by Nicola Ford
Jo said, ‘Shit, David, Neil didn’t turn up to work this morning. Clare’s gone to look for him. She’s down there in Gloucester now.’
He felt sick. His hands were trembling so much he almost dropped the phone. No, no, no! This can’t be happening.
He swallowed hard. ‘Jo, I’ve just tried phoning Clare and all I’m getting is her voicemail.’
There was no reply. He thought he heard a car revving its engine in the background.
‘Jo, did you hear me? Do you understand?’
Jo could hear the sound of an engine starting. Shit!
She all but threw herself out of the Portakabin door. ‘I hear you, David. Loud and clear. But I’ve got to go.’
She flung herself in front of the hood of Stone’s Volvo.
He stuck his head out of his window and yelled, ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing? I could have killed you!’
Jo didn’t reply. Instead she ripped the passenger side door open and deposited herself in the front seat.
Stone asked, ‘Do you want to give me some sort of explanation about what’s going on here?’
‘No time. I’ll tell you while you’re driving. It’s Fuller. Clare’s in danger. We’ve got to get to her before she finds him. Just drive.’ She urged him forward with a wave of her arm.
For what seemed like the longest moment of Jo’s life, Stone just stared at her. Then suddenly, as if a switch had been thrown, he made his decision. Foot down, he left more turf on the road than in the field behind him.
His eyes were fixed laser-like on the road in front of him. ‘Now will you tell me where we’re going?’
‘Gloucester. Fuller’s house. That was David on the phone.’ By way of explanation she added, ‘David Barbrook, our boss.’
A cloud of doubt flickered across Stone’s face.
Jo said, ‘He’s got a video of Paul Marshall giving Neil money – Neil’s been taking kickbacks.’
‘Why hasn’t he given the video to the police?’
Jo couldn’t believe Stone was arguing about it. ‘He’s only just found it. Beth Kinsella left it with her father in some nursing home.’
Stone snorted but seemed to accept the explanation. ‘Do you know Fuller’s address?’
‘No, but I’ve been to Neil’s place to pick up site records when we took over the dig. It’s a terraced house.’
She realised how ridiculous that must have sounded almost the moment she’d said it. From what she’d been able to make out there were nothing but terraced houses in Gloucester.
Stone flashed her a sideways glance. ‘Do you think you can remember where it is?’
‘I think so. And I know it was number 46.’
He nodded in the direction of the radio. ‘Can you press that hands-free button for me?’
Jo obliged and he nodded his thanks without taking his eyes from the road. ‘GL43 to Despatch.’
‘Despatch here, sir.’
‘I need the address for a Neil Fuller, Gloucester?’ He whispered across to Jo. ‘What’s his wife’s name?’
‘Sadie.’
He spoke into the ether again. ‘Wife’s name Sadie Fuller. And it’s Priority 1. Repeat, Priority 1.’
‘Roger that, GL43. Address for Neil and Sadie Fuller, Gloucester. Priority 1.’
Stone flung the Volvo round an unfeasibly sharp bend. ‘Call her. Try calling Clare.’
Jo said, ‘David said he’d tried to call her and it had just gone to voicemail.’
‘Well try again. Just do it!’
Jo pulled her mobile out of the pocket of her cargo pants and searched for Jo’s number.
‘You have reached the voicemail of Clare Hills. I can’t take your call right now. But if you’d like to leave your name and number after the beep I’ll get back to you.’
‘Clare, it’s Jo. I don’t know where you are right now but if you’re with Neil, just leave. It doesn’t matter how, just go. Get out of there! Crabby’s dead, Clare. Mark Stone’s just told me. And Neil’ – she could barely bring herself to say the words it was so incomprehensible – ‘I think Neil may have killed him.’
Stone said, ‘Tell her to stay with other people.’
Jo nodded. ‘And, Clare, stay with other people! Then phone me. Please. As soon as you can.’
