Dark Truths

by A. J. Cross

  She pulled a face. ‘I’ve fallen for that before. I say yes and you say “so do I”.’ She sat, pulling one of the several files on the table closer. ‘I’m dead sick of searching these. It’s taken for ever to get this far and there’s nothing.’ She looked up. ‘Have forensics finished examining Zoe Roberts’ car?’

  ‘Yes. No prints that weren’t hers.’

  ‘What about the cars owned by the other victims?’

  Watts went to the Smartboard, dragged information on to it. ‘Annette Barlow owned a Mini but didn’t drive into the city to work because of the hassle and expense of parking. Rhodes’ car, a Renault, was found outside his apartment block. Daniel Broughton’s Merc was on his drive behind locked gates when he disappeared.’ He sat on the edge of the table, pointed to the old files. ‘Any evidence in those that they took taxis or other types of public transport?’

  Judd shook her head. ‘So far, I haven’t seen any.’

  He looked to Traynor. ‘Got any observations on that?’

  ‘Yes. I’m revising what I said yesterday. I still doubt the victims knew him but if they each had some kind of offer of help from him, he might have offered them transport somewhere.’ Traynor looked at him, keeping his voice low. ‘And, in case you’re wondering, that revision doesn’t change what I said yesterday about Claire.’

  Watts looked at him. ‘I didn’t think it would.’

  Traynor went to the Smartboard, pointed at data. ‘What Christian Roberts said about Zoe offers confirmation that each of these victims was involved in potentially illegal activity. That’s a possible link.’

  Watts stared at the board, the pressure inside his head growing. Avoiding Traynor’s eye, he went back to the table, patted papers, lifted others. Judd reached for the paracetamol pack, held it out to him. He took it. ‘Where does Rhodes fit in? Answer: he doesn’t.’ He sat, giving the files a once-over. ‘What you said, Traynor, that whoever killed them was playing God. I want to follow up your idea that he selected the victims because they all featured at some time in newspaper reports. How about you float it past your friend Jess?’

  Traynor reached for his iPad. Watts left the table, returned in a couple of minutes with mugs of instant coffee.

  ‘Isn’t there some theory about everybody knowing everybody else? Three degrees of freedom, or something.’

  Traynor took one of the mugs. ‘That’s a statistical term. Do you mean six degrees of separation?’

  ‘Not a clue. What is it?’

  ‘It’s a way of measuring social distance between individuals. Example: all three of us are one degree from everyone else we each know, and two degrees away from all of those individuals they know. There have been experiments involving sending letters and emails to unknown but named individuals via acquaintances. Where it works, the average length of the chains of communication is five to seven steps between them, hence, the “six degrees” theory. I don’t see how it helps us.’

  ‘Me, neither,’ said Watts, ‘but it’s got a small-world feel to it that I like. It’s stopping me seeing this case in the basement, regardless of whoever they send to take over. It also reassures me that whatever the link between this killer and his victims, it’s possible to find it, given time. Which I haven’t got.’

  The iPad beeped. Traynor reached for it and quickly read the email. ‘Jess Meredith. She’s found no reference to Annette Barlow or Daniel Broughton being mentioned in her newspaper and so far, she hasn’t found any references to them in other papers. She also says that when Justin wrote pieces which were crime-related it was under the by-line “Just/ice”. His true identity was never divulged.’

  Traynor came to the table, placed his hands on it giving Watts a direct look. ‘Like I said, place is what all four have in common: Blackfoot Trail. One ran and died there, the other three were already there. Had been for years. Those are the factors which link all four.’

  Watts guessed where Traynor was going with this: a demand for a search of the whole area.

  The iPad bleeped again. Traynor said, ‘Jess has located Paul Clarke’s current whereabouts. I’ll go and see him first thing tomorrow.’

  Watts eyed him as he got ready to leave. The look on his face was the one Watts had seen when he and Judd were at his house. Focused. Intense. He gave his face a brisk rub. ‘I’m going to see two neighbours of Daniel Broughton’s.’ He located his keys. ‘I watched a programme on the telly a while ago. It was about crocodiles or alligators at this sanctuary place in Australia. Apparently, they don’t eat that often. They go months without anything, but they’re always there. On the lookout for prey. Waiting. There was one lurking under the water. You couldn’t see it but it was there. A bloke went up a ladder above where it was, held out a chicken’s foot. Nothing happened for a minute or two and then’ – he brought his hands together – ‘this massive thing shot out of the water like a bloody rocket, and the bloke dropped it into its mouth. Down it went into the water and disappeared, leaving hardly a ripple.’

