by D. S. Butler
‘Makes sense. You didn’t see him again?’
The girl looked horrified. ‘No, thank God.’
‘And you’d recognise him if you did see him again?’ Karen asked, getting into the front seat and putting on her seatbelt.
The girl nodded with conviction. ‘Absolutely. I’ll never forget his face.’
Back at the station, Karen took a short statement from Sam and then escorted her down to the technical unit to talk to a sketch artist. Though they weren’t actually sketch artists these days. They used a computer program with composite images to generate a likeness according to the witness’s description.
Karen left Sam downstairs and went to get a cup of coffee. She didn’t want her presence to affect the outcome of the image. It was too easy to look enthusiastic when a witness was picking out features similar to a suspect’s. To avoid any complications, Karen thought she was better off out of the room while they generated the image.
When she got back after twenty minutes, she was disappointed. Apart from the fact the composite image generated had dark hair, it didn’t look anything like either Stephen or Martin Fox.
‘Did I do all right?’ Sam asked, before taking a sip from the can of Coke Karen had brought back with her.
Karen smiled, to cover up her disappointment. ‘Yeah, thanks for your help. Why don’t I show you where you can grab a shower?’
Karen led her to the changing rooms as she thought about her next step. They could show Sam photographs of Stephen Fox and Martin Fox in the hopes she’d identify them. But that wouldn’t stand up well in court later. They’d need a full identification parade for an impartial ID. That wouldn’t be possible until they’d found the two Fox brothers, and Karen was unwilling to give up on Sam as a witness. Maybe they could put some photographs of Stephen and Martin in an ID book and try that.
If James Hunter really had been thrown from his balcony as Sam said, surely the other killings were all linked. They had to be. And Sam was the only one who could identify the killer.
After Sam showered, Karen found her some clean clothes and left her in the family room with a pile of magazines while she went to find DI Morgan.
He was sitting in his office with his head in his hands, staring down at a printout.
‘How did you get on with Elizabeth Fox?’ Karen asked as she took the chair in front of his desk. ‘Does she have any idea where they are?’
He looked up and shook his head. ‘If she does, she won’t tell me.’
Karen slid a copy of the composite image across the table to him. ‘I went back to James Hunter’s flat and talked to a homeless young woman who says she saw him being pushed off his balcony.’
‘That’s a game changer. She saw who did it?’
‘She said she saw a man push him off the balcony, and then the killer walked past her as he left the apartment building. I was hoping she’d give us an ID, but this isn’t good enough to identify Stephen or Martin as our killer.’
DI Morgan stared down at the image. ‘There is some similarity.’ Then he looked up at Karen. ‘We have officers watching Michael and Stuart’s houses, don’t we?’
Karen nodded. ‘Yes, and their families have been temporarily relocated. I want to show our witness photos of Stephen and Martin. I’ll put them in an ID book along with some other headshots to see if she can give us an ID.’
‘Okay. Do we have good-quality photographs of both brothers?’
‘I have photographs from the DVLA. They aren’t great quality when blown up, but they’ll do.’
‘Fine. Has Sophie or Rick had any luck tracking down Stephen or Martin yet?’
Karen stood up and shook her head. ‘It’s like they’ve vanished into thin air.’
‘They’re hiding,’ DI Morgan said. ‘And that tells me they’re guilty.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Stuart Bennett was freaking out. His breathing was ragged, and his heart was thudding in his chest. There were police officers outside now, watching him, watching his house. They’d even installed panic buttons. He didn’t understand it. They’d told him he could be in danger, and escorted his family out of the house this morning with barely any warning.
He hadn’t had a chance to explain things to his wife, and even if he’d had the time to do so, he had no idea what to say.
They’d mentioned it was related to their investigation into Oliver Fox’s death but hadn’t given any further details. Liz was going to do her nut. He’d never mentioned a word about Oliver Fox to his wife. Ten years of marriage and two kids, and still she knew nothing about it.
