Bayliss & Calladine Box Set

by Helen H. Durrant

  “Do you know what it is?” He gave the large brown envelope a shake. There was something inside. He could feel it moving around.

  “I’ve no idea. She didn’t say and I didn’t ask. Apparently there’s a letter, so that should explain it all. Now — the flowers you wanted.”

  This was a mystery he hadn’t expected. He shook the envelope some more as he followed Monika along the corridor. Whatever it contained wasn’t very big.

  “We’ll walk around and check all the vases.”

  “You haven’t thrown any away?”

  “I really couldn’t say, Tom. I had no idea I was supposed to hang on to them. What’s this all about?”

  “Evidence, Monika. Evidence. Enough to nail that bastard cousin of mine with any luck.”

  “We must have put them in the conservatory. You’re in luck — here are your roses. Shall I wrap them?” She was being facetious and it didn’t suit her.

  “No. In fact, don’t touch them. Don’t let anyone in here until I’ve checked these out.”

  The roses had large heads and were the purest white. Having been indoors for several days in a warm environment, the flowers had opened up. Calladine snapped on a pair of gloves, bent down and moved one or two of the heads with the end of a pen. Bingo! On the underside of several of them were what looked like blood stains. It looked as if the roses had picked up a very fine spray and their delicate petals had drunk it in. With a bit of luck, that fine spray of blood would turn out to be from the witness, as he was thrown in the boot of Fallon’s car and shot. Calladine could only hope so.

  “I’m going to get our SOCO team down here. Don’t let anyone in this room, Monika, and don’t touch these. If I’m right, then I’ve got him — at long last.”

  But who to tell? Should he ring Central? It was their case after all. If he did that, then it would be their SOCO team he should call. He tapped in Jones’s number.

  “Sir, that trouble with Fallon earlier in the week. I’ve got some evidence that could put the dead witness in the boot of Fallon’s car.”

  There was silence.

  “Sir? Did you hear that? I need forensics down here as soon as, and I can’t decide how to call it — us or Central.”

  He heard Jones clear his throat. “Us, Tom. Keep this with us for now. Call Batho, get him started, and then come in and report to me.”

  Not Central, then. Was that a mistake?

  He turned to Monika. “There’ll be a team down here very soon. They’ll take the flowers; that’s all, and they won’t disturb the residents.”

  “So when do we talk, Tom? When do we decide what to do about this disaster of a relationship of ours? Or is it a matter of rounding things off as neatly as we can before calling it a day?”

  She was looking at him strangely. He wanted to nod and tell her she’d got it right, but she didn’t look at all happy. Up until the point — just about an hour ago — when Lydia had exploded into his life again, he’d have been only too happy to fling his arms around her and try again — but not now. Lydia had her claws in deep, and whatever was going on with her was just going to have to run its course.

  “There is no relationship between us anymore, Monika. There hasn’t been for some time. You know that as well as I do. We should settle for friendship. I’d like that. I don’t like not speaking to you and having to pussyfoot around whenever we meet.”

  He could tell from the look on her face that this wasn’t what she’d expected to hear.

  “Get out of here, Tom Calladine! You’re a shambles and a disgrace. Get out of my sight and don’t come back. I don’t want to talk to you and I certainly don’t want to be your friend.”

  So much for that.

  Chapter 18

  Calladine didn’t go back to his cottage — he’d leave that little treat for later. He went to the hospital — straight to Julian’s lab. He wanted a quick word before the scientist got his hands on those roses.

  Julian Batho was getting his gear together as the DI knocked on his door.

  “Got something else for me, Inspector. A bunch of flowers, I believe.”

  “There’s blood on some of them. You are aware that a witness who was due to testify against Ray Fallon, was found dead at the beginning of the week?”

  Julian nodded; all attention.

  “I’d like you to check the blood on the roses against that of the witness.”

  “You expect it to match? Blood on a bunch of roses from the care home? Well, I’m intrigued. How does that happen, Inspector?”