  Judd looked up from the file in front of her. ‘It’s bad enough having to go through all of this without listening to stuff like that. It’s horrible. Scary.’

  ‘That, Judd, is our killer.’

  Chong watched Watts push his dinner around his plate. ‘Leave it, if you don’t like it.’

  He put down his fork. ‘It’s me. I’m not hungry.’

  She stood, took their plates. ‘Should I ask about the case?’

  ‘Best you don’t.’ They moved around his kitchen in silence. He looked at her. ‘I’m thinking of quitting. I mean, completely. I’ve worked repeat cases before, but nothing like this. I’ve had enough of Brophy’s carping. Enough of the scene, the grinding heat, the leads that go nowhere, the … everything.’ He gazed at her. ‘I’m done with it. I can’t carry on. I can’t take the pressure.’

  She nodded. ‘I’m guessing it’s of no help to say that Brophy is motivated solely by self-interest and that whatever decisions he makes are no reflection on you?’

  ‘I can’t blame him for calling time on me as SIO. We’re nowhere. I know it. He knows it.’

  ‘You’ve had difficult cases before and resolved them. Why are you allowing yourself to be diminished by someone whose focus is solely on protecting his own future? Has he got any ideas on how to take the case forward?’ She fetched milk. ‘No. I didn’t think so. By all means quit, if that’s what you want to do, but not because you’re tired and can’t see your way ahead. That’s doing Brophy’s work for him.’

  ‘I told you that Traynor thinks this case holds the answer to his wife’s murder. He’s convinced himself he’s right.’

  She came to him. ‘Maybe he is.’

  ‘No. It’s what Traynor does when he’s a bit haywire.’ He gazed at her. ‘The reasons I just gave for quitting. It’s nothing to do with any of them. What sticks in my throat is having this case taken away from me.’

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Wednesday 24 August. Nine fifteen a.m.

  Traynor got out of his car, his eyes moving over the neat orderliness of the low-rise technology park, current working address of Paul Clarke, one-time newspaper reporter. One-time colleague of Justin Rhodes. The location was just beyond the city’s southern boundary, Solihull lying a couple of miles further on. Which made it midway between the place where Zoe Roberts had run her last run and the legal practice where she’d worked. Entering the modern building Clarke had grudgingly described on the phone, finding nothing that resembled a reception area, Traynor went to one of several young males at standing workstations, headphones in place. He asked for Clarke. Not lifting his eyes from his screen, the worker pointed in the direction of a distant door. Traynor headed for it, walked inside a huge square room, boxes stacked around most of its perimeter, in its centre an island of wrap-around desk, a man slouched behind it. Late thirties to early forties, longish, sand-coloured hair mixed with grey, phone clamped to his ear, he was rotating on a black leather chair.

  ‘Luke, Luke, mate, just lis
ten, will you? Those are the terms of the contract you signed. If you want out before the two years, that’s up to you, but you pay us an additional percentage … Yeah, yeah. OK, let me know what you want to do.’ He ended the call. ‘Fuckwit!’ Dropping the phone on to papers in front of him, he looked up, frowned at Traynor. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘William Traynor, criminologist, police headquarters. We spoke on the phone yesterday and agreed a meeting here this morning.’

  Clarke began sorting papers. ‘I forgot. You’ll have to reschedule.’ Hearing Traynor’s footsteps coming closer, he looked up. The phone rang again. Clarke snatched it up, his eyes fixed on Traynor. ‘Yeah? Let’s do lunch, discuss it. One o’clock.’ He put down the phone. It rang again.

  Traynor pointed at it. ‘Take that call, I leave and you come to police headquarters at a time I choose.’

  Clarke glared up at him. ‘You want to see me. This is my workplace. What do you expect?’

  ‘Basic courtesy. My time is as valuable as yours, Mr Clarke. Police headquarters, two o’clock. Don’t be late.’