And why should she? It didn’t involve her, and Stuart didn’t want to contaminate his happy family life with that man’s evil. Some people coped better when they talked about things, but Stuart found it easier to compartmentalise. He’d locked the memories in a box inside his head and refused to let them out. It was his way of dealing with it all.
Psychologists and doctors might say it was unhealthy, but it was the only way he’d managed to get through the years that followed. If he’d allowed himself to think about it, he’d have gone crazy.
His parents had known something was wrong. After all, a thirteen-year-old boy didn’t start wetting the bed for no reason, but Stuart had remained stubbornly silent when they’d questioned him. That afternoon had put the fear of God into him, and he suspected even if he had been tortured, he would never have revealed the truth about what happened.
He glanced around his living room. Everything looked much the same. The TV was on, a quiz show, with flashing lights and an excitable presenter, but Stuart wasn’t paying attention. The children’s toys were still scattered on the sofa and floor because they hadn’t had a chance to tidy up before the police arrived.
He should put them away now, but he couldn’t find the strength to move from his chair. He was frozen, unable to act.
How had it come to this? It wasn’t fair. None of it had been their fault. They hadn’t asked for the disgusting unwanted attentions of that man.
He’d hated being singled out. The way Oliver Fox looked at him when he asked him to stay behind after class had made his skin crawl. He hated the tone of voice he’d used when he told Stuart he was special.
He hadn’t wanted to be special. He’d wanted to be normal and to be left alone to do normal things. He hadn’t asked for any of this.
James’s death had hurt him deeply. He’d stayed close to Michael as the years passed, but James had drifted away after he went to university. Despite the fact they were linked by their dark secret, time had put distance between them. Though neither he nor Michael or James wanted to talk about what happened in the past, it helped to have somebody who knew how it felt. To know that somebody was there for him if he needed them.
Stuart thought James must have killed himself because he didn’t have anyone to turn to, and that made him feel terribly guilty. He’d attended the funeral with Michael and wondered if things would have turned out differently if they’d kept in touch. According to James’s wife, he’d been doing well but then had started to drink again.
Stuart reached for the remote control and switched off the television. The house was strangely quiet, with just a slight creaking and gurgling from the central heating.
His thoughts returned to the police visit earlier. They’d told him next to nothing but had checked the windows and doors were secure and made sure the panic buttons worked. They’d installed three: one by the front door, one in the sitting room beside the sofa, and the other in the kitchen.
It was a silver button mounted on a black box. Stewart stared at the one beside the sofa and wondered how long it would take for the police to get here if he pressed it.
There were two officers outside, so they could be here almost immediately. But the panic button and the presence of police officers still didn’t make him feel safe. It didn’t help that the police hadn’t explained exactly why they thought he was in danger. He’d spoken to Michael earlier, and he too had no idea
what was going on. There had been no reply when he’d called Mr Grant.
Stuart chewed on a fingernail and nervously looked out of the window, checking the police car was still there.
It was.
He sat back down and shivered. What on earth was going on?
Karen stalked into the office area in a bad mood. She had just spent the last twenty minutes with Sam going through an ID folder. They’d included photos of Martin and Stephen in the book, intermingled with dozens of other headshots. Karen thought they’d struck gold when Sam hesitated over the photograph of Martin.
She’d said nothing, not wanting to influence the girl.
But her spirits soared when Sam smiled widely and said, ‘That’s him.’
‘Are you sure?’ Karen asked, needing confirmation before she raced off to tell the team.
‘One hundred per cent positive,’ Sam said. ‘I’ll never forget his face.’
Karen stood up and smiled. ‘Thank you. You’ve been a great help. Stick around, and we’ll get lunch in a bit.’
Sam grinned, but as Karen stood up and moved the file, the page turned, and Sam said, ‘Hang on a minute.’ She pulled the file back towards her, staring down at the photograph of Stephen Fox.
