Cold Blood

by Jane Heafield

  ‘Thankyou,’ a ten-year-old boy with little life experience had said to him, before pulling him into a hug. ‘Thankyou for getting my mum out.’

  Bennet sat at Joe’s desk, staring at his boy but not really seeing. Joe had been a toddler when he learned that his mother had left him, which was too young to fully comprehend in one bite. He’d had time to adjust as he grew. Not so with this. It was the first, real, devastating, life-changing twist in his life, and Bennet wasn’t sure how it would change the boy as the days rolled by. So far so good, but like any disease or cancer, mental fracture could have an incubation period. He was a little scared of the outcome.

  Bennet didn’t try to get back to sleep. At the kitchen table, he wrote notes in a thick, old pad he used for murder investigations. It was half empty because those torn-out pages were in the files at the station. Just like when running a murder investigation, he listed things to do, but found this harder. His mind was a blank beyond calling Joe’s school.

  So he returned to the news, which had had time to ferment. Still the country seemed more intrigued by a ten-year-old body than four fresh ones. Shockingly, Sally’s mother had identified her daughter’s body on a main road. Alerted by the slimeball reporter, she had raced to Stanton Lake, found the body already en route to the mortuary, and set off in pursuit. She cut in front to stop the coroner’s vehicle and bellowed until she was allowed to see the body.

  Sally’s corpse was still in the tartan skirt and butterfly T-shirt she’d worn to the party on the night she disappeared, and her butterfly hair-claw clip had been found at the scene. This made the police ninety-nine per cent certain who they’d found, but they still needed official identification. The body had been found in an old steamer trunk, designed to be waterproof and survive the flooded holds of ships, and had been well-preserved. Anika had stared at her daughter’s still-intact face, poking out of a body bag zipped up to the neck, and collapsed, yelling. There went the final one per cent.

  Visibly, a cause of death wasn’t obvious, with the body displaying no stab wounds or lacerations or clearly broken bones. A post-mortem might divulge horrible news for the mother, including whether or not she’d been sexually assaulted, but at least she had set eyes upon her daughter without seeing the damage her killer had done to her. Bennet’s heart went out to the woman.

  And here he saw the first mention of himself, although not by name – the police had managed to keep that secret so far. Sally’s mother had been willing to speak to a reporter who’d followed her following the ambulance, but only to thank the policeman ‘who came looking for the film crew. Without him, I would never have gotten my Sally back’.

  But he hadn’t helped at all, had he? His impotence had failed to help anyone, especially Lorraine. He still felt useless, but carried that itchy tension to do something.

  Hours later, he made the school call: Joe would be off for at least the rest of the week because of a death in the family. He waited for the receptionist to blurt that she knew all about it, but she simply said okay, and that was that. When it was done, and Joe was awake and fed, Bennet answered the bugging call to action. Father and son got dressed and took a drive. Joe had no idea where they were going.

  En route, Envoy Lady called with another update, this time about cell site analysis. The police had found the phone numbers for all four dead people and traced their devices. The phones were all dead currently, but historical data put them in and around Lampton and showed their trip beforehand. As Bennet already knew, Lorraine had travelled to Overeem’s home in Oxford in her own car, then all four members of the crew took the CaraHome north to the Peak District.

  In built-up areas cell towers are more densely packed, allowing for greater location pinpointing. Their phones were pinged at various places, including near a café in Eggington on the A38, where calls were made, and close to the Red Lion at the correct time.

  Unfortunately, in remote areas the number of cell towers decreases, but they have a greater range. Once the crew entered the countryside to stay at Crabtree’s ranch, cell site accuracy dropped from pinging their phones ‘within metres’ to ‘within a kilometre’. Finding those phones, especially if they weren’t in a building, would be next to impossible. The only certainty the police had was that a tower in the grounds of the Arrow Hotel hadn’t registered the devices, which meant they hadn’t travelled with the owners to Stanton Lake. Not that this helped much.

  Upon arrival at their destination, Bennet parked and heaved Joe onto his shoulders. He felt his age, or he felt Joe’s, and could only carry him halfway before his lower back turned to fire. Father and son walked the rest of the way. Because he thought the park itself was their destination, Joe didn’t ask where they were going as Bennet led him down a grassy hill. Soon, they arrived.