  Clarke was on his feet. ‘Just a minute! The phone’s off and I can spare you ten minutes.’

  ‘Anything we don’t cover, we’ll do at headquarters, like I said.’

  Clarke’s mouth tightened. ‘Let’s get on with it.’

  Traynor walked across the big space, dragging a chair to the desk. ‘Tell me everything you know about Justin Rhodes.’ He waited out the silence, studying Clarke’s face. ‘That name appears to have taken away your power of speech, Mr Clarke. Why is that?’

  Clarke shrugged, pushed back his hair. ‘I’m trying to remember who he was.’

  Traynor allowed the pause to run on. ‘Was?’

  ‘I’ve just remembered. He’s somebody I knew from years back. What about him?’

  ‘As I said, I want everything you know about him.’

  Clarke’s mouth twisted downwards, his eyes moving from Traynor’s. ‘We worked at the same place. Not here. Somewhere else. Why the interest?’ Traynor didn’t respond. Clarke’s hand twitched around the switched-off phone. ‘He worked for the same local paper but I can’t tell you anything about him. I didn’t have that much to do with him. I was a reporter. He was just a junior who knew nothing. There to learn the ropes.’

  ‘How was he doing?’

  Clarke shrugged. ‘Barely mediocre, on a good day. I tried to help him, set him straight. He wouldn’t have it. One of those people who knew it all.’

  Traynor gazed at him. ‘Sounds like he wasn’t doing too well.’

  Clarke’s mouth twisted again. ‘He wasn’t but he had the owner of that paper fooled.’

  Traynor went with it. ‘He rated Rhodes?’

  Clarke winked. ‘She. She fancied him. Gave him special interest stuff to follow up. I’d done some of that so, like I said, I tried to advise him.’ He looked at Traynor. ‘You want my honest opinion? Rhodes was an arrogant git. I’ll give you an example: he wanted to write this article about some murder case, don’t ask me which one, I don’t remember the details, but he was going on about getting the public on side because nobody had been arrested for these three murders. He was hoping he’d solve it.’ Clarke laughed. ‘What a dreamer! I told him straight, “Don’t waste your time. Why would people round here give a toss about some women murdered miles away, plus it’s old news, there’s no local interest, forget it”.’

  Traynor gazed at Clarke’s face, wanting to drive his fist into it. ‘Did he?’

  ‘Not him. He’d dredged up some articles, one saying that the husband of one of the women was a potential suspect.’ Traynor’s face was a careful blank. ‘I said to Rhodes, “See? The police know who did one of the murders and they still can’t sort the other two out, so what chance have you got?”’

  ‘What did Rhodes do?’

  Clarke sat back. ‘Far as I remember, he wrote something and it died a death.’ He looked at Traynor, his face splitting into a grin. ‘So, to speak. That was around the time I left.’

  ‘Why did you leave?’

  Clarke shrugged. ‘The place was a professional dead end for me. I had ideas for building up the paper, but the woman who owned it wouldn’t listen. She felt threatened by me, see. I should’ve left sooner.’ Canniness crept into Clarke’s eyes. ‘If you’re thinking of asking her about Rhodes, I wouldn’t waste your time. She’ll tell you nothing. Like I said, she and Rhodes were … you know.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Come on. You look like a man of the world. A player. You know what I’m saying. She was in her thirties then, nice enough looking, single. A bit desperate.’ Traynor’s hands gripped together. ‘Next thing I hear, Rhodes has disappeared. Pfft! Gone. Without so much as a word. Serves her right for not listening to me.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Why the interest in him?’

  ‘How come you’re working here?’ asked Traynor.

  Clarke gazed around his office, face smug. ‘This is my company. The reason I quit the newspaper. Leadership is my forte. It’s what I do. It isn’t my first venture. I ran a pub with a friend once but we fell out and it was too much like hard work so I ditched it. After that, I bought into a coffee shop. You’d think that the mark-up on a cup of coffee would put anybody selling it on Easy Street, wouldn’t you, but you’d be dead wrong. You have to sell thousands a week to make a profit. I offloaded it on to a bloke who hadn’t got a clue.’ He grinned. ‘He went on about the changes he was going to make to it, give the punters what they wanted. I told him, “Mate, they want bloody coffee!”.’

  ‘Did he succeed?’