  “It’s complicated.” Calladine frowned. He didn’t fancy having to explain how he knew Fallon — and particularly not to Julian.

  “I’m not going anywhere; I’ve got time. I’ve sent a team. I’ll do the analysis once they return and I’ll have the results promptly. So go on — indulge me. How did this little gem present itself to you?”

  “It’s a combination of things. Fallon is the chief suspect, but he has a cast-iron alibi. So the clever money is on the witness being put in the boot of Fallon’s car and shot there. Fallon ensures his alibi’s secure, then he dumps the body on the M62.”

  “It’d make a nice fairy tale, Inspector. How do you make the leap from Fallon’s car boot to roses turning up in the care home?”

  “There are things I’m not prepared to say just yet, so back off.”

  “Tut tut, we are touchy, aren’t we?” He looked at the DI long and hard. “You know what people will say, don’t you? It’s already being rumoured that Fallon is getting inside intelligence from a copper, and given you know so much about all this, the finger will point at you.”

  “It can point long and hard — I don’t care. I wouldn’t give that bastard the time of day, never mind information. So don’t go spreading rumours you can’t back up, Julian. I know what I know because of a link I’m not prepared to disclose, but it has nothing to do with being in Fallon’s pocket.”

  “But you do know him. You went to see him in hospital during the Handy Man case.”

  “How do you know that?” Calladine had told no one but the DCI and Ruth about that particular little visit.

  “I know because I have contacts of my own, Inspector.” Julian Batho thought for a moment. “Roses — then the care home — so what’s the link? Come on, Calladine, I’m the soul of discretion.”

  “Piss off, Julian. Curiosity like that can get you into serious trouble. You’d do better to get me those damn photos from the pub instead of trying to wind me up.”

  Calladine left, slamming the door behind him. Julian Batho was no fool — he’d make the leap soon enough. He’d realise that the link he was looking for was Freda Calladine’s funeral.

  * * *

  He’d said they should reconvene back at the nick at five, but he was late. No matter, the team were still hard at it. Calladine went to his office, dumped his overcoat and went back into the incident room where he looked at the board, his hands in his trouser pockets.

  “We could do with a quick appraisal — see what we’ve got.” He clapped his hands.

  Imogen looked up from the laptop she was working on. Alice was sitting quietly by her side.

  “When do you all stop?” Alice whispered to Imogen.

  “When the job’s done. Why? You’re not bored with us already, are you?”

  “No, it’s not that. It’s just, you’re all so dedicated. What about a private life?”

  “Don’t get me started. Most folk in here have to put all that to one side while we investigate a case. Both Ruth and Calladine haven’t done very well with relationships. It’s what the job does, I’m afraid.”

  “It’s good to be part of something so important, though, isn’t it? It’s the sort of thing I need. I’m not good with people as a rule, but I think I could do this.”

  Calladine went to incident board and looked at the array of photos. The e-fit was the best bet they had so far. Someone had to come forward — someone who knew this bastard.

  “We know our man fi
nds his victims on the net,” he began. “We know he goes for a particular type — he likes them to look a certain way. He likes them foreign — American, with no real network of friends and away from their family. They don’t know the system, or who to turn to for advice. So he chooses carefully and sets about befriending them. If we want to move this forward, we have to ask a number of questions. First of all, why does he call them all Vida? What is it about that name? Then, why do they have to be American? As Ruth pointed out to me earlier today, it’s obviously important to him in some way. Then there’s the thing with the mouth.”

  “Trophies, sir,” Rocco suggested. “It’s a common enough trait with serial killers.”

  “That’s right,” Alice interrupted. “And the kind of trophy taken can sometimes be meaningful in itself.”

  “What can possibly be meaningful about a few teeth?” Rocco shook his head.

  “This is a man who has possibly suffered some indignity at the hands of an American woman — perhaps one called Vida. Whatever happened in the past has festered in his mind, and now it’s payback time. He’s working through his fantasy of getting even with the woman — whoever she was.”

