Dan turned in his seat and pushed a hand through his greying hair. ‘So what are we working with?’
Jake shrugged. ‘Boss reckons now that Matthew might have interrupted an intended burial. Someone else’s.’
‘Jesus. Talk about bad timing.’
‘Just had a call in about him, as well.’
‘About Matthew?’
‘Someone thinks they’ve seen him.’
‘Where?’
‘Cardiff. Queen’s Street.’
Dan rolled his eyes. ‘Right. Them and how many others, I wonder? You’d better check it out, though.’
Although they so often relied on the help of the public, more often than not, sightings of people who had been reported missing or wanted by the police turned out to be false leads. However, the rare occasions on which a member of the public did come forward with something useful meant that they couldn’t afford for any call to go ignored. No one wanted to be responsible for dismissing a genuine lead as yet another time-waster or glory-hunter.
Jake sipped his tea and returned to his desk to contact the shops near the supposed sighting of Matthew Lewis. If he had been where the caller suggested, he would have been picked up somewhere on CCTV. He checked the details, noting the names of the shops and their contact numbers. Clicking on another tab, he returned his focus to the Facebook page he had been looking at earlier. He had been scrutinising Matthew Lewis’s timeline for signs of anything that seemed amiss, but so far his search had offered him nothing. Everything he had seen suggested that Matthew was a regular twenty-one-year-old, with his page consisting of the usual shared memes, banter between friends and updates on his progress at university. There was certainly nothing to suggest he was the type of man who might be harbouring a firearm and a desire to kill his girlfriend.
An email notification flashed up at the top of the screen.
Jake glanced around the room. Dan was engrossed in his task of tracking down Carol Smith. The rest of the incident room team were similarly engaged in their work, all trying to identify any leads that might help them find Matthew Lewis. With Kieran Robinson’s whereabouts also a priority, it felt like each of them was tackling the workload of three people.
Returning his attention to the screen, Jake moved the mouse to the search engine at the top of the page and typed in Kieran Robinson’s name. He found him within a brief scroll of the results: a thick mop of dark hair, brooding eyes and almost Mediterranean skin; a handsome young man whose smile didn’t quite stretch to his eyes. His profile picture had been taken the previous summer, showing Kieran sitting on a park bench, shaded from the sun by the overhanging branches of the trees that stood behind him.
Jake moved from the page and opened the email that had just been received. Earlier that day he had made a request to Facebook for access to Kieran Robinson’s inbox messages: on missing persons investigations the data was usually forthcoming. As requested, copies of Kieran’s recent messages, both sent and received, had been included within the email. Jake reached for the bottle of water that lay in the top drawer of his desk and took a long drink. Screwing the plastic cap back on, he began to read the conversations between Kieran and the people he had been in contact with during the weeks leading up to his disappearance.
His most recent interaction had been with a girl named Georgia Harris. I miss your face, she had written two weeks earlier. Kieran had replied with a heart emoji. I miss the free lifts home, he had responded. The conversation continued in the same light-hearted vein, the two exchanging friendly banter in which each mocked the other’s shortcomings, and it quickly became apparent that Georgia and Kieran had studied on the same art course. There was talk of plans to meet up, though the manner in which the exchange of messages drifted to its end suggested that these plans might never have come to fruition.
Jake finished his tea and glanced over his shoulder again before turning his attention to the next strand of messages. In this case, the conversation was one-sided. Is everything OK? someone called Elliot West had asked almost a month earlier. Kieran hadn’t responded. You can’t just ignore me, Elliot had persisted. The following week, when there had still been no reply from Kieran, Elliot had sent another message: Okay, it’s like that then. Nice. Thanks for nothing. The next day, he had written: This how you treat everyone you have sex with? Kieran had then blocked Elliot from sending him any further messages.
Jake returned to Facebook and typed Elliot West’s name into the search bar. There were a number of results thrown up, an array of faces greeting him from the screen like a game of Guess Who?. He scanned them in turn, wondering which might belong to the sender of the messages to which Kieran hadn’t wanted to reply. Stopping at one face, he guessed there was a chance this might be him. He looked the right age, early twenties like Kieran, but Jake would need confirmation before he chased him up. He would contact Facebook to find out if this Elliot West and the sender of the messages was one and the same person.
It was obvious what the messages referred to, but Jake wondered whether Elliot had been upset enough by Kieran to wish him harm. The tone of the messages was one of disgruntlement, and Kieran’s refusal to acknowledge Elliot’s attempts at a dialogue had clearly not been met with appreciation. With another glance in Dan’s direction, Jake closed the window on the screen.
He wondered where DI King was. He hadn’t seen her in a while, which for the time being suited him fine. She had made her mind up about him long before now, and Jake had always been aware of her ambivalence towards him. Following the complaint from Hannah Robinson, he felt the need to prove himself to her more than ever. If there was a link between Elliot West and Kieran’s disappearance, he wanted to be the one DI King had to thank for it.
