Calladine saw Ruth’s face pale. She’d be on the verge of retching. This was another find that was far too gruesome for her. The smell was as bad as the post-mortem room, and Serena’s remains.
“The outbuilding is single storey and there’s nothing but tools and sacks of fertiliser stashed in there,” a uniformed officer called across to them.
“It’s here. It’s got to be, there’s nowhere else.” Calladine felt the bonnet of the white van. “This hasn’t moved all day, it’s stone cold. He’s had the bodies buried here somewhere, so he must have a place — a room, something. Rigby’s car is in the café car park. I’m not wrong, I can feel it.”
“It looks like the bodies were buried over here,” Julian called to him. “See — the soil is freshly dug, and you can see where he’s dragged something along the ground. There’s remnants of burnt cloth in the ash too. Could be bodies wrapped in blankets, like Serena.”
Dobson must have realised that Alton would eventually capitulate and sell his land to the council, and that’s why he’d needed to move them. It bothered Calladine that, without the impending buy-out, Dobson’s crimes might never have come to light.
It was only about four in the afternoon, but at this time of the year it was already getting dark. If they didn’t find something soon they would need extra lights. Calladine didn’t want to leave all this exposed to the elements overnight. He took his mobile from his overcoat pocket and rang Rocco.
“Have you got anything? We’ve searched high and low but we can’t find anything. Is there something Patsy can tell us about where she was held?”
“She’s still a bit groggy and deeply shocked, sir. But she did say there was no light — no windows. She only escaped because a door opened above her, if that makes any sense.”
It might. Calladine went back into the outbuilding and walked around it. There were windows on two sides with no covering. If Patsy had been kept in here she’d have seen daylight and the night sky.
“Ruth! There are no other doors. It’s one room — so what is it we’re missing?”
“I don’t know, sir. Could there be a cellar? I mean, would a barn even have a cellar?”
Unlikely, but it had given him an idea. Calladine went outside again and walked all around the building. The land fell away on the far side. Over the years, soil and stone had been piled up against the wall, but it was possible that at some time in the past it had been a two storey building with another entrance back here, an entrance to what was then the ground floor.
“Ruth — I think what we’re standing in now was once the upper floor. If I’m right then there was once another way in, at the back.”
“So what are we looking for, sir?”
“A way down from in here — possibly a hidden entrance. Get the others.”
It didn’t take long. They found a loose flagstone laid over a wooden trapdoor that led down a flight of steps.
“Get Julian in here.”
“Forensics first!” Julian called out. He was suited up, and, his way lit by several torches, he descended the steps. “Inspector! Your man, Rigby, is down here. Get an ambulance!”
Calladine nodded at Ruth, hauled a white all-in-one suit over his clothes and went down after Julian. Robert Rigby was unconscious. He had been struck by something, which had caused a wound to his head. The room they were in smelled dreadful. There was an old stained mattress on the floor and what looked a dentist’s chair in the far corner. Calladine shuddered. Those poor women — what they must have endured down here with no one to help them. He was just glad it was finally all over.
* * *
“A job well done, sir.” It was an hour later. “Rigby will be fine: concussion and a broken arm. He was lucky; Dobson could have killed him — would have killed him if we hadn’t got him.”
“That’s it, then. It’s all down to forensics now to piece things together. Imogen’s been on. The DNA from the girls and the foetuses is a match for Dobson, so we’ve got him.”
“I think we should call it a day. I’m whacked; what about you?”
“I certainly am. It’s been a long haul — one of the worst. But we did it — we got that bastard off the streets and all the evidence we need to make a cast-iron case.”
“Coming to the pub? Celebration drink?”
An excellent idea, and there was a time when Calladine wouldn’t have had to think twice about it. But now he had commitments. There were people at home to see to.
“You saw my house — they’ll all be back soon.” He checked his watch. “So no. I’m sorry to wimp out, but it’ll have to be another time, if you don’t mind. I’m going to make some food, delegate the washing-up and then put my feet up.”
“Doesn’t a stiff drink sound better, Tom? It’s been a big day altogether, what with the case, the horrors and all the personal stuff.”
“You just keep the box thing to yourself for now, Ruth. I’ll get it back when I’ve decided how to keep it away from prying eyes. And anyway — never mind me, perhaps you’d do better to go home and see Jake. Won’t he wonder where you are? You don’t really want to go back to him smelling of booze.”
“I don’t know what I want. To be honest, I’m still upset about what we’ve just found. I don’t think I’d be much company for Jake. He doesn’t like me to talk about my job, and you know what it’s like. Once a case is wrapped up all the talking, the going over stuff, it’s like therapy. Anyway, Rocco, Imogen and the others will expect one of us to turn up.” She nudged him playfully. “Joyce will be upset if you don’t come — she seems to be carrying something of a torch for you.”
“First I’ve heard. And don’t you go stirring it. Joyce is a bloody good administrator — if she gets the funnies and leaves, then we’d all miss her.”
“No fear of her doing that, sir. We wouldn’t let her. Is there anything yet on a replacement for Dodgy?”
