Cold Blood

by Jane Heafield

  ‘Okay. I just thought I’d mention it. I should also mention that it’s time I told the truth. You were right, superintendent. I did go in that motorhome. I broke a window and went inside.’

  Bennet repeated his reasons, as given to Joe, but without emotion: a straight blast of facts. He didn’t really care to get the DCS to forgive him. He just wanted no more part of lying to people.

  ‘I knew it all along. Thank you for telling me the truth. We’ll deal with that another time. Now, do you recall the woman I was with when I arrived at the scene? She’s a principal consultant for the Forensic Collision Investigation and Reconstruction group. I was at a seminar with her when I got the call, so I brought her along because a vehicle was involved.’

  Bennet recalled a snooty lady with the superintendent, and that she’d looked disgusted seeing Bennet soaking wet, knelt by Lorraine’s body at the shore of Lake Stanton. ‘What about her?’

  ‘She had something intriguing to say about the scene. The undergrowth, the tree branches overlapping the slipway. All thick enough that quite some speed and momentum would be needed to punch that motorhome through. It was scratched to hell by branches and broke some big ones.’

  ‘I saw the slip road. I figured as much.’

  Sutton continued: ‘Tight space to enter through that brick archway at speed. Very thin service road. Thirty miles an hour, minimum, she says. That’s how fast the motorhome would have had to enter that slipway, to force itself through. Any slower and it would have jammed up with the mud and the branches and undergrowth. And she doesn’t believe the motorhome could have made the turn at that speed.’

  Bennet’s heart started to thump. ‘Pushed? By another vehicle?’

  ‘Yes. Something big enough to–’

  ‘I know what,’ Bennet cut in. ‘I need to come down there, DCS Sutton.’

  ‘What do you mean, you know what? You know which vehicle did this? Tell me.’

  Of course, Bennet should have told him. Sutton was leading the murder investigation, and Bennet had no authority to be part of it, even if he hadn’t been barred by his relationship to one of the deceased.

  ‘No. I want in. I want the arrest, DCS Sutton.’

  ‘Bennet, don’t piss about with me. If you have information that–’

  Bennet hung up. He stared at his phone as if it were a weapon he’d just attacked the DCS with. Of course, he should have called back. He’d just refused to divulge important information to a superior investigating the most high-profile crime of the last few years. On top of his contamination of the crime scene, this would destroy his career, might even result in criminal charges. He could have made that return call, apologised for the dropped connection, and told what he knew. The phone was still in his hand, awaiting that move.

  He didn’t make it. With shaking hands, he removed the battery and SIM card from his phone, so nobody knew where he was.

  Or, more important, where he was going.

  53

  The land around was quiet, the field and sky black. The only illumination apart from the moon came from a porch light attached to the nearby building. The only building out here. Where he had business tonight. It was just past midnight.

  The moonlight bounced off something metal in the dirt, which he picked up and examined. He approached the building and tried the front door. Surprisingly, it was unlocked. He slipped in and waited for his eyes to adapt to the darkness. The house was silent. Ahead was another door, open, and his eyes picked out the dark hollows of doorways. But he ignored them and turned to the stacked horizontal lines of a staircase. Slowly, he climbed, heading for the owner’s bedroom. Where he had business tonight.

  Three doors on the upper landing, two shut. He crept through the open door, into a bedroom. He saw the square of a double bed, and a single figure lying on one side of it. He flicked on the light, and watched the sleeping figure slowly rouse, trying to shield its eyes against the sudden brightness. Then, when the man in the bed saw the man in the doorway, he yelled in shock.

  ‘Ronald Crabtree, I am arresting you for the murders of Francis Overeem, John Crickmer, Betty Crute, and Lorraine Cross, on or about the 19th of January.’

  Still squinting against the light, Crabtree looked around, as if for help, or a weapon, or just because his brain had been jolted awake and was still working out what the hell was going on. ‘What? How did you get in here?’