  “You’ve been working on a profile of this man?” Calladine asked.

  “I thought it might help. I’ve developed it using the questions you all keep asking about his behaviour.”

  “Good work. Let me have a copy to look at.”

  Calladine already knew how thorough Alice was and how she liked detail. So perhaps she could come up with something they might be able to use. It was certainly worth looking at — they had nothing to lose.

  “Ruth — what do you want to add?”

  “Given that Serena had been buried in soil, he must have a place, a garden perhaps. It looks like that situation may be under threat — why else would he dump her like that? We’re already looking at property in the area that’s recently hit the market. It’s a long shot but you never know. If his burial place is threatened, then he may want to be rid of Patsy sooner rather than later. I’ve also looked at the phone records of Madison and Patsy. All the calls to and from both girls were made to different pay-as-you-go mobiles — one for each girl. So there’s nothing.”

  “Sir! I’ve found something,” Imogen called out. She stood up and addressed the team.

  “I can see from her browsing history that Patsy Lumis made regular online requests for repeat prescriptions from a local GP surgery. The medication is Sodium Valproate.”

  “That’s used to treat epilepsy,” Rocco told them. “I know because I have a friend who takes it.”

  “She never said anything,” Alice added. “But she was absent from lectures a lot, and no one seemed to mind. I thought that was odd at the time. Now I know why.”

  Just what they needed. Calladine sighed. Would the bastard who’d taken her realise how important her medication was and would he let her take it?

  “Get on to the GP. Find out what sort of epilepsy she has and what happens if she doesn’t take her tablets. We could do with a timescale from him too.” Imogen immediately picked up the office phone.

  “She has her stuff, sir,” Ruth reminded him. “Ruby Tunnicliffe remembered that she had a small suitcase with her. Surely she would have packed her pills.”

  “No doubt. But that doesn’t mean he’ll let her take them, does it?”

  “Sir! Patsy has what are called Tonic Clonic seizures. She’s been hospitalised several times since starting at the university. Each time she was admitted, and each time she’s needed drugs to stop the fit — in addition to her regular medication. It doesn’t look good. If she fits and doesn’t recover within a certain time, the danger is that her heart will stop, or she might not be able to breathe properly.”

  “We’re running out of time so we need to find her fast, if he hasn’t killed her already himself. Rocco, get this new information to the radio station and inform the local rag. If this gets out, and she’s alive, then Patsy just might get her pills. We can only try. The rest of you — Alice is looking at property for sale in the Leesworth area — give her a hand and start to check them out. You can discount any without a garden. The soil found with Serena was tended — fertilised — so someone who likes plants and cares for them. It might be an idea to check the allotments. Rocco, I’ll leave that one with you to organise.”

  “We’ve catalogued Madison’s photos, sir,” Imogen told him. “We can account for them all in terms of who they are. I don’t think she had one of him.”

  “Careful bastard, isn’t he?”

  Chapter 19

  “I don’t feel right! Jack — I need my medication.”

  Where was he? She’d been alone for hours now, or so she thought. She had no real way of knowing. She’d been sleeping again and had woken up feeling weird. She wasn’t sure she could remember things correctly; she had a headache and felt dizzy. It could be the drugs he’d given her, but Patsy had felt like this before and knew what it meant. She also had a sore place on the inside of her cheek where she’d bitten it, so she must have had a small fit whilst she’d slept. If she didn’t take her medication soon, then she’d go on to have a major seizure.

  She crept around the perimeter of the dark room, carefully feeling her way. He’d dressed her; she was wearing a loose top and jogging bottoms, but they weren’t her own.

  “Jack! I need to speak to you.”

  “I’m busy, Vida.” He stood in a doorway high above her, surrounded by a pool of light. He looked to be at the top of a staircase. “I must get on with this. I don’t have time to fool around.”

  “I need my tablets! I have to take medication regularly or I’ll get sick.”

