The Assassin's Dog

by David George Clarke

  Returning his attention to his phone, Gus switched the screen back on, hit the reply button and began to type.

  Who is this? What do you want?

  There was no reply.

  As he stared at the screen, Gus thought about how strong the reaction had been in the room to any messages, his included. Particularly his? Or was he being paranoid? But there could be more such messages, almost definitely would be, and he didn’t want them announced to the world. He called up settings and switched the phone to vibrate only for all incoming texts, emails, WhatsApp messages, and for good measure, Facebook and Twitter, although he hardly ever used them.

  Getting back to concentrating on the CCTV recordings was now even more impossible than before. Before he had just been play-acting, knowing there was nothing to be found; now he could hardly even focus on his monitor. Who the hell had been watching him? And how much did they know? Was it going to be about blackmail or worse? Did they intend to tear him to pieces emotionally before reporting him?

  He tried to make sense of the time frame. They must have been in the garden watching the house. Why? The house was in the middle of nowhere. Had somebody he hadn’t noticed been passing, a dog walker, perhaps, seen him carrying the body from the garage to the car and put two and two together? That would make it a local person. But there weren’t any local people. His nearest neighbour was half a mile along the road or about the same across the fields at the back of the house. Perhaps that was it. He’d never got on with the farmer whose fields backed onto his cottage. Awkward bugger who treated the land the cottage was on like his own.

  Gus had once threatened to arrest him, which hadn’t gone down well. Perhaps the bastard had been spying on him and struck lucky. Well, he wasn’t going to let some cocky farmer spoil his life.

  As he sat at his desk chewing his bottom lip while plotting the farmer’s demise, he saw his phone’s screen light up again with another incoming message.

  He glanced nervously around the room, moving just his eyes, not wanting to attract attention. When he dropped his eyes to the phone, it was all he could do not to scream. There in front of him was a close-up shot of Trisha McVie’s face, the wound to her nose visible in vivid detail, her eyes half-closed in death as they had been when he’d first seen her body. He hadn’t wanted to touch them to shut them completely.

  He closed the screen before any prying eyes had a chance to see it, returning his gaze to the monitor as he tried desperately to work out where the shot had been taken. There was something behind her head. A sack or bag of something. It was at the rear of the garage where he’d taken the body after … after wrapping it up in the towels. Whoever took the shot must have gone into the garage, removed the bag and towels from round the head and photographed it. But he must have wrapped it all up again because when Gus had gone to move the body two nights later, nothing had been out of place.

  Two nights later!

  Whoever it was had been there when Gus had first taken the body from the cottage to the garage and again when he carried it to his car. Does that mean he knows where the body is? Had he followed him to the factory?

  What had the person been doing at his house on the Wednesday night when he was cleaning up the body and the bathroom along with everywhere else McVie had been? Why had he been watching and waiting? Waiting for him to do something with the body? But who on the Wednesday evening even knew that Trisha McVie was missing? Only the police after the damn car had been found. The search teams. Christ, there were dozens of officers, police and civilian, involved. It could be any one of them.

  Was it someone in the SCF? It made the most sense. These were the people who knew him, the people who had been less than welcoming. Did one of them bear a grudge? Whose toes had he trodden on?

  He looked around the room, watching for anyone who might be looking at their phone. He’d send a reply, see if anyone’s phone pinged.

  There had been no further message with the second image, just the stark horror of McVie’s dead features.

  He picked up his phone, called up messages and began to type.

  Who the fuck are you, you bastard?

  As he hit send, his eyes flashed around the room, but no one moved, no one picked up their phone. He glanced at his screen. Against the message the word ‘delivered’ appeared and almost immediately a reply arrived.

  Now, now, Gus, that’s not very nice. Would you like to see some more images? I have lots.

  No one in the office had been typing on his phone, which ruled them all out, didn’t it? Who was missing? He did a head count. Everyone was there. Even Joe Barnes had come back to work, eager to prove his worth. The only people in the SCF not in his view were … the senior officers. Surely not, it couldn’t possibly be. There was only Crawford and Hawkins, and he doubted that either of them was even capable of taking a photo on a phone, especially in the dark.

  Shit! Who could it be?

  Gus checked the time, wondering how early he could reasonably make an excuse and leave. He wasn’t sure he could stay at his desk for much longer. He could feel his heart racing as the fear of what might happen next consumed him. If the person was sending messages to him, they could just as easily send some to others in the room. Was he about to be dropped in it?

  Fighting to maintain an outward appearance of calm, he forced his eyes onto his monitor and the useless traffic cam videos. At least he didn’t have to try to spot McVie’s number plate; he knew it wouldn’t be showing up.

  His hands were opening and closing involuntarily as he chewed on a lip, his eyes scanning the room as much as the screen. No one seemed to be watching him, but it wasn’t always easy to tell. At least his back was against a wall; there was no one behind him.

  The screen on his phone jumped to life again with another message. This time there was no photo.

  Did you notice anything odd in the photo, Gus? Anything missing? Compare it with the press photo, see what you think. Could be a bit of a problem.