  Bennet slammed the door behind him, and the thunderous bang seem to whack the final remnants of sleep from the farmer. ‘That’s how you honour your wife’s memory, is it? The brutal slaying of four people in her shack?’

  ‘No, no, the police searched it. I didn’t do anything like that. Look, you can’t just bust into my home–’

  ‘Don’t lie to me,’ Bennet yelled. ‘That shack is the last place their phones were active. You scrubbed it clean and burned their belongings. The police searched it again and found blood traces.’

  That was a lie, but it seemed to work. Crabtree said nothing for a few moments. He clutched a pillow like a baby comforted by a teddy.

  ‘You buried their bodies, right here on your land.’

  Crabtree shook his head. Bennet walked to the foot of the bed. ‘You panicked when I turned up, asking questions. You dug those bodies up to go dump them somewhere else.’

  Crabtree made no movement this time, and said nothing. He just stared.

  ‘You used your tractor loader. Oh, it came in very handy. It scooped those bodies out of the ground. Admit it.’

  Crabtree’s eyes dropped to the garden fork tine Bennet wielded, found in the dirt outside. They were loaded with fear. There was a long pause, as if the farmer weighed up his options here. But his muscles weren’t tense; this wasn’t the tension of a nervous system debating fight or flight. A more calculated, conscious analysis: trial or funeral? Coffin or cell?

  Crabtree seemed to deflate a little. Bennet had seen killers react like this upon finally confessing: the sudden unburdening of all the massive tension that came with holding a terrible secret; with ceaselessly fearing capture. But this was different. Crabtree’s sudden calm was that of a man released from the gallows at the eleventh hour. Bennet was appalled by the weapon in his hand and he dropped it. But the anger persisted: Crabtree had admitted nothing.

  ‘And at Lake Stanton that tractor came in very handy. You used it to push that motorhome down the slipway, into the lake.’

  Crabtree had seen the weapon fall. But the threat was still in Bennet’s face, so it changed nothing: the farmer just watched him. Still, he had not admitted a thing.

  ‘You knew about the ledge in the lake and the deep drop, perfect for making a vehicle disappear. You knew about it because you’d killed and disposed of Sally Jenkins there ten years before.’

  ‘NO,’ Crabtree yelled, instantly out of his subdued state and into rage. He jumped out of the bed, fists clenched, and the shock and speed of it made Bennet take a step back. ‘Don’t you dare blame that on me. I had nothing to do with Sally. I don’t know anything about Sally. I was as shocked as everyone to hear she’d been found in that lake.’

  ‘That’s the only thing you deny? Sally?’

  Crabtree sat on the bed, suddenly breathing heavily, as if his adrenaline burst had exhausted him. ‘It makes me sick to think I was there, just metres from her body.’

  Those words, a backroad admission, hit Bennet like a punch. Now it was real. Here, before him, stood the man who snatched Lorraine away from Joe, and parted them forever. Bennet kicked the rusty fork tine under the bed before he crossed a line there was no way back from.

  ‘But we didn’t kill those people,’ Crabtree said. ‘We went there to give them grief, but there was no need. They were already dead.’

  54

  Crabtree had said, ‘I know you won’t believe my words right now, under accusation. So try my words from back a way.’

  It was intriguing enough to give Bennet pause, and to trust the man. Bennet followed him downstairs, where Crabtree
flicked the living room light on and went to a desk for his laptop. Bennet noted how ancient and dirty the room looked, as if Crabtree hadn’t tended to it since his wife died. The grey wig he’d seen the other day, along with a dress fit for an old lady, lay on the armchair. Where Bennet had seen a prostitute sitting.

  Seeing Bennet stare, Crabtree called out, ‘You’re here to see this, not gawp at my house.’

  The farmer hit some keys on the laptop, then stepped back. Bennet stepped forward. He took the seat at the desk. Such was his curiosity, and a belief that Crabtree didn’t have a trick planned, Bennet didn’t object when the farmer moved out of sight behind him.

