Where Secrets Lie

by D. S. Butler

  DI Morgan stayed outside, issuing the officers with instructions. Karen headed in to get started. It was a large three-bed house and would take some time to search thoroughly. They weren’t looking for a murder weapon, which actually made the search harder. At this stage, they didn’t know what was relevant and what wasn’t, so they were going in blind, hoping to stumble upon something incriminating.

  The crime scene team began to swab samples around every drain. They would sample and photograph the washing machine, the sinks, toilets and any other outlets. Nothing would escape their attention. She was expecting the search to take hours. A systematic search of a residence took a whole team of police officers the better part of a day.

  They’d been in the house for less than five minutes when an officer called out to inform the team that he’d discovered a black bag filled with bloodstained clothes in the utility room just off the kitchen. Karen was surprised that the evidence was lying around in plain sight. Stephen Fox hadn’t even attempted to cover his tracks.

  Unlike his brother Martin, Stephen had worked hard to create an elaborate façade. His external appearance was that of a mild-mannered, hard-working man in his forties. He didn’t stand out, and that was what made him so dangerous.

  The bloodstained clothing was placed in labelled evidence bags and taken back to the lab. The blood would be analysed to see if it matched William Grant’s, as a priority.

  Stephen Fox’s computer was in a downstairs room. Although originally designed as a dining room, with a small hatch through to the kitchen, he’d been using the room as a study. The laptop was in plain view in the centre of the desk, and making their job even easier, the laptop was unlocked. Didn’t everybody use password protection these days? Why hadn’t Stephen Fox bothered to hide anything? Had he been so confident he wouldn’t be caught? Or maybe, Karen thought, he didn’t care if the police caught up with him. Maybe he wanted recognition for the crimes he’d committed. Maybe he wanted people to know his father’s death had been avenged.

  ‘Have you seen this, Karen?’ DI Morgan asked. He was standing beside an oak filing cabinet in the corner of the study.

  Karen turned and inhaled sharply when she saw he was holding a blue ring binder.

  It reminded her of the folder she’d kept after her husband and daughter died. She’d been searching desperately for answers, looking for any reason to explain their deaths other than it all being a cruel, random accident. She’d gathered everything she could, from copies of witness statements and accident reports to photographs of the road where it happened, all intermingled with her own notes.

  ‘Everything all right?’ DI Morgan said, frowning.

  Karen nodded and held out a gloved hand to take the folder from him. She flicked through it and felt an unexpected pang of sympathy for Stephen Fox. He’d collected articles, photographs, postcards and other information about his father. In a plastic sleeve there were yellowing newspaper clippings. Karen paused, studying one of the articles, which contained a photograph of Oliver Fox awarding prizes at a school sports day. He was smiling widely at the camera, holding up a small trophy. A group of young boys were lined up behind him. She felt the urge to snap the folder shut, but carried on turning the pages.

  There were more photographs, but this time they weren’t of Oliver Fox. They were pictures of James Hunter, Michael Simpson and Stuart Bennett. As she turned more pages, she saw details on William Grant and Albert Johnson – addresses, phone numbers and daily schedules. He’d been stalking them.

  Karen looked up sharply.

  ‘I think we’ve found our proof,’ DI Morgan said.

  They spent more time looking over the folder and Karen noticed an interesting aspect. The photographs and newspaper clippings of Oliver Fox were old, but the photographs of Albert, William, James, Michael and Stuart were all recent. There were dates and times scribbled on a sheet of A4 paper relating to Stuart’s daily commute to work, what time his wife took their daughter to school, and the days Stuart came home for lunch.

  Karen shook her head. ‘How was he able to do this while holding down a full-time job?’

  DI Morgan shrugged. ‘He managed an estate agents on Mint Street. He was the boss, so I suppose he just took time off when he wanted to.’

  ‘Have you noticed that the dates and times he was following them are all after James Hunter’s death, but there’s no record of him following James before he killed him? That means James was the trigger. We need to find out why.’