  “Your imagination, Vida. There’s nothing wrong with you. You’re as fit as a fiddle — look at all the exercise you get at the gym.”

  Patsy started to cry. “I’m not Vida and I do need my tablets. I get seizures, Jack.”

  He moved a little closer, halfway down the staircase and pointed a finger at her. “Shut it, bitch — or I’ll make sure you never say another word.”

  He was covered in mud. His boots were caked in it and his hands were filthy. What was he doing out there? Patsy shivered and wrapped her arms around her body. He wasn’t going to listen. She’d made the worst mistake of her life in trusting him: this man was evil.

  He bent down and dragged something inside. A shape — an old rug, she thought, as he bumped it down the stairs. Whatever it was must be heavy because he was out of breath. He stood for a moment, wiped his palms down the sides of his jacket and left her alone again.

  He was up to something — digging. Patsy crept closer to the bundle he’d left behind. She took one of the tiny candles and held it up so that she could see. It was wrapped in an old blanket, not a rug. She took hold of one end and shook it. It didn’t move. She put the candle down and, taking the ends of the fabric in both hands, pulled vigorously. The thing rolled forward making her jump away in fright. It smelled to high heaven. She bent down and moved the fabric a little more. There was something inside — something hideous, she could sense it. The hairs on the back of her neck were prickling. Another tug and her eyes widened.

  The blanket was full of bones, old bones with ragged bits of putrefying flesh still attached to them. And if that wasn’t terrifying enough, there was the skull. For a moment it caught the flicker of the candlelight and seemed to leer at her, taunting. She couldn’t help but look a little closer. The thing had no teeth. The instruments in the cupboard! She began to feel very sick.

  Patsy felt the room swirl around her. She had to keep her nerve. She knew with absolute certainty now that she would become that thing lying on the floor if she didn’t do something. She had to get out of here. She had to seize any opportunity that presented itself.

  It did just that a lot sooner than she expected. It had only been minutes since she’d found the bones, when the silence was broken by the sound of voices outside. Patsy closed her eyes to listen. Someone else was up there argui
ng with Jack. She saw faint moonlight filtering through the door at the top of the staircase. So he must have left it ajar — and it must lead outside. She heard the voices again, swearing, and then a high-pitched wail. Jack was fighting with someone. This was her chance.

  It was a risk. If Jack caught her, he’d kill her, she knew that. But what did she have to lose? Patsy crept up the stone steps, eased the door just wide enough and darted through it. She felt the cold night air envelop her body and she ran as fast as her legs would allow. She’d no idea where she was or where she was going, and each time the moon was obliterated by clouds, she was thrust into pitch blackness.

  She ran blindly in what she thought was a straight line. She couldn’t hear anything behind her. She was soon gasping for breath and stopped for a moment, bending over with her hands on her knees. She still felt weird — she’d not had her medication and she had a pounding headache. But she daren’t stop. Wherever she was, Jack would know the lie of the land better than she, so he could be on her within seconds.

  Patsy ran on. She had no awareness of time passing, just the rush of wind through her hair and the ache in her legs. Suddenly she came to an abrupt and painful halt as she crashed headlong into a hedge.

  She hit her leg on a tree stump and ripped the jogging bottoms on thorns. She fumbled about wildly, trying to free herself, frantically trying to untangle her hair from the grip of the bushes. Then she fell like a stone onto her front, winded. She closed her eyes and took a moment to recover. This was no good. If Jack’s place was in an enclosed area, then she wouldn’t be able to get out. Perhaps that’s why he’d not bothered to chase after her.

  She scrambled to her knees and felt along the ground — it was just grass. Patsy crawled on her hands and knees, disappearing into the dense hedgerow. The twigs and branches of the hedge dug into her body and scratched her face but she didn’t care, she had to keep going. She tore at the undergrowth cutting and scraping her hands, until finally her palms hit tarmac. She was out. She’d stumbled upon a gap in the hedge and had made it onto the roadside.