Out of Sight

by Paul Gitsham

  With little else to report, the meeting broke up. Warren fought the urge to look at his watch again. It’s a marathon, not a sprint, he reminded himself.

  Watching the purposeful strides of his team, he smiled humourlessly. He wasn’t the only person who found that hard to accept.

  ‘First reports are back on the tools found near the body yesterday,’ said Pymm as Warren crossed the office to her desk. One of her monitors displayed a high-resolution image of the hammer. ‘They’re going to use cyanoacrylate to try and lift any residual fingerprints from it, but it’s been wiped down very carefully.’

  The tool in question was a typical claw hammer, made of stainless steel with a black, rubber grip. The circular head was stained a dark red, with further small spots on the shaft.

  Warren squinted at the image. ‘It doesn’t look new, there are lots of scratches.’

  ‘Is that a logo on the handle?’ asked DC Karen Hardwick, leaning closer to the screen.

  ‘Yes, but I don’t recognise it,’ said Pymm.

  ‘Me neither,’ said Warren. ‘Karen, can you take a closer look and see if it matches anything in the tool database? Then see if we can narrow it down; you never know, it might be an unusual make.’

  ‘There’s a sticker on the base,’ said Pymm, magnifying the image. ‘It’s pretty faded, but there appear to be some numbers printed on it. A batch number perhaps?’

  ‘Excellent. Karen, run that by the manufacturer when you’ve identified them, see if they can tell us where it was sold. What about the knife?’

  Pymm switched images. The tool was a Stanley knife, with a push blade. The handle was made of grey metal, covered in blood and flecks of what looked like paint.

  ‘Again, no obvious prints,’ said Pymm. ‘It looks as though they used a new blade, but this handle has seen some use over the years. Forensics are going to dismantle it and check for trace evidence. Unfortunately, there don’t appear to be any obvious serial numbers, and I’ll bet Stanley have sold millions of these over the years.’

  ‘Well, let’s not assume anything. Check the database, Karen. Again, we might get lucky.’

  Jobs assigned, Warren headed back to his office. Despite himself, he looked at his watch. They had made good progress, but it was reaching the end of the second day of the investigation and so far they still had no clue who the victim was, when he was killed and why he was dumped in that ditch.

  Warren and Sutton brought DSI Grayson up to speed with the progress of the case in the Superintendent’s office.

  ‘The CSIs are confident that blood spatter at the dumping ground was from a body that was already dead,’ said Warren. ‘Couple that with the inconsistency in the lividity patterns that Professor Jordan analysed, and I think we can state with confidence that the victim was killed elsewhere then moved prior to the body being dumped.’

  Grayson nodded his understanding. The confirmation wasn’t a huge revelation, but it did help focus the investigation.

  ‘Hutch has been organising door-knockers for the houses either end of the road,’ said Sutton. ‘Nobody remembers any suspicious vehicles over the past week. They get a fair bit of traffic down there from people dodging congestion, so they are used to seeing unfamiliar cars.’

  ‘I don’t suppose there’s any CCTV out there?’ asked Grayson.

  ‘I’m afraid not, Sir,’ replied Sutton. ‘A couple of the farms have their own system, but the road is well outside their camera range.’

  ‘What about ANPR?’

  ‘Mags is securing it for analysis, but if they obeyed the speed limit on the 506 and didn’t drive into Middlesbury, they probably weren’t captured. It doesn’t help that we can’t be more specific about the time frame; the list of cars that could have those tyres fitted is ridiculous. It’d almost be easier to ask what cars the tyres wouldn’t fit.’

  ‘Then we need to know who he is,’ stated Grayson.

  Warren agreed. If they knew who they were dealing with, then they could track his movements, speak to associates and construct a timeline of his last movements. Somewhere, buried within that information, the clues to his murderer would hopefully be hidden.

  ‘Speaking of which, when will we hear back about the pacemaker?’ asked Grayson.

  ‘It’s been removed and cleaned. If it was fitted on the NHS, it should be fairly easy to identify who it was given to using its serial number,’ replied Warren.

