by Paul Gitsham
It had taken some persuasion for the family to take Lederer’s business card, but they had eventually agreed to the FLO stopping by the following day. Warren was interested in the officer’s impressions.
‘Grief’s a funny thing,’ said Lederer. ‘It’s not uncommon for the relatives to initially blame the victim. But I agree that there is a lot going on in that family.’
‘What about the dad’s comments about Anish’s lifestyle and the people he hung around with?’ asked Warren.
‘Maybe he had criminal connections?’ said Sutton. ‘The article in the newspaper suggested that Anish wasn’t part of the family business, and his father claimed not to have spoken to him since he moved out. My immediate thought is, what did he live on?’
‘If the family business is as lucrative as we think, then perhaps that made him a target?’ suggested Lederer. ‘Perhaps he was kidnapped and killed for money?’
‘We should see if the Patel business empire is known to us,’ said Sutton. ‘From the article, most of the businesses are cash-based; plenty of scope for money-laundering.’
Warren grimaced. ‘I’ll get onto Organised Crime and see if they have any intelligence they’d like to share.’
‘It was also a bit strange that his father seemed not to know where he lived,’ said Lederer. ‘And there were no photographs of Anish in the living room. Reva had to fetch one for us to borrow.’
‘Reva said that she spoke to him last Tuesday,’ said Warren. ‘And of the three of them, she seemed the most upset at the news.’ He glanced at Lederer in the rear-view mirror. ‘I think Reva is likely to be the most cooperative. Can you try and build a relationship with her?’
‘I’ll do that tomorrow when I swing by to arrange for them to be interviewed,’ promised the constable.
‘In the meantime,’ said Warren, ‘we at least have a recent photograph of him, and Reva gave us his address. Tony, arrange a locksmith and a forensics team, and go and look at where he lives. Maybe that will shed some light on what has upset his family so much.’
Chapter 6
‘The forensics are back on the hammer and knife,’ said Rachel Pymm. Warren stood behind her as she shared the findings; a strange herbal smell that reminded him of throat lozenges drifted from the steaming mug next to her elbow. He didn’t dare ask what this week’s infusion of choice was; it was likely to result in another conversation about his caffeine intake. He was already being nagged by Tony Sutton, who claimed that his enforced switch to decaf coffee was the best thing he’d ever done, although he too declined to sample Pymm’s collection of weird and wonderful teas.
Pymm pointed to an image of the hammer on her left-most screen. ‘The stains have been confirmed as human blood belonging to our victim.’ She gestured at the picture on the middle screen. ‘The same goes for the stains on the knife.’
‘What about trace evidence?’
‘Nothing on the hammer. No identifiable prints, and the pattern of blood-smear on the grip indicates that the person wielding it wore gloves. If the killer did leave any DNA behind, it’s too well mixed in with the victim’s blood to be isolated.’
‘No surprise. What about the knife?’
‘That’s a bit more hopeful. The handle is die-cast metal, with a rough texture to improve grip; there appear to be skin cells caught in it. They’ve been sent off for DNA typing, although it may take a little time to isolate any profile from the victim’s own.’
‘What about fingerprints?’
‘Nothing on the outside, but they’ve found a partial print on the unused blades inside the handle.’ She switched images. ‘It has a retractable blade that is replaced when it becomes too blunt. They come in strips of three, which are loaded into the handle. When the blade is no longer usable, it’s snapped off and the next one in the strip pushed forward. The print, a partial thumb, probably comes from whoever loaded it. The tool looks well-used, so hopefully the print was from the owner replacing the strip. I’d have thought that the factory assembles them by machine.’
‘How good is it?’
Pymm made a so-so gesture with her hand. ‘Probably not good enough to search the databases, but enough to match by eye if we have a suspect in the frame.’
‘I’ll take that. Anything else?’
‘The dried paint flecks on the handle are being analysed to identify the colour and manufacturer.’
