The Autumn Tree (DI Bliss Book 8)

by Tony J. Forder

  Nodding, Bliss swallowed and spread his hands. ‘I’m not about to do anything ridiculously stupid, boss… Moderately, at worst. My aim at the moment is to force him to lose his patience with me. If I get him in a roid rage at the right time, he might even tell me everything. I genuinely think he’d like to boast about it, because he certainly doesn’t feel any shame or remorse. Quite the opposite, if you ask me. At the very least he’ll end up attacking me if I keep pushing his buttons, and that’ll earn him some time behind bars. And I’ll be a frequent visitor, one who’s happy to spread rumours about him to some of the genuine hard bastards in there.’

  Warburton fired a look of genuine concern at him. ‘And if it goes the other way – if he has you for harassment – he walks, and you are kicked out of this job. You have to ask yourself if he’s worth it, Jimmy.’

  ‘With all due respect, boss,’ Bliss said, ‘Neil Watson might not be worth it, but the child he murdered certainly is.’

  Thirty-Five

  Bliss must have known more frustrating afternoons, but it was hard to bring one to mind as he left Thorpe Wood later that day. The vast majority of kennels were open and in business. This made them less than ideal locations in which to keep under lock and key an unwilling young woman who was probably being subjected to sexual abuse on a regular basis. Having the kennel staff, dogs, and in some cases their owners on site was hardly beneficial to the search teams, either, but the job had to be done nonetheless. Only two sites initially refused them entry without warrant, and Bishop had been unfortunate enough to cop them both. They had eventually agreed after he pointed out how much more thorough a warranted search might be, potentially requiring the complete closure of the site.

  Of the three businesses that were no longer operational, Bliss and Chandler had one on their short list. It was out in Eye, close to the quarry. The site backed on to Cat’s Water drain, a narrow river that wound its way from the industrial area of Fengate all the way round and across to Thorney on the north-west fringe of the city’s boundary. In addition to the kennel blocks and the main office building, the property also contained living accommodation in the form of a large bungalow. Bliss had been pleased to see two cars parked outside.

  The owners proved to be a delightful elderly couple. Their story was symptomatic of the time and social conditions in which they lived. Stoical, they had accepted their fate and closed down the business in the face of huge competition and a meagre profit that dwindled with each passing year. The less people travelled, the less they needed to board their pets; it was a simple enough equation, with no room for diversification. The couple were happy enough for the two detectives to search away, even tossing Bliss the keys and asking him to pop them back through the letterbox when they were done.

  ‘It’s still the best break we have at the moment,’ Bishop insisted when they all assembled in the incident room shortly before 5.00pm. ‘We need to widen the search. Perhaps get other areas involved and looking on our behalf.’

  Bliss understood his colleague’s line of thinking – but the trouble was, none of them knew precisely how far that search area might extend, nor in which direction. The dumping of their first victim’s body at the chalk pits suggested the holding area might be as far south as Cambridge. A lot of acreage stood between the two cities. It felt like an impossible task. But Bishop was right not to show his anxiety. Bliss wouldn’t have, either.

  Data had started coming in from mobile providers. There was plenty of it, and it would take a while to collate into some kind of order. Warburton, Bishop and Bliss discussed the relative importance of what they had and what was to come. Their first request had been related to their victim’s presumed business phone, and the three decided they had progressed beyond the point where its data would be of use to them in finding Abbi Turner. Their initial goal, that of finding out why Majidah Rassooli had been killed and by whom, was no longer the Phoenix priority; what they were after now was anything that might lead them to the man Turner had been seeing recently. For that, they needed her phone data, which had not yet arrived and was unlikely to be ready for assessment until the following day.

  Bliss was the first to venture his thoughts on the matter. ‘I’m not convinced we’ll find what we’re looking for. People can be dumb, which is often the reason we catch them. They make stupid mistakes when they commit crimes. But we’re not talking about criminals here. These girls share information the way they share their fears. Yes, you could argue that if they are willing to branch out on their own, they’re probably dense enough to make stupid mistakes, like having incriminating text conversations on their phones. But do any of us genuinely believe we’ll find something from this Des bloke on Turner’s phone?’