  ‘What if the pacemaker was fitted overseas?’ asked Grayson.

  ‘It should still be possible to track it down through the manufacturer, but it may take a bit longer,’ said Warren.

  ‘Well, here’s hoping,’ said Grayson.

  It was past six when Karen Hardwick knocked on Warren’s office door. ‘I have some news about the tools.’

  ‘Do tell,’ said Warren, grateful for the interruption; he was drowning in a sea of appraisal paperwork. Hardwick’s return to Middlesbury CID after her maternity leave had been far from certain, but the last few months had reminded Warren just how efficient she was. There was still some awkwardness between them, but he was glad to have her back on the team.

  ‘I traced the logo using the database and identified the hammer. Would you like the good news or the bad news?’

  ‘Go on, give me the bad news first. It’s always nice to end on a high.’

  ‘I contacted the manufacturer. They’re a mid-range, mid-price product made in China and sold across several big DIY retailers. Last year alone, they imported five thousand units to the UK. I got the batch number off that sticker on the base of the handle, but they couldn’t tell me where they would have been sold.’

  ‘Damn. What’s the good news?’

  ‘I wouldn’t get too excited. They were able to tell me that hammers with that batch number aren’t sold as a single item, they come as part of a tool set, in a medium-sized plastic toolbox, with screwdrivers, spanners, hex keys, pliers and spirit level etc., all of them branded with the same logo. I found a picture of the set online.’

  ‘That could be useful,’ mused Warren. ‘If we find a suspect then we can check their toolbox for a missing hammer.’

  ‘The set also has a box-cutter, but according to the online reviews, it’s a bit crap. A couple of buyers suggested ditching it and replacing it with a metal Stanley knife, which fits in the same space in the toolbox.’

  ‘Which is the same brand that we found wrapped up with the hammer,’ said Warren. ‘Good work. I imagine that tracing sales of the knife is a non-starter?’

  ‘The woman on the phone actually laughed when I told her the model; she couldn’t give me the exact sales figures, but it’s probably the most popular craft knife sold in the UK over the past ten years.’

  ‘Then let’s hope that forensics have a bit more luck,’ said Warren.

  Warren pushed down his sense of mounting frustration. Two days in and they still hadn’t identified the victim.

  Sleep would be elusive tonight.

  Tuesday 29th November

  Chapter 5

  ‘We know who the victim is.’ Rachel Pymm was jubilant.

  The third day of the investigation started with some good news – at least for the investigative team.

  ‘NHS England identified him from the serial number on his pacemaker.’ She looked at the screen in front of her. ‘Anish Patel, thirty-nine years old. The pacemaker was fitted eighteen months ago at Addenbrooke’s to help manage a congenital defect leading to an irregular heartbeat.’ She scrolled down. ‘He was also on medication.’

  ‘Is he on the PNC?’ asked Warren.

  ‘Nope, no arrests and no criminal convictions, so his DNA isn’t on the system.’ She clicked her mouse. ‘He also isn’t listed as a missing person; Moray will be delighted he spent all those hours trawling the database.’

  ‘Who do the hospital list as his next-of-kin?’ asked Sutton.

  ‘His father, Gotam Patel. He lives in Cambridge; same home address as Anish.’

  Warren sighed. ‘If he’s not
listed as missing, then either his family know what happened to him and are suspects, they know that he is missing but aren’t worried enough to contact the police, or they haven’t even realised he’s gone.’

  ‘Which means the poor bastards are about to get some devastating news,’ said Sutton quietly.

  ‘Somebody’s doing all right for themselves,’ said Tony Sutton.

  Warren pulled into the drive of the large, converted farmhouse on the outskirts of Cambridge. The two detectives were accompanied by PC Kevin Lederer, a Family Liaison Officer. Warren had been going to ask David Hutchinson to come with him on the visit, but Sutton had been desperate to get out of the office. For most of the past year, since returning after his mini-stroke, he had been on light duties. However, he’d persuaded Warren that breaking the tragic news to the Patels, whilst emotionally draining, would not be physically demanding.