  The thing Bennet wanted wasn’t where he’d expected. On a hunch, he looked at a nearby bin, which had overflowed and scattered some of its trash. He followed a trail of rubbish laid by the wind, and under a bush, near a pop bottle, he found it. It was sticky with a splash of sugary drink and a food stain.

  ‘What’s that?’ Joe said as Bennet wiped it clean. Bennet handed the laminated A5 sheet to his son. Joe read its words aloud. ‘To our loving son, Mick, taken away too soon. Rest in peace, and we will see you again. 03/10/2003 – 02/01/2020.’ He looked at his dad. ‘This Mick was sixteen. Was he killed here? Are you solving his murder?’

  ‘Yes. He was killed in this park. And yes, I’m trying to solve the crime.’

  ‘Do you know who did it?’

  ‘We have a good idea.’

  ‘Is he arrested?’

  ‘Was. We had to let him go.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Rules, Joe.’

  ‘I don’t get it. Even though it was him, you let him go?’

  ‘It was the right thing to do.’ It wasn’t lost on him that others, including Liz and Councillor Turner, had used that very same line. ‘According to the rule book.’

  Joe handed the laminated dedication back. ‘Why was it in the bin?’

  ‘Rules, Joe. Always rules. It was stapled to the bench, but the parents had no permission to put it there. So, to some, taking it off was also the right thing to do. But not to the people who actually matter.’

  Joe looked at the bench, at the existing bronze plaque there. ‘Why is Mick’s paper and not metal? Is he not as important?’

  ‘The boy’s parents don’t have much money. And no, to some he’s not important.’

  ‘Are you going to put it back?’

  In answer, Bennet folded the sheet, put it in his pocket, and they left Buttery Park.

  50

  Around midday, Bennet got another update from Envoy Lady: the pathologist had finished the autopsies on all four victims found in the CaraHome, working virtually through the night. Of course they’d fast-tracked that, delaying some other post-mortem and making a poor someone with a dead soulmate wait for answers and justice.

  All four had been smashed about the head and then their throats were opened, and post mortem had suffered massive blunt force trauma from head to toe, resulting in myriad fractures and breaks of various bones. Pushed for a guess as to the weapon used for the neck injuries, the pathologist had suggested a kind of hook knife, although there was tearing as well as slicing. When asked about the body trauma, she had surprised the investigators by comparing the injuries to those of a man who’d laid dead on her table two years ago. ‘That fellow was a rock climber and he fell three hundred feet, bouncing all the way.’

  Intriguing. The Peak District had mountains. A search had begun. But there was another surprise in store.

  Although the time of death was sometime Sunday evening or Monday morning, there was evidence the bodies had been moved afterwards, and only submerged in water since Tuesday evening. Also, they had been buried at some point before being transferred, along with soil, to the CaraHome. This was a shock to Bennet: he’d visited Lampton early on Tuesday, which meant the bodies had been dumped into
Lake Stanton after he’d started making enquiries about the film crew. It meant that the bodies had been dug up sometime after Bennet had visited Lampton. It was possible his presence in Lampton had spooked the killer or killers and they’d made additional efforts to smother the crime.

  Bennet hadn’t yet informed Patricia, his neighbour, of the horrible news, but when she banged on his door, he knew she knew. After hearing his tale, and offering her support if he needed it, she insisted on seeing Joe. Joe was eager and invited her into his room – and he shut the door. Bennet suspected his son might want to tell her things, perhaps his feelings, that he was uncomfortable sharing with his dad. Or the animosity in the boy that Bennet hadn’t discerned. Either way, it gave Bennet time for another task. In Birmingham.

  The house was in an urban maze, but stood out from the others because of a large extension to the side and rear which more than doubled its size. Bennet parked by a high fence alongside. Through slats of wood, he saw into an expansive games room, where a five-year-old girl was zipping about on a hoverboard. Ian, Tessa’s father, was by the pool table, sorting through papers that covered the baize. Bennet knew the terrible news had been delivered; perhaps Ian was looking for life insurance papers, or an address for Lorraine’s mother.

  God, he hadn’t considered Lorraine’s mother, cousins, aunties. Had they heard the news yet? His own father, living in the countryside down south, also deserved a phone call.

