by Mark Dawson
She felt the insidious touch of doubt and dismissed it with a shake of her head. She knew exactly what they had to do: investigate Robson, remove any suggestion that he might have had something to do with the deaths, move on.
Or conclude that he had a case to answer and adjust accordingly.
Atticus pulled the scarf away again. The blood was still weeping out of the cuts.
“You’re going to need stitches,” she said to him.
“Later,” he said. “I want to have a look in there.”
“No. Hospital—now. I’ll take you. Wait there.”
She walked away from the car and, at her gesture, Lennox came too. “I’ll take him,” she said.
“You don’t have to. I’ve got another ambulance coming.”
“It’s okay. I want to talk to him—you can handle it here.”
“What about the house?”
“A cannabis farm is grounds for it to be searched,” she said. “Call the drugs boys in Melksham. Get them down here as soon as you can.”
“Yes, boss.”
“Who else is on shift tonight?”
“Patterson and Scarlett.”
“Tell them to get over here, too. Wait until Drugs arrive and then have a poke around. See what you can find.”
“Will do.” Lennox angled a glance back at Atticus. “You know I think he’s a dick, don’t you?”
“You’ve always made that very clear,” Mack said with a weary smile. “Cancel the ambulance. This’ll give me a chance to find out what he’s been doing. Call me if you find anything.”
80
Mack drove Carver’s squad car out of the woods, turned right on Great Wishford Road and headed towards Wilton.
Atticus was in the passenger seat. “I’m sorry.”
“About what?”
“This,” he said, indicating the scarf. “I’m going to ruin it. I hope it wasn’t expensive.”
“You tell me.”
“What?”
“Don’t you remember?”
“Should I?”
“You bought it for me.”
Atticus removed the scarf so that he could look at it more carefully and remembered; it was from Hermès and had been a Christmas present the year before last.
“You’re right,” he said. “I’ll buy you another one.”
“Don’t do that,” she said. “Not sure how I’d explain it to Andy.”
Atticus chuckled. “Fair point.”
They passed through Wilton, following the main road towards Salisbury.
“Why were you there?” he asked her. “I mean, I’m not ungrateful. I’m just curious.”
“How did I know you were doing something stupid? Allegra Mallender told me. She said you’d gone there and that you weren’t answering your phone.”
“She told you about Robson and Cassandra?”
“She mentioned it. I’m annoyed with myself. We didn’t go back far enough.”
“It’s not your fault,” he said. “You have to draw the line somewhere. There was nothing to suggest what happened had anything to do with her. And definitely nothing to suggest it had anything to do with him.”
“It still might not,” she said. “All we have is the suggestion that they were seeing each other.”
“It’s more than a suggestion. He admitted it to me. He has her name on his arm.”
“Do we know that Hugo told them they had to stop?”
“Hugo fired Robson right after she came home—what other reason would there be?”
“I doubt Robson took that particularly well.”
Atticus shrugged. “He’s got a temper,” he said, tapping the side of his head.
“And a criminal record,” Mack added. “He did time last year.”
“I know,” he said. “I nicked him.”
“You did,” she said. “Forgot.”
They drove on.
She glanced across the cabin at him. “Did you break into the house?”
“No comment, Detective Chief Inspector.”
“Jesus, Atticus.”
“Are you asking me officially?”
“Does it matter?”
“Officially, I had an argument with Robson outside his property. He attacked me and, when I woke up, I was inside.”
“Unofficially?”
“I may have gone inside for a look around.”
She sighed. “Just like Lamza.”
He made a gesture to suggest that he was zipping his lips.
“Nothing is ever easy with you, is it?”
“Does it matter?” he said. “I got you a way to look around, didn’t I? You heard someone calling for help from inside. You decided that you had grounds to effect an entry under section 17 and, whereupon forcing entry to said property, you found me being assaulted by Jimmy Robson. Now, if you happened to find anything else of interest while you were there—the cannabis farm, for example—I’m sure that would be evidence that could be used against him.”
Mack shook her head and chuckled wryly. “And people wonder why you were fired,” she said, glancing over at him with a smile.
“I get results,” he said. “I can’t help it if that intimidates others.”
She shook her head and smiled. The bump on the head hadn’t done him any lasting damage.
“Did you find anything that might be helpful on the murders?”
“No,” he said. “I had a quick look; then I went upstairs. Of course, that’s the other possible motive. Let’s say Hugo found out about the drugs—maybe he threatened to report Jimmy, and Jimmy decided that he couldn’t let that happen.” Atticus let the thought run away a little. “Or, if it wasn’t Jimmy, maybe it was Bartley Cooper.”
“What’s this got to do with him?”
“Jimmy’s been working for him. He’s not smart enough to know how to sell the amount of product that he’s been growing, but it’s right up Cooper’s alley. And we know he’s got form for violence.”
“But murder?”
“I’d be looking into him,” Atticus suggested.
“Leave the policing to us,” she said, then, regretting her tone, she added, “Sorry. Didn’t mean it like that.”