Warren pinched his lip thoughtfully. At the moment, the tools weren’t pointing them towards the person that mutilated the victim’s body. However, the trace evidence might be enough to confirm a suspect.
Thanking her, he headed back to his office, where he could hear his desk phone ringing.
‘I’m in Anish Patel’s flat.’
Tony Sutton stood in the living room of the tiny apartment, his voice slightly muffled by his face mask. His legs still trembled slightly from three flights of stairs, however his pulse, which he’d surreptitiously checked after the climb, remained fast but steady. Months had passed since the cardioversion that had corrected his arrhythmia and allowed him to finally return to work, but he still half-expected it to revert at any moment.
‘Any sign of a struggle?’ asked Warren, on the other end of the line.
‘Nothing obvious. The place is a bit untidy, but I can’t see anything noticeably out of place. The CSIs are going to take up the rugs and check for trace, but if he was killed here, his attacker was sophisticated enough not to clean the place up too much. I can’t smell any bleach or cleaning chemicals.’
‘OK, what’s your first impression?’
‘Living beyond his means. The flat is tiny, and I’d say the rent’s probably about as low as you can get in Middlesbury without moving to the Chequers Estate. But there is a wheeled clothes rack with a load of tailored suits, and he has several very expensive watches. I’d say he’s playing the role of a wealthy man but struggling to make ends meet.’
Sutton turned on the spot. ‘It looks as though he’s a big action movie fan; the only art on the wall is framed movie posters: James Bond, Jason Bourne, plus all the Ocean’s Eleven films – the original and the remakes.’ He took a few steps toward a pair of tall bookcases. ‘Lots of paperback thrillers in the bookcase and similar DVDs, plus some compendiums of poetry.’
Sutton carefully leafed through a pile of envelopes on the small, fold-up table next to the kitchen counter.
‘There’s a load of what looks like bills here, all unopened, some with “final demand” on them.’
‘Any electronic devices?’
‘No laptop or desktop, but we’ve secured a tablet. There’s an empty box for a Samsung mobile phone.’
‘Any sign of a toolbox that the hammer could have come from?’
‘Nothing – doesn’t look as though he was much into DIY.’
‘What about photos?’
Sutton moved around the flat, his booties rustling as he carefully trod on the metal stepping plates.
‘There are a few on a shelf above the TV …’ He looked closer. ‘Three from his sister’s wedding, including one with the two of them, and another that looks like it might be his oldest brother’s wedding. Judging from his hairline, that one’s a few years old. There’s another one of him on holiday with an older woman, could be his mum. Big smiles, again a few years old, but aside from an awkward-looking one at his sister’s wedding, I’m not seeing any other happy family gatherings. It seems like he really was the black sheep of the family.’
‘That fits with what we’ve heard so far,’ said Warren. ‘Any indication of when he was last in the flat?’
‘The neighbour across the hall says that he’s pretty certain that he saw him Wednesday evening,’ said Sutton. After a few more seconds, Warren heard the sound of a door opening and a compressor pump starting up.
‘The fridge has some reasonably fresh-looking salad in the vegetable tray, and an opened two-pinter of skimmed milk with another three days left on its use-by date. I’d say his neighbour was probably right.’
/>
‘Well, that narrows things down a bit. Now we just need to know where he’s been between last Wednesday and his body turning up in that ditch.’
Chapter 7
Three days in and already the late nights were starting. Warren knew from experience that things were unlikely to get any better in the short term, and at this stage of the investigation, speed was essential.
One advantage that the team still enjoyed was that it appeared as though the body had been found sooner than the killer might have hoped. It was all but impossible to see the site from the road; it had only been the unexpected presence of Charlie Pitt and his young helper Kyle in the adjacent field that had led to the body’s discovery. With winter fast approaching, unless some unfortunate dog-walker stumbled across the decomposing remains, it was possible that Anish Patel may have remained alone and unfound for months.
Which raised the question as to whether the person, or persons, dumping the body knew this or just got lucky? Were they familiar with the ditch or did they stumble across it as they drove around with a body in the boot of their car, looking for somewhere to deposit it?