  Dropping his hands below desktop level, Gus scrolled again to the image of Trisha McVie’s lifeless head and let his eyes search it for detail. Missing?

  Then he saw it. She was only wearing one earring, in her left ear. Had the one that had presumably once been in her right ear been missing when he was with her, or after, when she was lying dead in his cottage? He didn’t know. He looked across the room to the whiteboard with the case details, the scribbled notes and the few photos, including the photo of Trisha that had been released to the press. It was too far away for him to see clearly.

  After slipping his phone into his pocket, he stood and stretched, working his neck and shoulders. He saw Derek watching him.

  “Got to take a break,” said Gus, his voice little more than a hoarse croak. “I’m going goggle-eyed.” Without pausing for any response, he made his way towards the door, deliberately taking a longer route than necessary so he could pass close to the whiteboard. He saw what he needed to see immediately: the photo released to the press showed McVie wearing two earrings of the same design as the one shown in the image of her lying dead in his garage.

  He had the answer to his tormentor’s question, but he had to continue the charade. He hurried to the washroom where he threw some water onto his face and stared at his reflection in the mirror, his grip on the edge of the washbasin leaving his knuckles white with tension. He searched his face for answers. What did this person want? What were they going to do?

  When his phone vibrated in his pocket, he spun around to lean against the washbasin, grabbed the phone and called up the message.

  Worked it out, Gus? Of course you have. Not difficult, was it? The question is, where is the missing earring? Did it drop off in your house and roll somewhere? Is it under your pillow? Surely not, even you aren’t that careless. Mo won’t be pleased when she finds it, will she? It’ll be one more thing she’ll find that you’ve missed. No, you definitely won’t be her favourite person. Happy hunting, Gus.

  He nearly smashed the phone aga
inst the sink in anger. Instead, he hit reply.

  WHAT DO YOU WANT?

  The answer was a smiley emoji, a glib face.

  Gus was still staring at the image when the washroom door flew open. It was Doug Coulson. “All right, mate? You’re looking a bit edgy. Know how you feel, this bloody case is a pig and my head is pickled staring at them videos.”

  “Yeah,” said Gus, “they’ve been getting to me too. That and thoughts about what might have happened to the super.”

  “Too right. It’ll be good to get away early for a change.”

  “Early?”

  “Yeah, the DCS just told everyone to bugger off home. Said we all needed a break. Said to come back tomorrow refreshed and raring to go. I’m heading over the road for a couple of pints and then the missus is picking me up. Fancy a quick one?”

  “Thanks, but I’ll give it a miss. With Mo being away, I need to get on top of my mess before it gets out of hand. She’s a stickler for tidiness.”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Cosimo Graziano Rosselli reached behind the driver’s seat of his car to where Goccia sat in her basket and squeezed the loose skin on her head.

  “That seems to have caught our young detective’s attention, principessa. Let’s go back to the hotel for a while and let him build up a head of steam.”

  He removed the SIM card from the phone and with a flick of index finger against thumb, launched it into the undergrowth next to where he was parked in a quiet lane a few miles north of Nottingham.

  “Not much chance of the foolish boy trying to search for the card signal, little one, not in his state of mind,” he said, to an enthusiastic response of tail thumping. “But we can’t take chances. We must allow for every contingency, and one of those is that he puts up his hands. If that were to happen, we’d have every phone expert on the police force trying to trace us.”

  He smiled as he tossed Goccia a biscuit before turning to start the car. “We have a good stock of anonymous SIM cards; we can afford to be wasteful.”

  A ping from his regular phone alerted him to Gus Brooke’s car leaving the car park and heading in the direction of Rappington.

  “So early? I wonder what excuse he gave. Whatever it was, we’ll have some food before we move onto the next stage.”

  Back in his hotel room, Rosselli removed his Glock pistol from the reinforced metal case and went through the daily routine of disassembling and cleaning it. The Glock was now his weapon of choice for the scenario he had planned in the factory premises, although only as a back-up if his main plan was compromised. Satisfied it was in perfect working order, he reassembled it, wrapped it in its lint-free cloth and stowed it in his rucksack along with the silencer.

  After giving Goccia her supper and taking his own in his room, he checked the time.

  “Mmm,” he said, looking down at his beloved pug. “It’s been three hours since our detective returned home. I should imagine by now the place has been turned upside down, wouldn’t you, tesoro?”

  Goccia looked up from her food, her eyes catching his. She sensed what was coming next and didn’t like it.

  “Little one,” he said, as he gently stroked her head, “I hate doing this, as you know, but this evening I must leave you here. If my plans go awry and I have to move fast, I don’t want to risk your welfare. I should hate anything to happen to you. Let’s find you a nice cartoon channel, shall we?”

  Goccia settled in her basket in front of the television, resigned to her master’s decision.

  Although he hurried home as fast as he dare in the early evening traffic, Gus Brooke decided he would still make time to check on the padlock on the factory gates. He had deliberately left the chain and padlock oriented in a particular way that anyone removing it to enter the site would be unlikely to replicate when they left.

  Satisfied it hadn’t been touched, he ran back to his car and drove the last few miles home.