  ‘You said criminals could be dumb,’ Bishop countered.

  ‘And I’m not saying he’s not. I’m saying I doubt she is. Keeping incriminating evidence on a phone she’s already not supposed to have would be foolish in the extreme.’

  ‘So why did we have Gul beg for the data?’ Warburton asked.

  ‘Because we still need to go through the motions. And yes, I suppose there is still a remote possibility of us finding something useful. But we’ve moved on since making the initial request, the parameters have changed, and to me it’s more likely to be Nicola Parkinson’s phones that give us something solid.’

  ‘And when do we expect to have that data in?’

  ‘First thing tomorrow, with a bit of luck and a following wind.’

  Bishop was of the opinion that they’d be better off recharging their batteries while those with the right amount of technical savvy went about the business of sorting the data into neat packages of relevant information. Warburton agreed. Both looked to Bliss, who nodded.

  After Warburton called it a night, Bliss rejected requests to join the others for a drink. He had plans, he told them. He just didn’t reveal what they were.

  Chandler had come up trumps. Her friend, Trish, worked for a company based in a unit in Orton Longueville. They specialised in exercise and physical therapy, part of which included specialist massage techniques. Bliss sat in a chair outside her designated room for fifteen minutes while she treated her final scheduled client of the day. When it was his turn, he shook Trish’s hand and thanked her for extending her working day on his behalf. She looked to be about the same age as Chandler, and wore what looked like white scrubs beneath a white jacket, her hair up and held in place with an array of claw-like clips.

  ‘Penny told me it was an emergency,’ she explained with a warm smile.

  ‘I think she exaggerated. I ache and I’m a bit sore, but I’d hardly describe it as a crisis.’

  Trish shook her head. The smile broadened. ‘Oh, no. Penny said the emergency was her need not to hear you whingeing and whining anymore.’

  Bliss laughed. Typical. ‘Again, she exaggerates. So, how do we do this?’

  Trish asked him a few pointed questions about his general health and fitness and made a few notes in her diary as well as on a sheet of unlined A4 paper. Eventually she nodded. ‘Sounds to me as if the areas we need to work on most are your arms, shoulders and legs. If you’re happy for me to go ahead, I’ll leave the room for a couple of minutes while you strip down to your underwear. There’s a fresh towel on the massage table that you can wrap around you for modesty.’

  Five minutes later, Bliss was face down looking through a hole in the table while Trish got to work on him. Powerful fingers kneaded his muscles, from his wrists up along the arms. She had just moved from his biceps to his shoulders when he asked how she came to know Chandler.

  ‘I run exercise classes as well as doing this,’ she told him. ‘Penny comes as often as she can make it – usually on a Thursday night, when we have later sessions running. We got on well and we’ve been friends for the past couple of years. Actually, she mentioned you to me before. Said you were instrumental in putting her back in touch with her daughter.’

  ‘I did what I could. Other people did the hard graf
t.’ Bliss grunted the last word as her fingers found a tender spot. In truth, he was enjoying the sensation a lot more than he would ever admit to Chandler afterwards. Outside of work, he hated to accept her good ideas, but this had been one of her better efforts. The pain provoked by massaging sore muscles quickly evaporated, the restorative natural chemicals released into his bloodstream helping along the stretching and softening of fibre and tissue.

  By the time Trish had finished with his calves, Bliss was becoming drowsy. Yet at the same time he felt exhilarated, soothed by the skilful masseuse. He knew he was experiencing a mild case of euphoria, and it felt wonderful. He owed Chandler a drink.

  ‘Okay,’ Trish said eventually, walking around to the head of the table. ‘If you can just turn yourself over and lie still for a few minutes, I’ll prepare the oils for the next stage.’