She ended the call and switched to messaging, her fingers flying across the screen. Clare. CRABBY DEAD. NEIL KILLER. Get out! Go where people are. Phone me when safe. Then after a moment’s thought she typed in the words: We’re coming. J x
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Sally turned towards West. ‘Have they brought Kelly’s wife in yet?’
‘She’s waiting for us in Interview Room 2.’
She nodded. ‘Good. If we’re going to nail this one, we need to make sure we tie up all of the loose ends.’
Her phone rang and she glanced down at the display. It was David. She hadn’t really got time for this but she’d better take it – she’d been a bit rough on him the last time they spoke.
‘Hello.’ She held her hand up to West, who was hovering by the door, and said, ‘You go through, Tom. I’ll join you in a moment.’
She could hear David on the phone, saying, ‘Sal, is that you?’
‘Hi, David, sorry about that. Just had to sort something out.’
His voice sounded strained – anxious. ‘Sal, there’s something you need to know.’
‘Calm down, David. What on earth’s wrong?’
‘It’s Fuller.’
‘Who?’
‘Neil Fuller, the guy who worked as Beth Kinsella’s assistant at Bailsgrove. The guy who we took on as our site assistant. I’ve just been to see Beth’s father. He gave me a tape – a video tape.’ His breathing was ragged. She could barely make out what he was saying.
‘Slow down, David. What are you on about? None of this is making any sense.’
‘I don’t have time to explain. Just listen to me, Sal. I’ve found a tape that Beth Kinsella made. It shows Neil Fuller taking backhanders from Paul Marshall – the developer who owns the site. Fuller who worked for Beth and alongside Jack Tyler. Do you understand, Sal?’
Sally was focused now, fully concentrated on the job in hand and what it meant for her investigation. ‘Right, where are you, David?’
‘I’m in Derbyshire.’
Damn. She was hoping he’d say he was at Bailsgrove. ‘You need to contact site, warn Clare and Jo and the others. Whatever they do, tell them under no circumstances should they approach Fuller.’
‘I’ve already phoned Jo. She said Fuller didn’t turn up for work this morning, and he didn’t ring in either. Clare’s gone down to his house in Gloucester to try to find out what’s wrong with him.’
‘Look, David, I’ve got to go. I’ll ring Mark Stone and get his boys onto it.’
Her brain whirring away at double speed now, Sally abandoned all idea of interviewing Damian Kelly’s wife. Whether Kelly’s wife would provide him with an alibi or not was hardly relevant if there was every chance that Fuller, not Kelly, had killed Jack Tyler, and very possibly Beth Kinsella too. The one thing that Kelly had lacked was a solid motive. But it was all too obvious that Neil Fuller may have had one.
She scrolled through her contacts and hit Mark Stone’s number. Jack Tyler’s words about Beth came back to her as clearly as if she’d heard them herself – she’d got what she deserved. Had Tyler known – or at least suspected – that Beth’s death wasn’t an accident? Did he try to blackmail Fuller? He was certainly desperate for money. But would he really have been dumb enough to attempt to extort cash from a killer? No, much more likely that he knew about the kickbacks Fuller was taking from the developer and tried to put the squeeze on him over that.
Stone’s phone was ringing now. His voice cut in on the other end of the line. At last. ‘You’re through to DCI Mark Stone’s voicemail. If you’d like to leave a name and number after the tone I’ll get back to you.’
Shit. She might not like the woman, but no one d
eserved to walk into the home of a potential murderer alone, and with no idea what they were up against. And besides, much though she didn’t like to admit it, she suspected that if she allowed anything to happen to Clare, David would never forgive her.
‘Mark, call me as soon as you get this! I think you may have a double murderer on your hands. Neil Fuller – a Gloucester address. And Clare Hills, lead archaeologist on the Bailsgrove dig, is on her way to his house right now.’
She slammed her mobile down on the desk and picked up her desk phone. ‘Get me Gloucester nick, now!’