  ‘We need to find Stephen. We’ve had an alert out for all units. He has his car, and yet nothing’s been triggered on the NPR.’ DI Morgan shook his head, exasperated.

  Karen’s mobile began to ring. ‘It’s Rick,’ she said.

  After speaking to him, she hung up and turned to DI Morgan. ‘Rick has CCTV footage of Stephen leaving the hospital last night, but after that he disappeared. He was in his car, though. It should only be a matter of time before he’s picked up.’

  Another officer called for DI Morgan from upstairs, and he turned and headed for the staircase.

  Karen looked around the study. Everything was perfectly ordered and tidy.

  There had to be something personal in the house, something that would reveal more of his character and give them some idea of what had triggered him to behave this way.

  She slowly walked around the downstairs of the house, going from room to room. In the kitchen, one of the CSIs was working their way through the cupboards and drawers. The dishwasher had been opened, and inside there were some bowls and mugs but no glasses.

  Karen opened all the cupboards in turn. There were a couple of tumblers, but no wine glasses to be seen. That was odd. Even if Stephen didn’t drink himself, most people kept glasses for visitors. It’s not like wine glasses were that expensive.

  She walked out of the kitchen towards the sitting room and looked around for any other cupboards or cabinets that could be hiding more glasses. She came up blank.

  She then walked into the living room and looked at the framed photographs above the mantelpiece. There were three. One was a duplicate of the happy family photograph they’d been shown at Elizabeth’s house. Another was a photograph of Stephen sitting in his father’s lap, and the third was a group of men standing in a line. They wore orange vests, and it looked like they’d taken part in some sort of training day. She looked carefully at all of the faces but saw none she recognised, other than Stephen. All the men were raising their drinks to the camera. Every man held a pint. Except Stephen. He held a small glass of orange juice.

  She pulled out her mobile again and called Elizabeth Fox.

  The woman let the phone ring for a long time before she answered: ‘Hello.’ Her voice was tense and strained.

  ‘Mrs Fox, DS Karen Hart of the Lincolnshire Police.’

  The woman groaned. ‘Haven’t you put us through enough already?’

  ‘I’m sorry to trouble you again,’ Karen said. ‘We have a few follow-up questions for Stephen, and it’s rather urgent we speak to him. I just wondered if in the meantime you could answer a question for me. Does Stephen have a drink problem?’

  ‘Not anymore,’ Elizabeth said proudly. ‘He’s attended AA meetings for nearly twenty years and hasn’t touched a drop in all that time. So you see, he’s not the terrible person you think he is. He’s helped countless people break their addictions and is always there to support people in his group when they’re struggling.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Fox.’ Karen said. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’

  Karen hung up and made her way upstairs to look for DI Morgan. She found him in the master bedroom going through the wardrobe.

  ‘Sir, I think I know how James and Stephen met and how all this started.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘AA. Stephen attends meetings, too.’

  Before DI Morgan could reply, his mobile rang and he snatched it up quickly. ‘DI Morgan.’

  Karen watched his face harden as he listened to the person on the o
ther end of the line. Then he hung up with a curt ‘Thanks.’

  He walked towards the bedroom door. ‘Let’s go,’ he said. ‘Stephen Fox’s car has been found.’

  ‘Where is it?’ Karen asked, following him down the stairs.

  ‘Merton Road. Two streets away from Stuart Bennett’s house.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Stephen Fox put his hands in his pocket, making sure he still had his latex gloves. He felt the soft rubbery texture and smiled. Everything was ready. But there was no need to put them on yet. He had plenty of time.

  He strolled along the street, smiling at a woman with a toddler in a pushchair, and then turned into the alley that ran along the back of the houses on Turner Road. It was quiet in the alley, peaceful, and he paused for a moment to reflect.

  There was no need to rush. Everything was in place. People who rushed made mistakes. That was something his father had been fond of saying. More haste, less speed, he’d say when Stephen was getting frustrated with his Lego or Meccano, or trying to knot his own tie in the morning.