  Warren had regretted agreeing to Sutton’s plea the moment he turned the engine on and backed out of his parking spot at the station.

  ‘Duran Duran!’ Sutton had cackled, as the radio burst into life. Warren had sighed; he’d put up with this for over five years. It never seemed to get old for his friend.

  Turning in his seat to face Lederer, Sutton was gleeful. ‘The DCI’s taste in music died and was buried sometime around the late 1980s.’

  ‘However,’ Warren had interrupted, ‘despite his advancing years, DI Sutton still listens to Radio One. He thinks it keeps him more in touch as a father.’

  Lederer had laughed. ‘No need to be ashamed, Sir. I saw them live on the Isle of Wight last year. In fact, me and the missus have seen loads of ’80s bands over the years. Have you seen any recently?’

  If Lederer thought that he could curry favour with the DCI by sparing his blushes, he’d miscalculated. Badly.

  This time, Sutton’s laughter was more of a guffaw. ‘Go on, Chief, tell him.’

  ‘I think that’s enough.’

  Sutton had ignored him. ‘DCI Warren Jones is probably one of the few people in the world who has never been to a concert or a gig.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ Warren had protested.

  ‘An ABBA tribute band playing a student hall of residence, doesn’t count.’

  ‘I can’t see the point,’ Warren had muttered. ‘It costs a fortune, the songs never sound as good as they do on the stereo, and the queues for the toilets are massive.’

  ‘Wow,’ Lederer had said eventually. ‘I’m not quite sure what to say.’

  ‘Try “no comment”, lad,’ Sutton had advised. ‘It’s appraisal time.’

  ‘I did a bit of research,’ said Sutton now, as Warren pulled up next to a white Range Rover with personalised licence plates bearing the victim’s father’s initials. Parked next to it was a bright red, two-door Mercedes, also with personalised plates. ‘It turns out that our victim comes from an extremely wealthy background. His parents, or rather his father now, owns a string of businesses across this area. Everything from dry cleaning to newsagents and one-stop shops under the brand name Everyday Essentials; they even have a small catering business. Net worth is in the millions.’

  ‘That explains the cars and the house then,’ said Lederer.

  Even with Warren taking up a space, there was still enough room for several more vehicles, plus a detached, two-car garage. To the right of the main house, what looked like an old barn had been converted into a smaller, separate dwelling.

  ‘According to a recent profile in the Cambridge Evening News business section,’ continued Sutton, ‘our victim is the third of four children; two older brothers and a younger sister. Judging by the initials on the Merc, I’d say the sister is home. The two older brothers and the sister work for their old man; no mention of what Anish did for a living. Their mother died a few years ago.’

  Warren filed the tit-bit away for later consideration. If the family was as wealthy as Sutton claimed, it suggested a raft of potential motives for Anish Patel’s murder. The fact that he might be the only child that didn’t work for his father hinted at even more.

  The three officers climbed out of the car, but before they even reached the doorstep, the door opened. A tall, thin, Asian man who looked to be in his sixties, greeted them.

  Warren and Sutton had done many of these visits over the years, and the FLO was an expert, so if there was one thing that Warren knew, it was that the next few minutes could be critical. The reaction of family to the news of their loved one’s murder often provided essential leads. Did they seem surprised, or were they expecting the news? Everyone reacted differently, but an experienced officer could often distinguish true grief from that put on for show. The details of the victim’s death would be released slowly and carefully – not only as a kindness to help the family process them properly, but also to see if the family knew more than would be expected about the circumstances.

  To this end, the FLO was a crucial part of the investigation. Part of the role was as a conduit between the investigating team and the family, keeping them apprised of major developments, and advising them on practical matters, such as when the body would be released. Equally important, the information exchange was two-way. Vital details that a shocked family might forget to tell Warren during interview, or they might have deemed unimportant, were noted, along with the FLO’s observations and impressions.

  But that was all in the future. First, they had to break the news.

  ‘Mr Patel? My name is Detective Chief Inspector Warren Jones. May I come in and speak to you?’