  Before starting the search in the cottage, Gus wanted to find out where his tormentor had been hiding outside. He stood near to where his car had been parked when he moved Trisha McVie’s body and let his eyes roam the outside of the garage and the garden, remembering that it had been dark when the man was watching.

  As his eyes searched the area, the name Olivia Freneton jumped into his mind, someone still often mentioned in the SCF. She had been well before Gus’s time, but he knew the case and knew she was dead. But thoughts of Freneton made him wonder if he was wrong in assuming his tormentor was a man? It was a natural assumption, but could it be a woman? Another Freneton? He hoped not. She had been a ruthless bitch with no qualms about killing anyone. There was no way his own natural charms would work on someone like that.

  The garden shed caught his eye and thoughts of Freneton evaporated. With a mature plum tree next to it giving extra shade to an already naturally shady part of the garden, anyone watching could remain hidden but still have a clear view of the rear of the house along with activity to and from the garage.

  He walked over to the area to take a closer look. There were hints of shoe prints but nothing substantial, while on the other side of the fence, a grassy bank that was part of a public right-of-way footpath bordering the farmer’s field appeared undisturbed.

  Next he looked in the garage at the spot where he had initially stored Trisha’s body. He had moved much of the garden furniture in the garage himself when creating the space for the body; the intruder must have moved some too but he had put it back in place, and after that, Gus had moved things again to access the body. It was all too difficult and staring at the spot wasn’t going to help. He would just have to wait for the next text bombshell and hope he would be alone when it arrived.

  Once in the kitchen, he tossed his keys on the worktop and stood by the cooker, trying to recreate in his mind the sequence of events on that wretched Tuesday evening. Assuming McVie had been wearing both earrings and that she hadn’t lost one earlier, how likely was it that one would just fall out? Extremely unlikely, in his opinion. That’s what the butterfly back of an earring was designed to do: to prevent the post from coming loose.

  So assuming it wasn’t damaged, how would it come loose? He thought about it and decided the most likely possibility was when McVie undressed in the guest bedroom. The earring could have become caught up in her clothing or dislodged when she was drying her hair. The other possibility would be when she had the accident in the upstairs bathroom. Could the impact of the head on the shower tray have loosened it sufficiently for it to fall out? Either way, the two bedrooms and bathrooms were the most likely places, not the kitchen, not the car. No, definitely not McVie’s car: the forensic team would have found it.

  Two hours later, Gus had searched every inch of the master bedroom and the one downstairs, moved furniture, lifted rugs, examined and felt down curtains, everywhere. There was nothing. He had moved his search into both bathrooms where the opportunities for a rogue earring to become hidden or lodged in something were far more limited and the result was the same. Was the tormentor having a laugh? He wished he had been more observant. He had no recollection of Trisha McVie, or Emma as he’d known her, even wearing earrings. Earrings hadn’t exactly been the focus of his attention, anymore than they had been McVie’s.

  He returned downstairs and slumped in one of the two easy chairs he and Mo kept in the kitchen, somewhere comfortable to sit while one or the other of them was busy preparing food, cooking or washing up.

  Picking up his phone, he clicked on the images sent that afternoon and studied them again. This person had been all but breathing over his shoulder. Why hadn’t he noticed? God, there was so much he hadn’t noticed.

  He still had no idea who the person could be, although he was pretty convinced he knew what they wanted. Money. Well, for that, they would have to come to him, and when they did, he would confront them, overcome them and get rid of them, whoever they were. He was fit, tall and strong. Not an easy opponent. He knew how to fight. There was no option. There was room in t
he metal bin for another body; the person could join Trisha McVie and they could rot together.

  He needed a drink, a scotch. His nerves had been to hell and back again since the first text arrived; he deserved some consolation. All he could do now was wait and hope that when the person contacted him again, he wasn’t with his colleagues.

  As he stood to walk over to the drinks cupboard, he was surprised to see the kitchen clock showing 8:56. When he’d arrived home, it had been daylight; now, night had fallen. Outside, with no street lights, it was completely dark, just as it had been when he moved Trisha McVie’s body, when the person who had burst into his awareness that afternoon had been standing in the shadows outside. Watching. Waiting.

  And worse, recording incriminating images on his phone, images that would without doubt send Gus Brooke to prison should they ever surface.

  He retrieved a prized bottle of fifteen-year-old single malt from the cupboard and poured himself a generous measure. He stared at the amber liquid, looking for some solace, some reassurance, wishing he could turn the clock back ten days and block the whole episode out of his life.

  He raised the glass to his lips but before it reached them, a sharp rap on the kitchen door froze him in his tracks.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Gus Brooke put the untouched glass of single malt on the countertop and walked over to the kitchen door, an incredulous frown on his face. Surely it couldn’t be his tormentor. Would the man be so stupid? Whoever it was, he would be no match for a fit six-foot-two police officer who excelled in unarmed combat. As he reached for the door handle, he remembered the outside light and flicked the switch to turn it on. The sudden light would give him an advantage, perhaps briefly dazzling whoever was standing on the other side of the door.