  His family had been robbed of so much when his father disappeared.

  Stephen patted down his pockets, looking for his old mobile. He’d turned it off in case the police tried to track him. He expected to get caught of course, but didn’t want them to find him until he’d finished his duty. After clicking the battery into place and switching it on, he had missed calls from numbers he didn’t recognise, as well as from his mother and brother, and even a couple from his Aunt Laura.

  It wasn’t easy to ignore them. Especially Martin. He needed his elder brother, and Stephen had done everything he could to fill a father’s role for Martin. But he hadn’t been good enough. Despite his best efforts, Martin had been damaged by the whole experience, and no matter how much support Stephen gave him, he would never be able to live a normal life. He couldn’t hold down a job, or even be trusted to take the vital medication that kept him safe.

  People always felt sorry for the victims of crimes, but their families were forgotten. Stephen, Martin and their mother had been cast aside and left to cope alone.

  He closed his eyes and leaned against the brick wall. The sunlight was filtering through the bushes and trees opposite, and he focused on the sound of a bird singing.

  He wasn’t looking forward to what he had to do now. But it was his duty. The first two deaths had been easy, but William Grant’s had been a horrible, gasping death that had haunted him all day. The man had deserved it, though. He’d had it coming. They all did. They’d killed his father then made him suffer the indignity of not allowing him to rest in peace. They’d had no closure. No memorial to their father. Martin was an emotional wreck, and their mother had been consumed by bitterness because for years she’d believed her husband had walked out and left her.

  Stephen shook his head, opened his eyes and began to walk again.

  It was odd how things had played out. None of this would have happened if he hadn’t received that phone call six months ago. Stephen scowled, remembering James Hunter sobbing down the telephone because things were getting too much for him.

  James was weak, nothing like Stephen. He didn’t know what it was to really suffer.

  Stephen had been sober for twenty years and was willing to support those who felt temptation was getting the better of them. His willpower was unbreakable. He could still feel the call of the bottle and practically taste the burning alcohol on his tongue if he allowed himself to think about it, but he never gave up. He was strong and knew he would never falter. He probably didn’t need the meetings, but kept attending because those afflicted with the same disease needed to see it was possible to beat it.

  For the most part, it was a thankless task. Most of the people he tried to help fell off the wagon multiple times, just like James.

  James’s drunken revelation had been a reward for Stephen’s dedication and unselfishness.

  When he’d got to James Hunter’s flat that night, the pathetic man had been babbling. He’d said the guilt was eating him up from within. It had taken all his self-control to sit beside James and keep his expression neutral, nodding encouragingly now and again as James related the whole story.

  He’d never felt anger like it. He’d wanted to throttle the life out of the other man. But he’d kept calm. Somehow he’d kept his emotions in check. But when they’d both been on the balcony, he’d acted on impulse. His head was crystal clear, in contrast to James’s foggy, alcohol-contaminated brain. And it had been easier than he’d expected. One quick lift and push, and James was plummeting to the ground.

  Afterwards, he’d felt no remorse. None at all.

  After his first kill, Mr Johnson had been easy enough. He’d taken the key from under the flowerpot by the back door. Such a silly place to keep a spare key. Wasn’t that the first place a burglar would look if they wanted to break in?

  One firm shove and the old man had tumbled down the stairs, hitting the wall on the way down. Stephen had been sure he was dead, so when he heard Mr Johnson had been taken to hospital, it had been a shock. If he’d have known he was hanging on to life, he would have finished him off.

  He hadn’t made the same mistake with William Grant. There had been so much blood, with Mr Grant. He’d almost lost control, wanting to run away and close his eyes so he didn’t have to look at the blood. But now it was over, he could see it had been necessary. The blood was cleansing and had purified the sins of his old teacher. It was an apt end for those who had conspired to kill his father.