  Gotam Patel was yet to touch the brandy that his daughter, Reva Vasava, had poured him. Despite his size, he was almost engulfed by the four-person leather sofa that he’d collapsed into when Warren broke the news. His hands shook as he took a long swig. Vasava lived with her husband in the converted barn that they had seen on the way up the drive. She had arrived at the front door moments after Warren had been invited inside.

  ‘Was it his heart?’ Patel finally asked, his voice shaking.

  ‘Mum died of a heart attack nearly two years ago,’ said Vasava. Her voice was barely a whisper, as she perched on the edge of a large armchair, her hands wrapped around a tumbler she had yet to take a sip from.

  Warren spoke as gently as he could. ‘No. I’m very sorry to tell you, but it appears that Anish was murdered. His body was discovered Sunday morning. We came as soon as we identified him.’

  Vasava gave a low moan and raised her hand to her mouth. The tears that she had somehow held back as she poured the drinks and guided her stricken father to his chair, now flowed freely.

  ‘But who …’ She couldn’t finish the sentence.

  ‘We don’t know yet,’ said Warren. ‘We have a large team working on that as we speak.’

  ‘How was he killed?’ she managed.

  ‘We haven’t yet determined the cause of death,’ said Warren; this was not the time to go into details.

  ‘So how do you know he was murdered?’ asked Patel, his voice trembling.

  Warren glanced over at Sutton. ‘The circumstances that he was found in mean it is unlikely that he died of natural causes.’

  ‘What circumstances? Where was he found?’ demanded Patel.

  Warren chose his words carefully. ‘His body was found near a field just outside Middlesbury.’

  ‘What was he doing there?’ asked Vasava.

  ‘We don’t know yet, we’re trying to establish his last movements. I’m sorry to have to ask at such a time, but when did you last speak to Anish?’

  Vasava gave a sniff. ‘Last week. Tuesday, I think. He phoned me.’

  Out of the corner of his eye, Warren could see that Patel had turned his head to look out of the window.

  ‘Was there anything unusual about the call? Did he mention any worries?’

  Vasava looked over at her father, before looking away. ‘No. Nothing.’

  Warren turned to the father. ‘What about you, Mr Patel? When did you last have contact with Anish?’

  ‘I haven’t
spoken to him in a long time,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Anish listed this as his home address on his medical records. I take it he no longer lives here?’

  ‘No, he moved out last year. I don’t think he’s got around to changing his GP or dentist.’

  ‘Do you have his current address?’

  Patel gave a tiny shake of his head and looked away. After a moment’s pause, Vasava recited the address of a flat in Middlesbury. It wasn’t in the nicer part of town.

  Patel stirred. ‘I knew this would happen.’ His voice grew stronger. ‘I said that, did I not?’

  ‘Dad, not now.’

  ‘What do you mean, Mr Patel?’ asked Warren quickly, not wanting him to stop talking.

  ‘His lifestyle, the people he hung around with.’ He turned to his daughter. ‘I told you not to speak to him. That until he changed his behaviour, he brought shame upon us.’

  ‘Dad, please,’ she said, the tears starting to flow again.

  Outside the window, Warren heard a loudly revving engine, followed by the sound of tyres sliding on gravel. A black Range Rover, identical in model to the one bearing Gotam Patel’s personalised license plates, ground to a halt.

  Patel stood up.

  ‘My son is here. I would be grateful if you could leave us alone now to grieve, Chief Inspector.’

  Warren held an impromptu meeting on the drive home from the Patels.

  ‘Thoughts?’

  ‘I’m not happy with the family,’ said Sutton. ‘There’s something funny going on there.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Warren. ‘It’s clear that Anish has had some sort of falling out with his father and his brothers.’

  Anish’s eldest brother, Manoj, had appeared shocked at the news, but unlike his younger sister, had also seemed angry. The middle brother, Jaidev, had yet to arrive by the time the officers left. Like their father, Manoj had mentioned Anish’s lifestyle, and claimed not to have spoken to him in recent months. Under the scowling countenance of their father, neither Manoj nor his sister had been willing to elaborate on what was so concerning about the way he’d lived his life.