That made Charlie Pitt and young Kyle immediate suspects, along with anyone else that worked on Carrington Farm. As a matter of routine, everyone associated with the farm had been run through the PNC, but aside from a couple of motoring offences, nobody was listed. Unfortunately, with no time of death established, checking alibis was proving difficult.
Regardless, it was entirely possible that the killer had not yet realised the victim had been found, and so might be caught unprepared. A statement had been made to the press first thing that morning, but with few details, had barely made its mark on a news day still dominated by the recent US elections, ongoing legal spats over the future of the UK’s relationship with Europe, and the latest minor celebrity to leave Strictly Come Dancing.
At this stage, Warren would take any advantage that he could.
Looking at his watch, Warren debated whether or not to make the call. It was well after 9 p.m. and he knew that out of necessity, bedtime was a highly regimented affair. He should have called the previous evening, but it had been impossible to get away for more than a few moments before it really was too late to phone.
To hell with it, he decided. If he didn’t phone now, when would he?
He closed the office door as he waited for the phone to connect. It rang so long that he was mentally composing a voicemail message, when it was finally answered.
Another pause, followed by a raspy ‘Hello?’
Warren smiled; the old man still hadn’t got used to checking caller ID on the phone’s screen. Warren had eventually found a handset designed with input from charities that helped the elderly, and whilst texting was still a work in progress, the staff in the care home had helped Granddad Jack learn to use the new technology.
‘It’s Warren, Granddad,’ he said loudly. The phone was designed to work with hearing aids, but that assumed the stubborn nonagenarian hadn’t removed them or turned them off; something he did regularly when he wanted some peace and quiet.
Immediately the man’s tone shifted. ‘How are you, son?’
‘I’m fine,’ Warren swallowed. ‘Look I’m really sorry that I didn’t get to pop by on Sunday, after … you know …’
‘Of course, I know you’re busy,’ the old man injected a note of false cheer into his voice. ‘I imagine you’ve been called into deal with that body they’ve found?’
‘How do you know about that?’ asked Warren. As far as he was aware, the case had yet to hit the national newspapers and the care home was in Coventry; they’d receive TV news from the West Midlands, not the East of England where Hertfordshire was located.
Jack’s voice was full of pride. ‘I figured it must be something like that, so I went to the day room and looked it up on the internet. It wasn’t on the BBC internet page, but I used Google and put in “Middlesbury” and “murder”.’ He gave a throaty laugh. ‘Goodness son, I’d forgotten how busy you’d been since you’d moved down there. That little town must be the murder capital of England.’
Warren gave a chuckle, although it wasn’t really a laughing matter. Jack was right: Middlesbury had seen far more than its fair share of killings in the five years since he’d moved there from the West Midlands Police.
Pushing aside the dark topic, he reflected on his relief at how well Jack seemed to be coping. At ninety-two years old, the mobile revolution had pretty much passed Jack by and he certainly hadn’t had access to the internet at home. Finding out that he’d started using the communal computers in the day room had astounded Warren. He’d even had a couple of brief emails from him.
It was a far cry from where they had been just nine months ago. The eventual realisation in February that Jack would not be able to care for himself in his own home, even with assistance, had left Warren with the heart-breaking task of telling the old man that he would need to move into a care home. And not only that, he would have to sell his beloved house to pay for it; the house that Granddad Jack had pledged would go to Warren and his brother, should Warren ever locate his long-missing sibling.
At first Jack had been in denial, insisting that the progress he’d made in the respite home since his accident showed he just needed a bit more time. But the doctors had been clear that there was only so much more a body that age could fix itself.
Warren had assumed that it was the loss of independence that bothered Jack the most; that after years of looking after himself, and before then his wife, he mourned the man he once had been. Eventually though, he’d confessed that he didn’t mind living with other people; he’d been feeling lonely for the past few years. He didn’t even mind being cared for; he was a practical man and welcomed the extra assistance. What upset him the most, after the loss of his house, was that he felt that he was breaking a promise. The night that Nana Betty had passed away, Warren and Jack had stayed with her until the end. Jack had lain beside her in the bed they’d shared for over sixty years: the bed that he’d told her he would die in one day also.