Fourteen
Alex arrived at the station early on Tuesday morning knowing that she and the rest of the team were likely to have a long day ahead of them. She got herself a coffee from the machine in the corridor and took it to her office, sipping it at the window as she watched the world begin to wake below her: service buses pulling away from the bus station across the road, traffic waiting at the set of lights that stood just beyond the station car park, the dark grey of an early-spring sky paling into a hazy blue as the light of morning drew nearer.
She thought about the letter that was still in her bag; a letter she had read more than ten times, carefully unfolding and folding it, consuming each and every word as though she was able to taste it. There was something almost archaic about receiving a letter; this type of letter, at least. Paper still came through her door in the form of council tax statements and television licence reminders, but what was rare now were the types of letters that provoked an emotional response; the kind that could change a person’s day, lift their spirits with just a few lines.
Alex was reminded of the letters she had found among her mother’s things after she had passed away the previous year: long, handwritten missives exchanged between her mother and father before their marriage. In them, both had declared feelings Alex could never remember having seen displayed when she was growing up, although she knew from bitter experience that the optimistic, joyous early days of a relationship were short-lived, and that the reality of marriage – the reality of life, once the sheen of the honeymoon period had worn off – allowed little time or space for the affection her parents had evidently felt for one another at some stage in their past.
Dear Ms King, the letter began, we are happy to inform you that your application for adoption has now been reviewed …
Putting her coffee cup on the windowsill, Alex went to her desk and retrieved her bag from the floor. The letter was tucked into an inside pocket, still in its envelope. She opened it once again and scanned it, checking it carefully, as though her previous readings of it had been wishful thinking; as though her own eyes had been somehow capable of deceiving her. She had missed nothing, she thought, lingering over each sentence, devouring each word as though they were fuelling her body. This was real. It was happening, fina
lly.
Her thoughts were broken by the ringing of her phone. When she answered, she was greeted by the serious monotone voice of the forensic anthropologist who had attended number 14 Oak Tree Close the previous day. She had thus far encountered him on only one occasion. Her initial impression was that someone as downcast and sombre as he seemed to be was probably ill suited to a job in which death and violence formed the basis of each day. She’d bet he was a riot at parties.
His call was earlier than expected. He was efficient if nothing else, she thought. Hopefully his efficiency that morning would be catching. They were desperately in need of something that would power the positivity of the team.
‘I can tell you that the body is that of a male aged early twenties at the most,’ he told her. ‘There’s evidence of a hyoid bone fracture, so the most likely cause of death is strangulation. The deterioration of the remains is obviously an issue, but there’s no doubt in my mind that that’s how he died. I’ve sent a sample of bone to the lab for DNA extraction – it is possible we might gain some further information that way, but it’s a time-consuming process.’
‘The remains aren’t too old for that?’
‘I don’t want to raise your hopes,’ he admitted. ‘It’s one of the worst examples of decomposition I’ve seen. But it’s been done in cases where the remains are much older than this.’
‘When do you think he died?’
The pathologist exhaled noisily. ‘Ballpark estimate? Between thirty and forty years ago. Like I said, the condition of the corpse makes it very difficult to be any more specific. I’m sorry. There is one other thing, though. When we reassembled the remains, two bones were missing. The metacarpal and the phalange. Third finger of the left hand.’
‘The ring finger?’
‘Indeed. Been cut clean off at the knuckle.’
Alex paused, absorbing the information. Presumably, anyone who had gone missing would have been reported as such, though previous cases had proven things were not always that straightforward. She wondered whether the ring finger had been removed from the young man before or after death. What reason could there possibly have been for it to be taken?
‘Anything else we can work with until any possible DNA results come back?’
‘I’m sorry. It’s frustrating, I know, but that’s all we have for now.’
Alex thanked the man and ended the call. She wondered how he managed on occasions when he was forced to make a genuine apology, given that everything he said sounded like a recital of the phonetic alphabet.
It wasn’t the conversation she’d hoped for, though she knew that to expect anything other would have been naïve. How many young men of that age group would have been reported missing during a ten-year time frame? And then there were the others – the truly lost, the ones who hadn’t even been reported as such. An investigation on this scale was a massive undertaking, particularly with the disappearances of Kieran Robinson and Matthew Lewis also on their hands, and the murder of Stacey Cooper to solve.
The ring finger, Alex thought, pushing her hands through her hair. An accident prior to death, or something that had been done afterwards? The particular finger seemed so specific; symbolic, somehow. She looked at the case notes relating to Matthew Lewis and Stacey Cooper that were spread out on the desk in front of her, and sighed. Beside them waited Kieran Robinson’s files, their contents offering nothing that had so far given them any help.
Pushing back her feelings of despondency, Alex left her office. In the incident room, the rest of the team were waiting for that morning’s briefing. The atmosphere was depressingly flat, with the majority clearly dejected by the lack of progress since Saturday. They needed something to happen that day to reignite some motivation and drive.
‘We now know that the stub found on farmland a little over a mile from where Stacey Cooper was killed does belong to a ticket purchased by Matthew Lewis,’ Alex told them. ‘For those of you who weren’t here yesterday evening, I’m sure you’ll have already heard that we’ve also found what looks like a half-dug shallow grave on that same farmland.’
There was a ripple of murmurs among the assembled team.