  Bliss didn’t want to move, but started easing his body up from its prone position. ‘Fair enough. What is the next stage?’

  She smiled at him and gave a slow wink. ‘It’s okay, Inspector. There’s no need to say the actual words. I’ve seen enough police officers in my time to know you won’t. But, hey, nobody comes here for just a massage. You relax. I’ll finish you off nice and slowly.’

  Bliss’s eyes sprang wide open. Something raspy started buzzing in his ears. Did she mean what he thought she meant? If she did, he had to put a stop to it. But if she didn’t, how insulted would she be? Her being Chandler’s friend only added to the pressure.

  ‘When you say… finish me off… what does that entail, Trish?’ He winced at the feeble uncertainty he could hear in his voice.

  ‘Oh, you want details, do you? Well, it’s down to you. It’s a freebie because of what you did to help Penny. But just because it’s free doesn’t mean it has to be a quickie. If all you want is a happy ending, I can give you that – but if you want more, I’m game.’

  Bliss pulled himself up onto his forearms. He swivelled himself around until he was sitting on the padded table, thankful for the towel bunched up around his waist. He kept his head down, desperate not to meet the woman’s eyes. ‘Thank you so much for the massage,’ he said. ‘You were excellent, and I feel great. But I think we can leave it there.’

  ‘Oh, come on. There’s no need to be shy, Inspector. As I mentioned, you wouldn’t be the first policeman I’ve pleasured.’

  He groaned and began levering himself off the table to his feet. Which was the exact moment the door flew open behind him. ‘Detective Sergeant Bliss!’ a female voice said. ‘What on earth is going on here? This is a room for legitimate massage therapy, not a knocking shop!’

  Bliss turned to look back over his shoulder. ‘You bloody monster!’ he cried. ‘I’ll pay you back for this, Penny Chandler. You see if I don’t.’

  She was already cracking up. ‘You should see your face. I wish I had a mirror – better still, a camera. Hold on, let me get my phone out.’

  ‘Don’t you dare. You’ve done me up like a kipper, you rotten cowbag. What if I’d gone through with it?’

  Convulsed with laughter, Chandler pulled both hands to her stomach. Beside her, Trish was doubled up, laughing so hard she appeared to be in pain. The pair were unable to say or do anything else for a full minute. By the time they got their breath back, both complained of needing to pee.

  By that time, Bliss had closed his eyes and put his head in his hands. He’d been entirely had – set up by Chandler in a way he’d never dreamed possible. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to cry. But one thing he knew for sure: he would never, ever live this moment down.

  Thirty-Six

  The voicemail message he’d received from Edward Barr interested Bliss enormously. Teddy had followed George Moss from the Yard of Ale pub as planned. The man started walking towards the railway bridge, but had then nipped down an alleyway between a shop and a house. Wary of being caught out a second time, Barr had hung back, emerging onto the street at the far end in time to see his quarry disappear into the cream and grey housing block on the other side of the road. As he’d walked slowly along by the garages opposite, he spotted Moss appearing from a staircase doorway. The man headed along the external landing and eventually used a key to open the third door on the right.

  Subsequent investigation revealed the flat’s tenant was one Christine Bell. Further searches listed Bell and Moss as having been foster children in the same local authority home. The information had taken a fair bit of digging out, Barr claimed – more spadework than the police would have been willing to do in their casual searches for a man whose reputation suggested only mild – if frequent – form.

  Following a swift pint with Chandler and Trish, during which time he took the sly digs and occasional renewed howls of laughter with good grace, Bliss called Barr as he climbed into his car. ‘I got your message. You still on him, Teddy?’ he asked.

  ‘I hung around for a few minutes, but started sticking out. I didn’t want to risk blowing it. I thought him using his own key swung it as being the place he crashes in. If he ain’t there when you drop by, he will be later.’

  ‘I’m going to pay him a visit shortly.’

  ‘You want backup?’

  Bliss smiled to himself. ‘You recovered, have you, Teddy?’

