside.

  There he is. Slumped on the sofa, cider can in his hand. What a pathetic life his has become. He must have sensed my presence because he turns his head to look up at me, confused more than anything. Perhaps he’s too pissed to do anything else.

  No. There’s the surprise. Then the fear. He goes to get to his feet.

  No chance. I’m on him in a flash. I jump on top of him on the sofa, pinning him in place. The cider can flies from his grasp and the sticky liquid glugs out onto the carpet as I slam my head into his. For a couple of seconds I see stars. But when clarity returns I see the damage to him is far worse than to me. There’s a gash on the bridge of his nose and blood is already dribbling out. His eyes are rolling; he’s dazed and nearly out of it.

  I headbutt him again, with even more ferocity and venom this time. His head slumps and his arms flop uselessly to his side.

  Honestly, that was easier than I’d thought. I’m almost disappointed he didn’t put up more of a fight.

  I lift his chin up. His eyes are barely open.

  ‘Dad,’ I say. ‘Dad, stay awake, please.’

  He groans and there’s just a little shuffle from him, but it’s not an impending fight-back.

  ‘I only have one question for you,’ I say. I wait a moment until I know he’s listening. I duck my head just a little and our eyes connect. Yes, he’s listening. ‘Dad, am I man enough for you now?’

  He doesn’t answer, although I guess I don’t give him much of a chance because I thrust the knife into the side of his neck just a second later. The blade is so sharp, and the blow is so forceful that the tip of the sharpened metal pierces out the other side, just underneath his ear.

  I withdraw the knife and blood surges.

  Just one blow and he’s already drifting to nothingness, his lifeblood draining. He simply has nothing to offer in return.

  But I’m not done.

  I lift the knife and plunge it into his chest. I do it again and again and again. His eyes are connected to mine the whole time. It’s curious to watch as his life force ebbs away.

  I keep going. The knife goes in and out in a blur of motion. I can’t even count how many strikes; it’s too quick and too prolonged, and I’m not focussed on counting, but on watching. Watching.

  * * *

  Darkness has long since arrived when I’m finally back in my car heading home. It was one thing entering the block of flats during daylight, but leaving that way was never an option, not carrying my dad, no matter how many pieces he’s in now.

  It wasn’t easy lugging the suitcase and holdall back over the fence and to my car, but I got there in the end. Weighed down with a few large stones once I get to the river, I’m sure those bags won’t be found anytime soon. Even if they are, I’ve bought myself some time this way. He doesn’t get visitors. He barely leaves that apartment. In fact, I probably could have just left him in there, his bloody corpse quickly becoming putrefied in the heat of summer. The maggots would have seen through him soon enough, though the stench would have alerted the neighbours before long.

  No, cutting him up and taking him out of there and dumping him was the best way.

  You did good. That can’t have been easy for you.

  Yet the most surprising thing is that it was so easy for me.

  And as I head back from that place I’m on a high. That man had been a noose around my neck for so many years. Now that noose is gone, I feel free. I’m elated. Truly happy.

  This moment is mine, and no one is going to stop me now.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  With a meeting arranged at the central Birmingham office of Dr Helen Collins at eleven a.m., Dani had some rare spare time come Thursday morning. While she could quite usefully have used that time in the office checking over the various strands of the Redfearne/Deville murder investigations, she’d instead made arrangements to go and see her sister-in-law, Gemma, at her home in Sutton Coldfield. It was a visit Dani continued to make too infrequently, however much she cherished any time she got to spend with her niece and nephew, and it was with a heavy heart that she knew on this occasion she wouldn’t even get a chance to see the children, who were both already at a holiday club at their school, but in reality it was probably best that they weren’t around for this conversation.

  ‘No way. Absolutely not,’ Gemma said, with an angry wave.

  It wasn’t the first time she’d said that to Dani today, as they sat in the lounge of Gemma’s modest family home drinking coffee.

  ‘Gemma, please, I—’

  ‘No. My kids need to forget all about Ben, not rekindle anything with him. That’s it.’

  ‘He’s their father.’

  ‘He’s a bloody killer! He tried to kill you! And me! Come on, Dani, take your detective hat off for a second and think about what you’re asking me here.’

  Dani sighed. The fact was, Ben’s ‘offer’ had been directed to Dani for very considere
d reasons. Yes, he was hoping for some leniency from the justice system, one way or another, for his divulgence of whatever it was he knew, and that was undoubtedly the biggest play in his and his lawyer’s book, but he’d also been very specific with Dani that she was to persuade Gemma to make familial visits to the prison. He’d not seen the kids since he’d been locked up. Dani could understand his anguish, even if she didn’t feel sorry for him. And, the reality was, this was the only part of Ben’s offer that Dani felt she could try and sway.

  ‘I’m not here as a detective,’ Dani said.

  ‘That’s crap and you know it. As a sister, as an aunt, would you still be here asking me this?’

  Dani didn’t respond to that. Gemma had her. The answer was no. Of course as an aunt or sister to Ben, she would never be suggesting to Gemma that she and the kids needed to revive contact with Ben. Dani had barely managed to drag herself to see her brother until the year before last, and that had only been because it was something she’d wanted to try out to help her in her mental recovery as a result of the damage he’d caused. His kids really didn’t need that.

  But innocent people’s lives were on the line here, and Dani was seriously struggling with reconciling the conflicting positions of private life and public duty.

  ‘It’s possible that Ben really does have information that can help us catch this killer,’ Dani said. ‘I’m not asking for you to maintain visits to him forever, but if you just tried now, one time, two times, see if that’s enough to satisfy him so that he begins to talk to the police.’

  ‘Dani, you’re not listening to me. I said no.’

  ‘Will you even think about it? I can come back and chat again tomorrow? Talk to the kids about it tonight.’

  ‘I’m at work tomorrow.’

  Dani sighed. The conversation took a pause. Dani’s brain was firing away as she tried in vain to think of a way to try and persuade Gemma to change her position. She came up with nothing much.