  There was a Lampton village newsletter on the screen, scrolled to the bottom, where there was a KEY ADDENDUM link. Bennet clicked it and was asked for a password. He’d been here before and hit a wall. Now there was no wall: Crabtree recited the password.

  And it worked. Either Crabtree was still a Key, or nobody had updated the security since he was ousted.

  There were two audio files titled with the time and date of creation. Crabtree told him to pick the earlier file. Bennet clicked it. A female voice spoke.

  ‘Minutes of the Lampton Keys’ meeting, held in the chamber on Monday January 20th, at 0147am. Present are Richard Turner, Arnold Mabledon, Pearl Vacari, Jason Ness, Iain Lockaton, and myself, Sandra Gingham. On the agenda is the sole subject of four visitors to the village and reason for their presence. Chairman Turner played a recording from local farmer Ronald Crabtree. We heard this live, but let me just refresh our memories. As follows…’

  A crackle of static as, Liam assumed, Sandra started playing a tape. Crabtree’s voice filled the air.

  ‘On Sunday I rented my wife’s shack to those four film-makers. A black man came to my door and paid cash, and I handed over the key. He was alone. I didn’t see anyone else. He said he was a businessman in the area looking for property to buy, so I didn’t know who they were at first. Not until Councillor Turner told me they were using my ranch. I wanted them out. I travelled to the ranch, knocked on the door. No one came to the door, but the same black man called out, asking what I wanted. I said I wanted them to leave. I didn’t lie to them. I told them I knew who they were and they had to leave. The black man refused. He said he was going to solve the Sally Jenkins murder and I was wrong to stop him. I only had the one key to the door, so there was no way to get in and evict them. I called Councillor Turner about it.’

  Back to Sandra, who outlined that Chair Turner had called the meeting to discuss action against the film crew. Turner opted for a confrontation: the film-makers would be told to leave the village. The motion was seconded and Sandra put it to a vote. All present were in favour. Turner then proposed to send Ronald Crabtree and his own son, Lucas, and he would accompany as an observer. Turner then ordered another meeting at 9am the next day, Monday, to discuss action if the warning failed. Sandra then adjourned the meeting.

  The audio file ended. Bennet had learned nothing new. ‘Is this supposed to be proof of something? This doesn’t mean things didn’t get out of hand when you went there and–’

  ‘Just play the goddamned next file.’

  The second file wasn’t from 9am Monday, when the next meeting had been planned. It was dated just a few hours after the first, in the dead of night on Monday morning, suggesting the Keys had been urgently recalled. Despite that, Bennet didn’t expect to learn anything shocking from this file either.

  He was wrong.

  55

  As before, it began with Sandra Gingham’s voice: ‘Minutes of the Lampton Keys’ additional semi-meeting, held in the chamber on Monday January 20th, at 0245. Present: as before. Additional: Ronald Crabtree, Lucas Turner. On the agenda is the discovery recently made in the ranch owned by Ronald Crabtree. Chair Turner wishes for Ronald Crabtree to describe what they found. Mr Crabtree? You may speak.’

  CRABTREE: ‘A playwright – I forget who – once said something about forgetting regret, or you’ll miss life. Well, life is mine to miss.’

  GINGHAM: ‘Just tell us what you found, Mr Crabtree, please.’

  CRABTREE: ‘We go there in my tractor. We wanted noise, to make sure they were awake. They were. I saw that black face at the window. But then they ignored the knocking. And us calling for them. We had weapons, so I thought they’d seen we were tooled up and ready for action and thought they could pretend they were asleep. The funny thing is, we’re there, shouting for them, banging on the door and windows, and not one of us thought to try the door, not for ten minutes or so. Door’s unlocked.

  ‘Inside, in the living room, that’s where we found the first one. Buff young man in just shorts. He’s on my sofa, and it’s ruined. Ruined by his blood. His neck’s been gashed wide open. Man’s dead for sure. Councillor Turner can’t bear to go on, I’m sure he won’t mind me saying that. Lucas and me move on. Kitchen next.