“It’s all right,” he said. “My work here is done.”
“Allegra Mallender is going to be so pleased,” Mack said with a bitter laugh. “We’re not going to be able to proceed against Ralph now. There was already reasonable doubt. And now this. You have single-handedly destroyed my case, haven’t you?”
He spread his hands. “Sorry.”
“Forget it.”
They turned onto the Odstock Road and the run down to the hospital.
“What do you think will happen?”
“On this evidence?” Mack sighed wearily. “Abernathy will have to throw his hand in. The judge will direct the jury to enter a not guilty verdict. And that’s all I need.”
81
Accident and emergency was busy. Atticus looked around at the others who were waiting to be seen: a teenager looked as if he was the worse for drink, a young man looked like he might have broken his arm, and a worried mother and father cradled a young child with a temperature. The TV hung from the wall was tuned to EastEnders, the volume turned down low and subtitles scrolling along the bottom of the screen. The lights were harsh and a woman was moaning in pain in one of the treatment rooms out of sight around the corner. There was a lingering atmosphere of surly depression.
Atticus took a seat while Mack showed her warrant card and spoke to the nurse.
“There’s going to be a wait,” she said.
“I’ve got no plans,” he said.
“Guess what? Jimmy Robson’s in the back. Likely concussion. How hard did you hit him?”
“Hard enough. You do know how big he is, don’t you?”
“I do.”
“Built like the proverbial.”
“So call the police next time,” she said.
“Yes, boss,” Atticus said.
“I’m serious
, Atticus. You could’ve been killed.”
Atticus was ready with a pithy response, but he bit his tongue. “You don’t have to wait with me.”
“It’s okay,” she said. “I don’t mind.”
Mack picked up a tatty copy of Woman’s Own, flicked through the pages without really looking at them, then dropped it back on the table.
“You haven’t told me how the kids are,” he said.
“They’re good,” she said.
“School?”
“Both doing well,” she said. She stretched out her legs. “Daisy is really into writing. She loves it. We bought her a diary for Christmas, and she’s filled it already. It’s funny… Some of the things that she says.” She stretched out her arms. “Sebastian is still into football, just like he always was. We’re lucky, I know—he’s good at school, too, always does his homework before we let him out in the park to play.”
“He’s a good kid,” Atticus said. “They both are.”
“How’s your family?” she asked him.
“Dreadful. My old man’s talking about selling the business. You can imagine how excited that’s made my brothers and sisters. It’s like tossing bloodied meat into a tank with four piranhas. It is extremely unedifying.”
“You still haven’t worked it out with them?”
“I don’t think that’s going to happen,” Atticus said. “I’m the black sheep. I never fitted in, and I don’t think there’ll ever be a time when I can be bothered to do what they want me to do so that I could. And I’m happy with that.”
“Are you sure?”
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t look happy,” she said. “I’m not sure you’ve ever been happy since I’ve known you.”
“There have been times,” he said, holding her gaze, and, as she realised what he was talking about, she looked away.
“I was happy, too,” she said unexpectedly. “But it can’t happen again. You know why. We talked about it.”
“The kids—I know.”
“I’m not going to change my mind. I’m sorry—I don’t want to hurt you, and I know that I have. But… well, it’s just how it has to be.”
She reached and rested her left hand on his elbow.
“I know,” he said.
Atticus laid his hand atop hers and, to his surprise, she didn’t pull it away.
Her phone buzzed. She gently removed her hand, got up and put the phone to her ear.
“Who is it?” he said.
“Lennox,” she mouthed.
She turned away and walked down the corridor towards the vending machines. Atticus watched as Mack gesticulated animatedly, her left hand stabbing the air as she punctuated whatever it was she was saying to Lennox.
She finished the call and came back again. Her eyes were alive with excitement.
“What is it?” Atticus said.
“They’ve found something.”
“What?”
“A box of nine-millimetre rounds. Lennox thinks it matches the brass we found at the farmhouse.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Where did he find them?”
“Didn’t say. Why?”
“Because I didn’t see them.”
“How long were you looking?”
“Not that long.”
“Exactly.” She shrugged. “I’ve got to go—I need to get over there.”
“Let me come,” he said.
“Atticus—you know I can’t do that.”
A doctor came into the waiting area. “Mr. Priest?”
“You wouldn’t have found any of that without me,” he said.
“Come into the station tomorrow,” she said. “I’ll give you everything I can then.”
The doctor looked around impatiently. “Is there a Mr. Priest here?”
Mack pointed. “He’s here.”
“Tomorrow morning,” Atticus insisted. “Promise me.”
“Bright and early. I’ll see you then. I promise.”
82
Mack retraced the route back to the farmhouse and then to Jimmy Robson’s property. There were more vehicles there than before: two squad cars, a forensics van and two unmarked vehicles that she assumed belonged to the drug squad. There was no space to park inside the gate, so she reversed back out again and found a spot at the side of the track.