  ‘Do I look like I care? I’m back to another of my strengths with this place: software. I started it with my dad as a sleeping partner. I’ve got big plans for it—’

  ‘It must have been a big financial reach, even with a partner.’

  He stared across at Traynor. ‘If it’s any of your business, a year after I set it up, my father passed away …’ Traynor could hear the word ‘luckily’ hanging on the air. ‘A terrible shock, of course, but he wanted me to make a go of this place, so I used the money he left to grow the business. It’s been hard, I can tell you. It’s no easy ride being the boss.’

  Traynor had recognized hubris and resentment in every word falling from Clarke’s mouth. He watched him consult a large wristwatch and preen. Traynor had met people like him in the course of his work, their insecurities and fault-finding antagonizing bosses and employees alike. A picture was forming inside Traynor’s head of this whole set-up deserted, a large board outside saying To Let, driven into the ground by Clarke. There was a lot about him to dislike and Traynor knew a number of unpleasant people who were also killers. ‘What do you think happened to Justin Rhodes?’

  ‘Not a clue. I know he disappeared. It was in the papers, so I’m guessing the police thought something had happened to him. He was always on about going down to London, being taken on by one of the big dailies.’ He grinned across at Traynor. ‘Maybe he met somebody who was as big a git as he was. Or a bit of a psycho.’ He pointed at Traynor. ‘Now there’s a lead for you, if you’re looking for one.’

  ‘Why would you think he met a psychopath?’ asked Traynor quietly.

  Clarke’s face changed. He sat up, switched on his phone. ‘Just a joke, for fuck’s sake. You asked me what happened to him. I don’t have a clue and care even less. You’re with the police. You sort it.’

  ‘We’ll bear in mind how much you disliked Justin Rhodes as we do that, Mr Clarke.’ Traynor went to the door, feeling Clarke’s eyes on him. The phone rang, Clarke’s words following him. ‘No, Luke, you listen. I’ve told you how it’s going to be … In that case, fuck you!’

  Eyes fixed on the road ahead, Traynor’s thoughts were still on Clarke. Liar. Schemer. Talentless. Envious of Justin Rhodes. It was easy to imagine him goaded into action by his own inadequacy and jealousy of Rhodes, seizing any chance to make life difficult for the young reporter who was showing the promise he himself didn’t have. It was possible that those feeling
s had coalesced into violence. Traynor put his hand to his hot forehead. He was doing exactly what he’d criticized Watts for doing: focusing on one victim. The feeling of unreality, of being disconnected, was back. Clarke’s dismissive comments about Claire’s murder had been another unexpected broadside. Is that how people thought about her? That she didn’t matter anymore? It suddenly occurred to him that after ten years they probably didn’t think about her at all. He gripped the steering wheel, getting himself together for the young woman he was on his way to meet.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Wednesday 24 August. Nine thirty a.m.

  Following an early jog and a cold shower, Watts had made breakfast for Chong and himself, after which she had left for headquarters and he was now looking across at a wide brick façade.

  David Winter was pointing across the road to it, his hand on Watts’ arm. ‘That was Broughton’s place.’

  Watts moved away from the hand. ‘Who lives there now?’

  ‘No idea. They don’t bother me so I don’t bother them.’

  Watts looked beyond the black railings at two sports cars and a Range Rover Sport. He followed Winter inside his house. The quick once-over he’d already given him told Watts that this suspiciously black-haired, late-forties man who owned a business which described itself as a ‘security consultancy’ had a physique he worked at.

  Winter was talking again. ‘When Broughton was working on that place, I was on his case the whole time. It went on for months, an eyesore and a nuisance from start to finish.’

  ‘That the only problem you had with him?’ asked Watts, knowing it wasn’t.

  ‘No. Even before he started the refurb, he had a habit of parking his vehicles on the road, letting his employees do the same. Then he started leaving one of his skips there. I told him that the road was too narrow and to keep his vehicles on his own property, away from my drive.’

  ‘What was Broughton’s response to that?’

  Winter gave him a shrewd look. ‘I got nowhere with him but you wouldn’t have come here without checking me out. I had a Barbarian truck back then. One day I reversed out, straight into the side of his Merc … accidentally, of course. The Merc came off worst, I can tell you.’