Karen frowned.
‘I was wrong,’ Sam said. ‘It wasn’t that first man. It was this man.’
Karen sat down again heavily. The brothers were similar in appearance, both dark-haired and dark-eyed, but they weren’t that similar. It wasn’t like they were identical twins.
Sam was too eager to please. Her heart was in the right place, but she wasn’t a reliable witness. Flip-flopping between two suspects was not a good start.
Sam caught the look on Karen’s face. She bit her lower lip. ‘Sorry, maybe I didn’t get quite as good a look at him as I thought.’
‘It’s okay. You did your best,’ Karen said, closing the folder.
‘I really wanted to help. I feel bad about not coming forward earlier.’
Karen tucked the folder under her arm. ‘I’ve got to get back to the office. You can hang around here for an hour or so if you still want to grab lunch?’
‘Yeah, thanks.’
Karen was almost at the door when Sam said, ‘You will catch him though, won’t you?’
‘We will,’ Karen said, and she meant it.
Wherever the two brothers were hiding, they’d find them.
Now Karen put the folder down on Sophie’s desk.
‘I take it the ID didn’t go well?’ Sophie said, looking up and reading Karen’s mood from the expression on her face.
‘Unfortunately not. How are you getting on? Have you managed to track down either brother yet?’
Sophie pointed to Rick, who was hunched over the phone on his desk. ‘Rick said he’s got a lead, but nothing concrete yet. Neither brother has gone home. We have officers waiting outside both residences. And Stephen still hasn’t turned up for work, which is very unlike him, apparently.’
‘Well, they can’t hide forever.’
‘How sure are we that it’s one of the brothers who killed James?’ Sophie asked. ‘It could be Elizabeth Fox or her sister, Laura.’
Karen shook her head. ‘Doubtful. It’s hard to imagine someone of Elizabeth or Laura’s stature overpowering a man like James Hunter, even if he was drunk. Plus our witness, Sam, says it was definitely a man who pushed James from the balcony.’
Sophie shrugged. ‘Sam’s not a reliable witness. She could have been high at the time. Or if Elizabeth was behind it, maybe she hired somebody to dispose of James Hunter or William Grant?’
William’s murder was particularly brutal, and Karen found it hard to imagine Elizabeth or Laura carrying it out. The sisters had an odd, competitive relationship, but she thought it was very unlikely Elizabeth or Laura were behind any of the murders. She liked to see Sophie working this way, though. The young officer was playing devil’s advocate, bouncing around theories and punching holes in assumptions. Karen smiled at her. It was good to see her back in the game and fully invested in the case.
Karen was about to tell her so when Rick put his hand over the mouthpiece of his phone and called out, ‘I’ve found Martin Fox.’
Karen and Sophie waited for him to finish the call.
After an agonising wait, he hung up and said, ‘Got him. Martin Fox is in a secure residential unit. The Peter Hodgkinson Centre at Lincoln County Hospital. He’s in inpatient mental health care. His brother admitted him last night.’
‘What time last night?’ Karen asked.
‘Eleven.’
‘And he’s been under observation all that time? If so, that means Martin couldn’t have murdered William Grant.’
Sophie leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk. ‘That doesn’t mean it wasn’t Martin who pushed James off the balcony, or Albert Johnson down the stairs, leaving him for dead.’
‘That’s one thing I don’t understand,’ Rick said with a frown. ‘If one of the brothers pushed Albert Johnson down the stairs, why would they leave the body in the suitcase? Surely they would want their father’s body to be found and laid to rest.’
‘Maybe they attacked Albert without knowing the body was in the house,’ Karen said, trying to think through the problem logically. ‘According to William, only he and Albert knew where the body was.’
Sophie sat back in her chair with a sigh and looked up at the ceiling. ‘The first two victims were killed by falls – James thrown from the balcony and Albert pushed down the stairs – but William Grant’s murder was far more violent than that. It doesn’t quite fit.’