  The little girl seemed happy, but it was harder for children to understand, wasn’t it? Or it was harder for adults to understand the mental processes of kids. Despite the smile on Tessa’s face, he felt for her. Through no fault of her own on this occasion, Lorraine had for the second time left a father alone with a child. Bennet had often wondered if she would return, if his remaining single was in preparation for such a day. But the father he watched knew that would never happen.

  As the daylight slowly relinquished its turn, Bennet wondered why he had come here. Had he planned to console the man? Tell him that coping alone was possible, because Bennet had done it? Had he hoped to make moves towards bringing Tessa and Joe together because for too long Bennet had kept them apart?

  All those ideas had run through his head as he drove here, but they had felt wrong, and especially so now he was here. Lorraine was the only connection between the two families, and she was gone. Nothing biological connected Tessa and Bennet. Tessa and Joe were half-siblings, but too young to understand such a bond yet.

  Some day in the future, if they chose, they could seek each other out. It wasn’t Bennet’s place to force that. All Bennet could offer right now was a promise to Ian: he would catch Lorraine’s killer. But that was the worst of all things he could do. It wasn’t Bennet’s murder investigation, and solving it was no certainty anyway. Many killers died years after snuffing out a life, free and happy in their own beds. Lorraine’s murderer could even be one of the dead film crew, beyond the reach of justice before a soul knew of his crime. Police officers were cautioned never to make such promises to grieving relatives, and it would be a bad, bad idea to get out of the car, knock on that door, and say those words. He should just go home to Joe.

  He got out of the car.

  51

  All day, something Sally Jenkins’ mother had said had been revolving in his mind: ‘Such a contrast. A mother who knows exactly where her child is, but doesn’t want to see him. And a mother who would do anything to know where her baby is.’

  And now there would be no happy ending for anyone.

  But there was another mother in suffering. Someone who had experienced the ultimate horror of murder of a loved one, and who had so far been abandoned by those who were supposed to help her. Tonight, right now, he couldn’t help Joe, and he couldn’t kill Sally’s mother’s pain, but he could get justice for someone.

  The house was a semi on a street with high hedges bordering the front yards. When Bennet knocked, a rake-thin man answered. He had messy hair and sunken eyes. Anyone’s first guess as to his appearance would probably be grief, and spot on.

  Without a word, Ralph Turton gave a nod at Bennet and led him in. Sophie Turton, a large lady with an equally sad face, was at the kitchen table, absent-mindedly peeling potatoes. Her husband didn’t introduce Bennet, and she gave him the same blank look. In the early days, each visit by one of Bennet’s team had been met with a look of expectation, but no more. They were used to no good news. Or no news at all. Clearly, they expected the same tonight.

  Ralph sat by his wife. Bennet took a chair opposite and took something from his pocket. He laid the mugshot on the table and the Turtons stared at it.

  ‘Donald Ashcroft,’ Bennet said. ‘He’s sixteen. A drug dealer and all-round thug known as Don The Man. This is the little shit we think killed your son.’

  Ralph turned his head away, disgusted, but Sophie bent closer to get a really good look. Ralph got up and went to the kitchen window. The man seemed to be watching his own reflection. Sophie was mouthing something to herself, eyes locked on the face in the photo.

  Bennet showed her a picture on his phone. She almost had trouble dragging her eyes off Don The Man, on to a Google image of a black Citroen Saxo. Sophie nodded. ‘The car we’ve been seeing around. His?’

  Bennet nodded. He saw both Turtons deflate. Now they knew the bastard who’d killed their son was the same man taunting them about it.

  ‘Why hasn’t he been arrested if you’re so sure?’ Ralph demanded.

  ‘He was. We had to let him go, lack of evidence. Someone higher up than me decided not to tell you. It was deemed not right to condemn him since he’s not been charged. It would just get your hopes up. But this Don The Man, he’s not out of the woods yet. We’re still hunting evidence to arrest and charge him.’

  Ralph almost spat. ‘But he’s not in a cell. He’s out, having fun, laughing at you. Laughing at us.’

  ‘Ralph, watch your mouth around Mr Bennet. He’s trying to help. Who would help us if he didn’t? They’ll get him one day.’