Below her Clare could hear Neil Fuller’s footsteps echoing through the hallway. She could feel her phone vibrating in her pocket again. Could he hear it? She extracted it from the pocket of her moleskins and was about to switch it from vibrate to silent when she saw she had two voicemail messages and a couple of texts. It looked like one of each from David and Jo.
She put her ear to the door and listened. Not a sound. It didn’t seem like Neil was moving anywhere. What was he doing? She switched her attention back to her phone. She couldn’t risk listening to the voicemail messages; he might hear them. She hit the screen and brought up her texts. David’s first.
Fuller dangerous. I have proof. Stay with Jo. Two dead.
As she read the words of David’s message she could feel her whole body go cold. It was all she could do to hold onto the phone. She flipped through to Jo’s message.
Clare. CRABBY DEAD. NEIL KILLER. Get out! Go where people are. Phone me when safe. We’re coming. J x
She couldn’t believe what she was reading. Crabby was dead. She didn’t want to believe the words in front of her. But she knew Jo would never have sent something like that unless she was certain. And two dead: was that Crabby and Beth? Or was there someone else? Christ, Clare, does it really matter? People were dead and Neil Fuller had killed them. And right now the same Neil Fuller was downstairs not forty feet from where she was standing.
Stay calm. You’ve got to stay calm. Your life might depend on it! She pressed her spine hard against the wall and tilted her head back. Think, Clare, think!
Trying to control her breathing, she glanced down at the words on her phone again: Get out. That’s what it said. And that’s exactly what she needed to do. But how? She shoved her phone back into her pocket and pressed her ear to the door once more.
She could hear footsteps. It sounded as if he was making his way to the kitchen. There was the sound of clattering plates. And all at once she could hear water gushing from the taps and splattering as it hit the bottom of the old Belfast sink.
Then she heard him talking. Was there someone with him? Sadie, maybe, or a neighbour. Please God, let there be someone with him. Slowly, so slowly that its movement was barely perceptible, she turned the old-fashioned metal knob on the bedroom door. She pulled it towards her, opening it just a sliver, and placed her ear to the gap.
It was definitely Neil. But no one else. It sounded as if he was on his own. She could hear more clearly now.
He was muttering and swearing. ‘Fucking stuff. Why won’t it come off?’
And then, suddenly, he let out a scream so loud that Clare’s hand, and the whole door with it, jolted forward. She managed to grab it just in time to prevent it from clattering against its wooden frame. The sound that came from Neil was visceral, like nothing she’d ever heard before. As if it was emanating from somewhere deep inside him.
You’ve got to do something, Clare. But what? How the hell was she meant to get out of here? She looked around the bedroom. Jesus, Clare, you idiot! The window. The prospect of having to climb out of a first-floor window filled her with terror. She was phobic about heights and she’d nearly lost her life once before when she’d agreed – against her better judgement – to scale the dig’s photographic tower at Hungerbourne. But if the choice was a first-floor window or confronting a murderer alone in his own home she knew which she preferred. Slowly, with the lightest of footsteps, she edged her way round the bed to the far side of the room. The windows were of the Victorian sash cord variety, and she positioned her hands below the upper portion of the wooden casing and pushed, but with no effect. She shoved again, this time using all her strength. But it was no good – it wouldn’t budge. And examining the window frame more carefully, the reason was only too apparent. Despite the peeling paintwork on the outside of the woodwork, someone had applied a thick coat of paint to the inside. She was sealed in. Which meant her only escape route was going to be past Neil.
She gingerly made her way back towards the door. She opened it again, this time a little wider than she had before. Now she could hear him using what sounded like a scrubbing brush. Pushing her way out through the gap in the door, inch by agonising inch she edged towards the top of the stairs. And then one tread at a time she started to descend. A third of the way down she lowered herself into a squatting position.