With that in mind, Warren had tried to find a care home that would let them move the old timber-framed bed into one of their rooms, but it had been no use. Even assuming they were able to dismantle and reassemble it, it simply wasn’t suited to the needs of a modern care facility, especially if Jack needed increasing personal and medical attention in the years to come.
But by this point, Jack had come to accept the inevitability of his future. Most importantly for Warren, he’d stopped talking about how he’d ‘had a good innings’ and that he’d ‘had it better than most’. For the first time, he’d started to engage with the whole process, expressing firm preferences for how he wanted to spend this next – and probably final – chapter of his life. The Fir Tree Lane Care Home had ticked all of the boxes. Less than three miles from where Jack and Betty had lived for so many years, it was close enough to Jack’s old haunts that friends could still visit. Now that he could walk short distances with his walking frame, and with a steadying hand could climb in and out of a car, a steady rota of friends had stepped up, ensuring that Jack made it to church each week and had a pint at his local. Warren had made a list of these friends and was planning on sending them all a heartfelt Christmas card and letter thanking them for taking care of him.
‘Well anyway,’ said Warren, ‘I’m really sorry we couldn’t come by on Sunday for a bite to eat with you before we left.’
‘Not to worry, son. I’m sure you’ll get up here before Christmas.’
‘Count on it,’ said Warren, vowing that he would make time in his schedule, even if it meant he had to drive up and back in the same evening.
‘Anyway, I had company,’ said Jack.
‘Oh? Did Bernice and Dennis pop over?’ Susan’s parents were one of the few reasons that Warren hadn’t moved back to the West Midlands to be closer to Jack. Both retired now, they had been seeing even more of him than before. The domineering Bernice and her hen-pecked husband
might be hard work at times, but Warren would never forget the way that they had taken Granddad Jack to their hearts. Warren and Susan had been due to meet them at Jack’s home, which had a relaxed policy about guests visiting with food and would arrange tables and chairs for families to spend time together.
‘Yes, Dennis has been busy in the kitchen again, it seemed a shame to waste it. And they had a surprise.’
‘Oh?’ Warren had no idea.
‘Felicity and the kids were over for a flying visit, so they all came too.’
Warren’s heart sank, even as he heard the happy note in Jack’s voice. Susan hadn’t seen her sister and her brood for months; Bernice and Dennis had obviously hoped for this to be a surprise. Susan would be gutted when he told her of yet another family get-together missed due to distance and the demands of his job.
‘It’s just as well you two didn’t come, there wouldn’t have been enough food. My God that boy can eat!’
‘Sorry, Granddad, I missed that,’ said Warren, dragging himself back to the conversation.
‘Jimmy – I can’t believe he’s only eight. He looks at least eleven; I’m not surprised, the amount he eats. Burns it off though, apparently he’s doing a different sport every day; Felicity showed me the calendar on her iPad thingy,’ Jack chuckled. ‘Not like when you were a kid. Your mum and dad would give you a football, kick you out the back door and tell you not to come back until your dad whistled.’
Warren smiled at the memory. A memory from a time when they had all been happy. Before his dad had died, and everything changed … he forced the gathering clouds away. He’d largely dealt with those demons, but sometimes they reappeared when he least expected them.
‘How are the rest of them?’ he asked.
‘Growing like weeds. The boys must have put on six inches in the past few months, and the girls, well Annie has changed so much since she started school and Tiffany is such a little chatterbox, I can’t believe she only turned two in the summer.’ Jack gave a wistful sigh. ‘They grow so fast at that age, but it’s lovely to see them. Ranjit in the room opposite me has so many great-grandkids they have to take it in turns to visit him. I forget sometimes what it’s like—’ He stopped abruptly.