  ‘One day,’ Ralph mocked.

  ‘And now watch how you speak to me, please.’

  ‘I’ll get him for you.’ The way Bennet said it made both Turtons wake up a little. Ralph forgot his black reflection and Sophie looked up from the mugshot. ‘I’ll make sure he doesn’t come round here again. I’ll go mess this idiot up. Or I can plant evidence. I’ll do it tonight, right now. Just give me the word.’

  Sophie gave her husband a look and got up. ‘I need air. I need to go to the shop.’ And she grabbed her cigarettes from the table and left. Bennet heard the front door open and close.

  Ralph took his wife’s place at the table. There was a new wakefulness in his eyes. Bennet realised that Sophie might not have fled in disgust, or confusion. Perhaps she had left the room to give her husband the floor. To give him permission.

  ‘I want you to do it,’ Ralph said, turning the mugshot face down. ‘Plant blood or fingerprints, whatever, and get this bastard locked up.’

  Bennet nodded. Ralph got up and returned to the black window, and his gaunt image in the glass. Bennet understood it was time to leave.

  As he was about to open his car door, a voice cut into the silent darkness.

  ‘You never did promise.’

  He turned. Sophie hadn’t gone to the shops: she was by her high front hedge, barely more than a shivering silhouette with a burning cigarette.

  ‘To find my son’s murderer. I asked you to promise, and you never did.’

  ‘I do everything I can. Saying that word, it doesn’t really make anything different.’

  ‘To me it does, and things are different now. So, do you know where that monster lives?’

  Bennet realised his error. Sophie hadn’t left the house to allow her husband to act on his anger. She had come out here, away from him, to act on hers. He nodded.

  ‘Then hurt him for me. Tonight. Hurt him bad. Tell him it’s from my son. I want you to swear you’ll do it.’

  For the seco
nd time, Bennet made a promise he shouldn’t have.

  52

  Sat in his car outside a chemist’s, with a packet of painkillers and bandages, Bennet wondered what the hell he was doing. His boss, Superintendent Hunter, called with a warning. ‘SIO Sutton is about to call you. Be honest with him, okay? I don’t know what it’s about.’

  He looked at the painkillers and bandages he’d bought. So, Don The Man thought he was funny for buying Liam sleeping medicine? Well, the idiot was going to need what Liam had bought for him. ‘It’s about the theory that I entered that motorhome and dragged my son’s mother’s body out. I did, David. That’s exactly what I did. I messed with a crime scene. I couldn’t leave her in there. I’m sorry I lied.’

  ‘I know. I’m just glad you admitted it. We’ll deal with that. I got your message about wanting to be on adjusted duty. Let’s leave it as compassionate leave, and maybe that will help with how this whole thing plays out for you. I’ll say no more about it here, on the phone. Tell Sutton the truth when he calls.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Bennet was driving to Don The Man’s flat when Sutton’s call came. He pulled in to take it.

  Sutton immediately said, ‘I’ve reviewed that garden centre CCTV you told us about. That engine noise we can hear from Tuesday evening? I think you’re wrong about it being a motorhome engine. Far too aggressive.’

  ‘The CaraHome’s exhaust had been repaired. If it wasn’t done correctly, a damaged silencer would make the noise louder.’

  ‘Well, we have doubts.’

  ‘I recently heard the autopsy results. The pathologist said there was trauma she thought might have been from a fall. Francis Overeem was planning to do something called the Arrow Climb. You know what that is?’

  ‘Oh, yes. You’re wondering if our victims were pushed or fell off the cliff, up at the hotel? Forget that. We looked at that scene and there’s no evidence anyone fell. And CCTV of the Arrow car park at no point shows that motorhome, so it wasn’t there. It was a nice theory, given the proximity of the lake and the cliff – you know, the victims take the tumble, and then our perp brings the motorhome down from the Arrow to the lake, drags the bodies and puts them inside, and dumps the vehicle in the water. But we ruled it out. Besides, the pathologist came up with the big fall notion because, well, this is the Peak District. Lots of rocky hills. Since then she’s reassessed. Nothing definitive, but she would say the injuries are more likely from a high-speed car crash than a tumble down a mountain.’