Craning her head, she peered through a gap in the banister so that she could look down the hall towards the kitchen. The door was wide open. Fuller was standing with his back towards her. He was clad in T-shirt and jeans and at first sight she thought he was trying to clean something in the sink. Then as he stood there muttering and swearing under his breath she realised that he was scrubbing at his hands.
She glanced round at the front door. Lying next to it on the hallway table in what appeared to be a clear plastic soil sample bag was a hefty triangular slab of stone. Even from this distance she could see that it had some sort of engraving on it. But what drew her attention wasn’t the writing; it was the wide dark red streak smeared across one half of the bag. It looked like blood. She had to get out of here.
Turning her head back towards the kitchen, she could see Fuller was still bent over the sink, taps running. Could she make it to the door before he heard her? So slowly that she could feel her thigh muscles straining, she stood up. She needed to keep out of his peripheral vision for as long as she could to give herself as much time as possible to get to the front door before he noticed. Edging backwards, she pressed her back against the wall. He was out of sight now. She was about to begin her descent when she heard the hard, metallic squeal of the taps being turned off. The water stopped. She could hear the blood pounding in her eardrums. The silence was all-consuming. Then she heard him. He was coming her way.
The fifteen minutes it had taken Mark Stone to weave his way through the highways and byways of the Gloucestershire countryside to get from Bailsgrove to the M5 might as well have been fifteen hours. He was well aware of the fact that if Clare had found Fuller there was every possibility they might already be too late.
But he couldn’t allow himself to think like that all the time there was a chance – any chance. He’d put out an all-points call on Fuller but so far without luck. And Despatch had found him that address. The only trouble was it wasn’t number 46, and when he’d asked her again, Jo had insisted she was still one hundred per cent sure that wherever Fuller’s house was it was definitely number 46. And when Despatch had sent a couple of uniforms round to check out the listed address there was a Latvian family living there. Turned out Fuller and his wife had moved out months ago. So now they only had Jo’s memory to rely on.
He asked, ‘How many times have you been to Fuller’s place?’
‘Just the once.’
There was a moment’s silence before he said, ‘You better have a bloody good memory then. Don’t you people keep employment records? You know, with little details like where your staff live?’
‘Yep. And they’re all on Clare’s password-protected laptop back at the office.’
Fucking IT security. He hated it.
They were still a good five minutes from the outskirts of Gloucester as he dodged his way through the thickening traffic on the motorway, blue lights flashing, siren blaring.
Suddenly, Jo waved her hand at the approaching road sign, ‘That’s it. It’s the A40 exit.’
‘You sure?’
‘Positive.’
&nb
sp; ‘Right.’
He pulled the steering wheel hard left, slewing across three lanes of traffic, his foot never touching the brakes. He had no doubt that he’d have to answer to his super when he found out he’d had a civilian in the front seat acting as satnav while he was doing ninety down the hard shoulder with full blues and twos. But, frankly, right now the super could go screw himself.
He was heading down the hallway. Pressed against the wall, sweat dripping down her back, Clare stiffened. For the briefest of moments she closed her eyes. I can’t see you. You can’t see me. She dug her nails hard into the palms of her hands. Get a grip of yourself, woman! Suddenly the footsteps stopped.
She opened her eyes. Had he heard something? Had he seen her? Please don’t turn round. Then he was off again, moving. He opened the living room door, pulling it to behind him. She could hear him scrunching up paper. It sounded as if he was rattling the grate in the fireplace.
This was her chance, while his attention was fully engaged with something else. She edged down the stairway as quickly as she dared. She was down on level ground now. Standing on the Minton tiles just to one side of her was the little table. There was no doubting from this distance that it was blood smeared across the plastic bag, nor what the bag contained. It looked like the other half of the Bailsgrove Roman inscription, but where had Neil got it from? No time for that now. Her focus needed to be solely on that front door.
She listened. She could hear what sounded like a fire crackling in the front room. It was a steaming hot day. What on earth was he doing? He must be burning something.