‘If it’s the same killer, which we assume it is, it’s a dramatic escalation,’ Karen said.
‘True, but the murder was carried out under very different circumstances,’ Rick said. ‘Whoever killed William Grant would have wanted to dispatch him as quickly and quietly as possible, so they didn’t wake up the rest of the household.’
‘Very good point, Rick,’ Karen said. ‘The differences between the MOs had been bothering me, but that makes sense.’ She checked her watch. ‘If Martin has an iron-clad alibi, that leaves us with Stephen. I’d prefer to talk to him first, but it looks like he’s determined to hide, so let’s organise a search. We’ll turn his property upside down if we need to.’
‘I’ll get started on the warrant,’ Sophie said.
‘Great.’
DI Morgan walked into the office area and caught the last part of the conversation. He stopped at Sophie’s desk. ‘I’ve just spoken to the superintendent. We’ve applied for a warrant already, Sophie. We’re just waiting for it to be authorised. If he killed William, there must be evidence. In his car, his house . . . There was so much blood at the scene. No matter how careful he was, there will be forensic proof somewhere.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
As soon as the warrant was issued, Karen and DI Morgan booked a fleet car and drove to Stephen Fox’s house near the Cathedral Quarter.
‘What are you planning to do about Rob Miller?’ Karen asked as they headed along the A46.
DI Morgan looked surprised. ‘The man’s a bully, but what can I do? I made a mistake, and I have to hold my hands up to that. I’ve warned his ex-girlfriend. She’s on her guard now, and I advised her to collect evidence for a restraining order.’
‘He sounds like a real piece of work. Are you sure it was your screw-up and not his?’
‘Believe me, I wish that were the case. But two other members of the team heard me say the wrong address, too. It was my mistake.’
‘People like him make my blood boil. He gives police officers a bad name.’
‘Agreed.’ DI Morgan smiled. ‘Thanks for listening, by the way. It’s a relief to be able to talk to someone about it.’
‘No problem.’
DI Morgan slowed as they drove along Wragby Road, approaching Stephen Fox’s house. The crime scene van was already parked at the side of the street, waiting for the go-ahead.
Karen called the crime
scene manager, telling him things were in place, and DI Morgan turned left into the driveway.
She ended the call and got her first look at Stephen Fox’s home. The house and driveway were surrounded by beech and lime trees, which provided privacy both from the neighbouring houses and from the road. Karen shivered as the car came to a stop. It looked like an average Lincolnshire home. The 1930s detached house, with its bow windows and large chimney, looked perfectly ordinary.
The property was well maintained. Cheerful daffodils bloomed in the carefully weeded flowerbeds either side of the front door. There was nothing about the appearance of the house to suggest the person who lived there had lost their grip on reality.
The rest of the search team arrived shortly afterwards. As expected, no one answered when they knocked at the front door, so DI Morgan issued the order for the door to be opened with force. As if on cue, neighbours and other passers-by appeared at the top of the driveway, craning their necks to get a good look at the commotion. One of the uniformed officers stood guard, holding out his arms and gesturing for them to walk on. Karen heard him tell them to move away and go home. They shuffled backwards, but they didn’t leave. One woman held up her mobile phone, no doubt recording footage that would be posted on social media within minutes.
Karen turned her back on the rubberneckers and joined the rest of the team in putting on protective clothing. Although they had no reason to suspect the house was a crime scene, they still couldn’t risk contaminating any evidence they found there.
Two officers struggled with the garage door, and when they finally yanked it open, snapping the lock, they found the garage was empty. So Stephen Fox had taken his car. That was a good thing. In Lincolnshire, like many other counties, automatic number-plate recognition technology was used by the police to track vehicles. As soon as Stephen’s car passed an NPR device, its registration number would be read and then checked against a database of vehicles of interest. They’d flagged Stephen’s number plate already, so presumably it would be only a matter of time before they tracked him down.