“No, and I doubt there will be with Jones in penny-pinching mode.”
“I see. So the team shrinks.”
“The mistake we made was managing. All Jones sees is another case wound up. I’ve had the obligatory moan about lack of staff, but nonetheless — we still sorted it.”
“We had help, sir. There was Alice and your new pal from the States.”
“I must Skype Devon later — tell him the good news.”
“And Alice?”
“We’ll see.”
* * *
Lydia drove down Leesdon High Street as slowly as she dared, mentally willing all the traffic lights to change to red. Fallon was sitting at her side, chewing gum and still pressing that damn pistol into her thigh. She was frantically trying to work out what she could do. She was tempted to pull in and make a run for it. But the streets were so well lit that all she’d be doing was making herself a damn good target.
“Step on it, second on the right up here.”
“I know very well where Tom lives. What are you going to do?”
The question had been burning a hole in her brain since they left Cheshire, but she already knew the answer. This wasn’t going to be good. Something had happened — hence the police raid, and Fallon knew Tom was at the bottom of it. He intended to kill him — he had nothing to lose now.
“Let’s put it this way, his detecting days are over. He’s crossed me once too often, and if I’m going down because of him then I’m taking him with me.”
“You’ll not get away with it. Things will be twice as bad for you if you hurt him. They’ll come after you. You’re not stupid. You should turn yourself in.”
He burst into laughter, so hard that he had to wipe the tears from his eyes. “You’re very entertaining as well as being a looker. I can well understand why Thomas keeps you around. There’s a space outside his house — pull into it.”
Lydia was a bag of nerves. Tom was in — she could see the lights were on. She felt sick — what if Zoe and her friend were home too? What would Fallon do to them? Come to think about it — what plans did he have for
her?
“Look, why don’t you just go now? I won’t say anything, it’ll be our secret. You don’t have to do this, I won’t tell Tom, honestly.”
“Get out and get the door open.”
Lydia had no choice. She scrambled out of the car and knocked feebly on the front door. Fallon followed, and stood with his back to the wall so Tom wouldn’t see him.
* * *
“I thought I gave you a key.” Calladine opened the door wearing an apron wrapped around his middle. “I’m doing a beef stew — that suit you?”
Fallon pushed Lydia to one side and shoved Calladine backwards into the house. Fallon was shorter than his cousin, but the detective was caught off guard and stumbled back awkwardly.
“Ray! What are doing? You bloody fool!”
“Getting my own back, and how very good it feels too, Thomas.” Fallon looked around the room. “I always knew it would come to this. You never learn. You sent them after me — you stitched me up with those damn flowers, you interfering bastard. Well, this time you’re not coming out on top.”
Calladine watched Fallon smile. The idiot had a gun.
“Right between the eyes, Thomas. Then I’ll deal with that bloody woman.”
Calladine stepped backwards, his mind frantically searching for a way out. Fallon would kill him and then he’d kill anyone else in the house – Lydia!
“Say your prayers, Thomas.”
He heard Lydia scream. She was standing behind his cousin. If she was going to do something then she had only seconds. Calladine was frozen to the spot. All he could see was that damn gun, raised and pointed directly at him. Then Lydia struck.
He watched her jump forward, catching Fallon’s arm with her hand at the instant he pulled the trigger. It knocked him off balance and the bullet fell short of its mark, but it still hit him.
Tom Calladine heard her scream again as he crumpled like a rag doll and fell to the floor.
There was heat. Waves of searing heat, and an excruciating stinging sensation. He was falling and he couldn’t hear properly. He was on his back staring up at the ceiling. The light fitting seemed to be swimming wildly in his field of vision. The last thing he saw was Lydia’s face; the last thing he felt were her warm tears falling onto his cheek. But what gave him hope before the blackness took him was the sound of Ruth’s voice somewhere in the distance, and the noise of police sirens tearing up his street.
THE END
BOOK 3: DEAD LIST
A gripping detective thriller full of suspense
Helen H. Durrant
First published 2015
Joffe Books, London
www.joffebooks.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this.
©Helen H. Durrant
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THERE IS A GLOSSARY OF ENGLISH SLANG IN THE BACK OF THIS BOOK FOR US READERS.
Prologue
The elderly woman thrust a sheet of paper at Tariq Ahmed through the open door. She wasn’t smiling.
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” she said, and her voice quivered with emotion. “I’ve lost my cat. I’m going to all the houses in the road.” She showed him the printed photo. “He’s been gone almost a week and I think someone must have taken him in.”
She was small, slightly red-faced with a long thin nose on which perched a pair of old fashioned spectacles. Doctor Tariq Ahmed, who wasn’t smiling either, shook his head in annoyance. It had been a long hard day. All he wanted was some well-earned peace and quiet. “Sorry — I can’t help.” He gave the image a cursory glance and dismissed her with a wave of his hand. “And don’t drop that on my drive on your way out,” he told her, attempting to shut the door.