Crime scene tape had been suspended between the trees in front of the house, and a scene log had been set up. Mack showed her warrant card to the constable who was in charge of the log, and signed in. The man held up the tape, and she ducked beneath it and went over to where Lennox was waiting for her.
“Boss,” he said.
“What have you got?”
“You’ll want to see,” he said.
There was a box of plastic forensic suits at the entrance to the house, and Mack pulled one of them on over her clothes. She added plastic overshoes and followed Lennox into the house.
“So we’ve finished the first search,” Lennox said. “There’s a large cannabis farm upstairs, like I said. The drug squad are up there now. If we didn’t find anything else, there’d still be enough up there to put Robson away for a stretch.”
“But you did find something else,” she said.
“We did. This way.”
Mack followed Lennox along the corridor to a room that was evidently being used as a bedroom. It had been kept in a slovenly condition, with clothes strewn over the floor, magazines scattered around, empty pieces of packaging and scads of newsprint. Lennox stepped through the debris to the bed and knelt down at the foot of it. He indicated a Tesco carrier bag.
“That was underneath the bed,” he said.
“You find it?”
“No—one of the lads did.”
He pulled on a pair of forensic gloves and carefully opened the bag. Mack looked in and saw five items: four small cardboard boxes, coloured blue and white, with MAGTECH emblazoned across each one, and a red velvet bag.
Lennox took one of the cardboard boxes. It was already opened; he flipped back the lid and turned it so that Mack could look inside. It contained 9mm rounds, slotted vertically, half of them missing. Mack stared at it. Her mind was spinning. She remembered the detail from the ballistics report: the Browning was 9mm, and here was a tray of the same calibre rounds. She was already thinking: she would send the shells to NABIS, the ballistics intelligence service at the Met, so that they could be compared with the brass that was recovered from the farmhouse.
She pointed to the velvet bag. “What about that?”
Lennox pulled a drawstring to open the bag, reached inside and took out a silver crucifix on a chain that was fixed with a diamond clasp. He picked it up between gloved fingers and held it in the slant of artificial light that lanced in from the corridor.
“Is that what I think it is?”
“It is,” he said.
Cassandra Mallender had taken to wearing a necklace with a crucifix in the year before her death. Her surviving relations had testified that she never took it off, and had noted its absence when her body and then the farmhouse had been searched.
“Jesus,” she said. “It wasn’t Ralph, was it?”
Lennox shook his head. “I don’t know, boss—it’s looking much less likely.”
Mack took the necklace and let it dangle. “It was Robson. He did it.”
83
Bandit was on the mattress, curled up in the space between his legs. He sat up, his sore head throbbing, and scratched the dog behind the ears.
“Morning, boy,” he said.
The dog slithered up the mattress on his belly and offered his muzzle so that Atticus could scratch it. He probed the side of his head with his fingers. It was tender, and he was glad of the codeine that he had been given at the hospital last night. He used his thumb to press two of the tablets from the blister pack and swallowed them, washing them down with a glug of water from the glass next to the bed.
He heard the buzz of
his phone. The ringtone was muffled and it took him a moment to locate it beneath the duvet.
He put it to his ear. “Hello?”
“Atticus?”
“Mack, where are you?”
“Outside,” she said. “Let me in?”
Atticus boiled the kettle and made two cups of coffee as Mack took off her coat and cleared the sofa of papers so that she could sit down.
“Here,” Atticus said, handing her one of the cups.
“Thanks.”
“You look done in.”
“I’ve been up all night,” she said.
“What happened?”
“Like I said—we found ammunition. I’ll get the ballistics report back at lunchtime. They’re running mass-spectrometry tests to compare it with the cases we found in the farmhouse and, maybe, match it. I’d be shocked if it’s not the same.”
“Why?”
“Because that wasn’t all that we found.” She sipped her coffee and exhaled. “I needed this.”
“Come on,” Atticus said impatiently. “What else was there?”
“There was a velvet bag in the same bag as the ammunition. It had a necklace that matched one that we couldn’t find in the house. A crucifix. The family told us Cassandra wouldn’t take it off.”
“Is it the same?”
“It’s at the lab. But it’ll match. I’m sure of it. We got the whole thing wrong—we arrested the wrong man.”
Atticus paced the room. “Where was it?”
Mack looked up wearily. “Where was what?”
“The bullets. The crucifix.”
“Inside a Tesco carrier bag.”
“And where was that?”
“Under the bed.”
Atticus closed his eyes and tried to remember. “Under the bed?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Do you have a picture?”
“Yes,” she said.
She took out her phone and swiped through her photographs that she had taken at the house. She found the one that she wanted and handed the phone to Atticus. He examined the picture and recognised where it had been taken: Robson’s bedroom. He swiped left to bring up the next shot. Mack had taken a series of pictures, changing the angle slightly each time so that she could capture all of the room. Atticus found the photographs of the unmade bed and, as he swiped, the vantage point dropped down so that he could see beneath it. There was a plastic bag at the end of the bed farthest from the wall. The mouth of the bag was open and, inside, he could see the edge of a cardboard box.