‘Our theory is this,’ Alex said, turning to the faces that looked down at them from the incident board. ‘We know that Matthew ran out of petrol on the mountain. He probably had no mobile signal, so there was no other option than to get out of the car to find help. Stacey stayed in the car to wait for him. He walked as far as the farm. Now, he either knew that the building was there and headed for it in the hope of getting help, or he saw something else that drew him there.’
‘Lights perhaps,’ Chloe suggested.
‘You’re saying someone killed him and dug a grave up there for him?’ Jake asked.
‘No. If that was the case, why didn’t we find Matthew’s body in it?’
‘You said the grave was half dug,’ Dan chipped in. ‘So what are you thinking … he interrupted whoever was in the process of digging it?’
‘Seems more likely. Those lanes are pretty quiet at night and the field in which the ground was dug is secluded from the road. We think Matthew inadvertently interrupted someone – someone who then went on to kill Stacey to keep her quiet. The tyre marks on the lane have been analysed, and the report I received last night says they’re recent and likely to have been made by some kind of transit van.’
‘That narrows things down,’ Dan said.
‘There are a few theories to consider. One is that Matthew was hit by this van. It’s also possible he was abducted by whoever was driving it. We’ve all made gut judgements about this young man, but we still need to consider the possibility he may have been involved in Stacey’s murder.’ Alex stepped to the evidence board and drew a finger across the map of the mountain that had been pinned there. ‘Whichever theory we favour, it seems likely that at some point, he was here,’ she said, jabbing a finger on the section of map that marked the field in front of the farmhouse. ‘The tyre marks were here, a hundred metres or so from the car in which Stacey was killed.’
The image of Matthew pinned to the board caught her eye: a young man with bright eyes and dark hair, his whole life seemingly ahead of him. Instinct told her he was a victim here, and if the theory that he had also been injured or harmed in some way proved correct, they were dealing with the cruellest twist of fate. Had Matthew and Stacey stayed with his cousin as was originally the plan, neither of them would have been on that mountain on Saturday night.
‘So you think Matthew managed to escape from the field, but whoever had been up there followed him in the van?’
Alex nodded. ‘With what we’ve got, I think that seems most likely at the moment. Someone followed him, hit him, then shot Stacey to keep her quiet. There’s every chance Matthew might still be alive, but whoever was driving that van may well have hit him with enough force to disable him.’
‘Then put him in the van and took him somewhere,’ Dan finished for her.
Alex nodded. ‘All our focus needs to be on finding Matthew Lewis and Kieran Robinson,’ she said, her voice resolute.
‘Do you really think there’s any chance Matthew’s still alive, though?’ The sceptical expression on Jake’s face said he thought the possibility unlikely. ‘If whoever we’re talking about here killed Stacey, they’ll have killed Matthew too, won’t they?’
‘We continue to think and act as though he is alive,’ she replied firmly.
Her attention stayed on the photograph of Matthew Lewis for a moment. What exactly had he seen up in that field? And then there was the question of who he had seen. Who had that makeshift grave been intended for?
‘Nothing from ballistics yet?’
Alex was brought back to the room by Dan, who roused her from her thoughts with his question. She shook her head. ‘I’m hoping that by tomorrow we should have something. What have you got on 14 Oak Tree Close?’
‘Before Natalie and Jonathan Bryant, the house belonged to a woman named Carol Smith. The former ow
ners were Stan and Peggy Smith, so it looks as though the property was signed over to Carol by her parents. If that’s the case, the house would have belonged to the family at the time of our victim’s death.’
‘Been in touch with Ms Smith yet?’
Dan shook his head. ‘Just found her details now. She works for the council.’
‘Right. Chloe, I’d like you to come with me, please. Dan, try to find out as much about the family as you can. The more we know about the house and who lived there, the quicker our chances of identifying our victim. We’re waiting for DNA results, but that could take a while. In the meantime, we keep our focus on finding these missing young men. Let’s look into the farmland, please … who owns it, why the house is standing there derelict. Any updates, as always, I want to know about them straight away. Any questions?’
When she was met with silence, Alex brought the meeting to a close. Chloe lingered, waiting for a moment alone with her.
‘What if that grave was dug for Kieran? I know it might seem far-fetched, but two young men go missing within a few days of one another … it’s not entirely impossible, is it?’
‘I had the same thought last night. And if it wasn’t intended for Kieran, then who was it for?’
Neither detective wanted to consider the possibility that another victim might be involved in the mystery surrounding Matthew Lewis’s disappearance, but nor did they want to believe that the grave had been intended for Kieran Robinson. They had to believe that he might still be alive.
‘Are you okay?’ Chloe asked. ‘You look tired.’
Alex smiled, playing the part she had grown accustomed to. Chloe was the only person she had come close to telling about the adoption application, yet she had chosen not to confide even in her. This was something she needed to do alone; besides, she hadn’t wanted the past few months with Chloe to be tainted by the knowledge that they might be the last. ‘In that case, you can treat me to a coffee on the way.’
A Promise to the Dead: A gripping crime thriller with a brilliant twist Page 8