But the old woman let out a loud sob and grabbed hold of his arm as she teetered on her feet. “Please. I have to find him — he’s all I’ve got and he’ll pine.”
“Use your stick. Lean on that, it’s what it’s for,” he told her sharply, trying to prise her fingers off his arm. “You should go home. It’s dark and cold. Even your cat will have better sense than to wander the streets on a night like this.”
Something about the way she looked wasn’t quite right. Her hair was odd and her clothes were too big, but he was too irritated to work out why that might be.
He made to close the door again but this time she flopped forward. “I feel woozy,” she gasped, breathlessly. “I know I shouldn’t be out; I’ve got a bad chest. But I have to find him. Could I have a glass of water, please, take one of my tablets? Then I’ll go.”
Tariq Ahmed narrowed his eyes, staring at the woman. She looked old and frail; he was a doctor after all, so despite his annoyance at being disturbed he felt compelled to help. With an impatient sigh, he turned and went back down his hallway to the kitchen, leaving her at the door.
* * *
Harriet Finch smiled. This was easier than she’d imagined. In a few paces she was inside. Taking care to follow him quietly, she was at his back in seconds.
She pressed a catch on her walking stick, releasing a wicked-looking blade like a bayonet. It was a nifty little gadget inherited from her grandfather and had languished unused for years in her hall cupboard. When she remembered it was there she’d given it an overhaul. Now it was a fine weapon.
She raised the stick high. If the doctor had looked up, he would have seen her shadow etched on the wall. But he didn’t, and before he realised what was happening she had plunged the blade into the centre of his back.
It slid in, almost like a knife into butter at first, but then it stuck. There was something hard in the way — vertebrae? Harriet let out a loud grunt of annoyance, her arm twisting and pushing against the obstruction. Finally she was rewarded with a satisfying little crunch as the blade slid the last few inches deep into his body.
He didn’t even turn. She watched his arms flail wildly and heard him utter a feeble little groan. She almost laughed when he clutched his side and with one last wail pitched forward, headlong onto the floor.
Harriet’s aim was true — he was done for. Another flick of her thumb and the blade retracted. Perfect. All she had to do now was the last bit, so the police would get things right. Over the coming days Harriet was going to carry out a number of murders and they would all be different. She didn’t want to be a nuisance. Of course they’d investigate, they’d have to. But she didn’t want them chasing their tails looking for multiple killers.
She took a single, six-inch nail and a hammer from her bag and fished in her pocket for the card. Taking care not to get blood on her clothes, she pushed Doctor Ahmed onto his back. She placed the card against his closed right eye and positioned the nail. With one powerful stroke of the hammer she forced the metal deep into his skull through the eye socket, fixing the card in place. A tarot card on each of the bodies would be her signature. The police would link the killings, which would make it easier for them in the end.
Harriet didn’t want to tarry but she couldn’t help being curious. After all, this was the man who’d started it; he was so cold and had no empathy whatsoever. Over the last few months she’d come to hate him. Since she was here she wanted to see how he lived, what made him tick.
She wandered idly from room to room, eyeing the casual elegance of the furnishings. He had good taste and obviously enjoyed having nice things around him. Of course with his job he could afford them. His walls were covered in paintings, some she recognised as the work of local artists.
His sitting room was dimly lit; there was only one small lamp on a table, but something glinted, catch
ing her eye. It was a gold envelope addressed to Doctor T. Ahmed. Harriet picked it up and looked inside. The envelope contained two invitations to an art exhibition to be held later that week at the Leesworth Community Centre. She hadn’t bought her friend Nesta’s birthday present yet, and Nesta was an art lover. The invite said there’d be food and wine. Nesta would like that too. Harriet put the envelope in her pocket and went back into the kitchen.
There was a large pool of blood forming around the body. She smiled to herself. This was good, very good, and so much better than sitting around at home moping. And it was only fitting that he should be the first. After all, it was he who had given her the grim news. So it served him right, the heartless bastard.
She leaned forward to check that the image on the tarot card could be clearly seen. ‘The Tower,’ otherwise known as ‘the bolt from the blue.’ How very apt. Doctor Tariq Ahmed certainly hadn’t seen it coming.
Chapter 1
Tuesday
“So you can’t even give us a date?” Ruth asked, as she helped herself to another grape from the bag on the sofa, where Tom Calladine lay sprawled. “Or perhaps you don’t want to,” she suggested with a frown on her face. “If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you were swinging the lead. So come on then, come clean — what has the doctor said? Your injuries weren’t really that bad, were they? It’s just that work is piling up and we were short-handed before you went and got . . . well, before you got yourself shot,” she said soberly.
“You’re a hard woman, Ruth Bayliss. You’d have me out of my sick bed and back at my desk without a second thought, ready or not.”
“Ready!” she scoffed. “OK, your arm caught a bullet, but come on, Tom, it barely winged you.”
“Thanks to Lydia’s quick thinking,” he told her pointedly. “Without that woman’s timely intervention things might be very different now.” He sniffed.
Bayliss & Calladine Box Set Page 36