  ‘Well… no.’

  ‘There’s your answer, then.’

  He briefly thought of involving Chandler, even if only to make her aware of his whereabouts and the situation he had become embroiled in, should things turn ugly and become worse than that. He decided not to, for two viable reasons: first, Chandler would nag him to step away and allow matters to take their natural course; second, when he refused to do so, she would insist on accompanying him. That was a risk he was unwilling to take, because he didn’t know this particular journey’s destination.

  Minutes after speaking with Barr, Bliss was knocking on the door to Christine Bell’s home. It was she who answered. Although not recognising the man who stood on her doorstep, she did seem to realise he was not about to try selling her a new set of windows or spread the word of God. She asked who he was with deep suspicion in both her tone and her stance.

  ‘I’m the man you need to invite inside without making a fuss or continuing to question me,’ Bliss said, having decided not to show his warrant card ID. ‘I need a chat with George. I’d prefer to do so quietly, but I can go the other way if you force me to.’

  Bell’s glare was defiant, but he could tell she wasn’t about to do anything stupid. He eased off the hard-edged approach. ‘Look, all I want is a word. Nothing more than that.’

  With a sigh of disapproval, she stood to one side, but made sure to first call out a warning to Moss. When Bliss walked into the living room at the far end of the hallway, it was like stepping into an oven. The night was cold, but the radiators in here must have been at their highest setting. Bliss’s attention was immediately drawn to the man on his feet in the centre of the room, one hand holding a bottle of beer like a cosh.

  ‘Put it down, George,’ Bliss said, shaking his head slowly and deliberately. ‘That’s not the way you want this to go, believe me. I’m not even here about you. I want to talk to you about Neil Watson.’

  The penny dropped and relief flooded the man’s eyes. All tension left his body. He was not a big man, but tall and rangy, and in relaxing he lost some of his presence. He tossed the bottle onto the sofa behind him. ‘You’re police, yeah?’

  ‘For the time being, I’m not telling you who or what I am, George. Let’s say I’m a concerned citizen.’

  ‘Yeah, right. I know one when I see one.’

  Undaunted, Bliss moved on. ‘Whatever. I’m not interested in what you think or don’t think. My only interest in you is your association with a child-killer.’

  Bell gasped. She looked from Bliss to Moss and back again, pawing at a gold crucifix on a chain around her neck. ‘What?’

  ‘I take it George hasn’t told you about his mate, Neil Watson?’

  ‘I know him. He’s been here a few t
imes in recent weeks. What’s all this about him being a child-killer?’

  ‘Don’t listen to him, Chris,’ Moss said, shaking a hand defensively. ‘The filth are trying to fit Neil up. He was shacked up with some kid’s mother, and she murdered the kid. Not Neil. She’s even doing time for it.’

  ‘Yes, and for his crime,’ Bliss insisted. ‘So go on with your story, George. Tell Christine here why Neil is not also behind bars.’

  Moss peered down his nose contemptuously. ‘What, you mean because the kid’s mum confessed? You mean that reason?’

  Bliss took a step closer. Close enough to see the film of sweat on the man’s thin moustache. ‘You know I don’t. Watson is not doing time for murder, or even GBH, because he had an alibi. Isn’t that right, George?’

  ‘George?’ Bell’s voice was soft, unsure of herself as her gaze shifted to Moss. ‘What’s he on about? What is all this?’

  Moss said nothing. He breathed heavily, his frame having become rigid once more. Bliss had sensed the man’s earlier relief when he’d realised the stranger in the living room was only a cop, but he was becoming agitated all over again. It caused Bliss to wonder who he’d been expecting – and what the result of that visit might have been.

  ‘I don’t think he’ll come straight out with it,’ Bliss said to Bell, capturing her attention. She was no taller than five foot in her slippered feet, hair unwashed and unkempt. Her clothes looked clean, at least, if creased and leached of colour. The fingers of one hand continued to toy with the chain at her throat.