  ‘In there, that’s where we find the black man. He’s laying across my Elise’s kitchen table. He’s in shorts as well. This guy’s neck is just ruined. His blood’s covered the table, pooled round his feet and the table legs. Lucas’s legs are going, but I’m fine. I’m an old man and I was more worried about having to throw down with these youngsters.

  ‘Just the bedrooms left, and there’s two in there. One in each room. Both the women. A redhead girl and a blonde. Blonde’s a bit older, a bit prettier cos the redhead has that dreadlock hair thing going on, and she’s got tats all over her arms. None’s pretty at that point though. Both their throats, gone, blood all over the beds. Redhead is kind of peaceful-looking, tucked up in bed. Blonde girl, though, she’s hanging half out her bed and some of her blood is on my walls, right across the painting Elise’s mum did for her. Looked like the blonde one woke up or something while it was happening. Put up a fight. A scrap she lost.

  ‘And that was it, really. We went back out, out to where Councillor Turner was waiting. We drove away. I was going to call in the law, but Turner said he’d call another meeting first.’

  GINGHAM: ‘Thank you, Mr Crabtree. So, as you all know, Councillor Turner called us here in order to work out what to do next.’

  TURNER: ‘It’s obvious. If we let the world know what happened here, it kills our village. The disappearance of Sally Jenkins almost ruined us. This certainly will. Local business owners will shift out, just like last time. Genuine tourism will dry up and we’ll cater only to journalists and the morbid.’

  MABLEDON: ‘What do you suggest?’

  VACARI: ‘I think we all know what he’s suggesting.’

  MABLEDON: ‘Yes, but for real? How would we hide this? There’s four bodies.’

  NESS: ‘You can’t be serious. Hide this? How on earth could we do that? These people have friends, family, and they’ll be missed. People will come looking for them. Including the police, when they’re reported missing.’

  MABLEDON: ‘That’s right. They would have told people they were coming here.’

  LOCKATON: ‘But did they? I mean, do their friends and family know anything for sure? The film crew tried to sneak about. Maybe this was a secret mission. Secret from everybody.’

  NESS: ‘Preposterous. This wasn’t a witness protection programme or a clandestine military mission. They would have told people.’

  TURNER: ‘But it doesn’t matter, don’t you see? Most of our village didn’t even know they were here, until they visited the Lion last night. And we all thought they’d left, didn’t we? Only Crabtree knew otherwise, because they stayed in his ranch.’

  GINGHAM: ‘So we pretend they moved on? Is that what you mean?’

  TURNER: ‘Exactly. The film crew said it themselves. Their slang term, what was it? When they were done, they’d “Alt F4 this joint”. Exit, in other words. So we pretend they did that. They exited. If any of their friends or family ask, we tell them they simply left our village and we don’t know where they went.’

  VACARI: ‘And if the police ask?’

  TURNER: ‘The same. Is it any diff
erent for any other tourist we’ve ever had? Pearl, the Italian woman in your shop the other day, the one who knocked over a shelf. Do you know where she went when she left? No. And that’s all you could tell the police if they turned up and said she’d gone missing.’

  LOCKATON: ‘I agree that would work. The film crew left, and that’s all we know. And I can live with that to save our world.’

  MABLEDON: ‘Live with that? Simple lies are, well, simple. But there’s another problem, isn’t there? Something I alone seem to be considering. We have four bodies sitting out there. What about them?’

  NESS: ‘Are you serious? Really? You’re talking about getting rid of four bodies, aren’t you? We can’t do that. We couldn’t keep that secret.’

  GINGHAM: ‘They say two people can keep a secret if one of them is dead. Well, as long as nobody outside this room speaks of it, not even to our Proxies, that secret would die with us.’

  NESS: (inaudible)

  TURNER: ‘Oh, we can if we want to save this village. If this murder becomes world knowledge, the police will invade our world. And this time they’re not looking for a young girl who could have run away. This is a major crime that will go into the books. The police will delve into everything, everyone’s background. Dr Ness, I know there are aspects of your life you don’t want going outside this room, never mind across the globe.’