  He’d been a little surprised at his complete lack of remorse. He wasn’t a monster, but they didn’t deserve his pity or regret. Mr Johnson and Mr Grant had taught him for years after they’d killed his father. Had they ever shown him kindness? No. Had they shown him compassion? No. The evil men deserved it.

  He thought back to James Hunter’s pathetic babbling. We didn’t know what to do. We just found him there . . . bleeding. There was so much blood.

  Of course, James had been lying. They’d killed his father between them. Otherwise, why would he feel so guilty? He must’ve seen the disgust on Stephen’s face and decided to modify his story. But it was too late. Stephen had seen the truth in his eyes. The man in front of him had killed his father.

  Stephen smiled. Now there were just two left.

  Outside, a door slammed, and Stuart jumped.

  He gripped the arms of his chair. Relax, he told himself, it’s just the neighbours getting home from work. He sat there for a moment, listening for other noises, but all was quiet. All day he’d been on tenterhooks, waiting for something terrible to happen.

  He relaxed back into the chair and glanced at his mobile phone as it lit up with another text message from his wife. Liz wasn’t happy, and who could blame her? He hadn’t answered the phone since she’d left for the safety of the police station with their daughter.

  She wanted answers. But he wasn’t ready to give her any.

  He had no idea how much the police had told her. She’d left the house in a mad panic, stuffing belongings into bags and then rushing out to a waiting unmarked police car.

  Stuart had kissed her and his daughter before they left and promised to tell his wife everything later, but he didn’t want to. He’d tried so hard to keep Oliver Fox from contaminating his new life. His way of coping was to pretend that it had all happened to someone else, not him. He was a happy, family man. A good husband and a good dad who held down a steady job and provided for his family.

  He didn’t want her to know what had happened to him when he was only a boy.

  The police officers who’d come to the house had looked at him curiously, trying to work out whether he was reckless or brave for refusing to leave his house and go with his family to the safety of the police station. But he was neither reckless nor brave. He was a coward. He was afraid to tell his wife what had happened. Afraid it would make her look at him differently. And he was absolutely terrified that the next time he looked in her eyes, he would
n’t see love or amusement as he delivered his ridiculous jokes, or even mild irritation when he’d forgotten to take the bin out again . . . He would see pity, and he couldn’t bear that.

  He reached for the remote control, flicking through the channels before settling on an episode of Homes under the Hammer. Stuart felt chatter from the programme wash over him and tried to concentrate. But it was no good. Flickering images from the past flooded over him. Things he’d kept locked away and out of mind for so long were now pushing their way back to the front of his brain. Why did this have to happen? Things had been going so well. He’d been holding everything together. So why . . .

  Stuart froze when he heard the doorbell.

  He waited. Had he imagined it? He switched off the television and almost jumped out of his chair when the doorbell sounded again.

  The police officers were still outside, weren’t they? Or had they been called away?

  He switched off the TV, got to his feet slowly and walked out of the living room into the hallway. Through the opaque glass in the front door he could see a shadow.

  Why was he so scared? Should he press the panic button?

  He wanted to be brave, to arm himself, but instead he walked towards the door like a lamb to the slaughter, too tired to fight.

  He paused at the door, took a deep breath and then reached up to unlock it.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Stuart sagged against the door frame when he saw Karen, DI Morgan and three uniformed officers at his door. He brought a shaky hand up to his forehead to wipe away the sweat.

  ‘I thought . . .’ he started to say, but didn’t finish his sentence.

  He didn’t need to. Karen understood he was scared. She felt they should have been upfront with him, but the superintendent had wanted to keep developments quiet until they collected the evidence they needed. ‘Can we come in, Stuart?’

  She looked over her shoulder to check the street was empty. There were a few cars parked along the road, including an unmarked fleet vehicle containing plain-clothed officers watching the house. A curtain twitched at a downstairs window in the house opposite. Apart from that, it was quiet. There was no sign of Stephen Fox yet.