A Place To Bury Strangers (Atticus Priest Book 2)

by Mark Dawson

  “Come on,” Atticus said. “There would’ve been a long line of people.”

  “You think this is because of…” He waved his hand. “Because of…”

  “The child pornography?” Atticus finished for him. “I don’t know. That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

  “Jesus,” Derek said, exhaling. “Jesus.”

  “That’s why I need you to help me. I want to find out what happened to him.”

  Derek looked stunned.

  “He went abroad, didn’t he—after the trial?”

  “I don’t know,” Derek said.

  “Yes, you do.”

  Derek walked off again.

  Atticus followed once more. “When did he get back into the country?”

  “I wish I could help, but I can’t.”

  “You defended him before, Derek, and I always wondered why. Did you know more about what he was doing than you said? Were you involved?”

  Derek looked back with anger in his eyes. “No. We were never close. I don’t know where he went after the trial. I haven’t seen him for months. That’s it. I don’t know anything else. I’m sorry, really, but I can’t help you.”

  Derek was no fool, but he was not a good enough liar to pull the wool over Atticus’s eyes. He had managed to keep his face neutral, save the odd twitch, but it was the manner of his voice that gave the game away. Atticus had already established a baseline with his initial questions: Derek had been surly and defensive. There had been a definite change as he moved onto the more challenging, interrogative questions. He had become less defensive, as if he thought he might be more persuasive if he gave the impression that he was cooperating. That, combined with a more basic tell—he’d nodded his head “yes” when he denied seeing his brother—was all Atticus needed to know that he was withholding.

  “How’s your health?”

  Derek glared at him. “What?”

  “You were the victim of an assault, weren’t you? I remember, from before. What was it—two years ago?”

  Atticus saw the flicker of concern pass across Derek’s brow; he covered it up with a scowl, but it was too late. “Eighteen months.”

  “But you’re still claiming disability allowance?”

  Derek didn’t answer.

  “I looked into your case before. You said that you’d been beaten while you were out walking the dog. Unprovoked. You didn’t recognise who did it—that’s right, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Derek muttered.

  “You could only walk with a stick. You injured your back—that’s what you said. The thing with back injuries, though, they’re so hard to disprove. The amount of money the insurance industry loses to drivers who say they got whiplash after someone tapped them in the back—scandalous, isn’t it?”

  “What’s your point?”

  “You know.” Atticus smiled at him, as innocent as a lamb. “You’re out here exercising the dog, no sign of the walking stick. And you looked pretty spry climbing over that gate. I was surprised, given what you’ve said about how badly you were injured. I was so surprised that I took a video of it. I expect the Department for Work and Pensions would be surprised, too.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “I suppose I am. But if you help me out and answer some questions about your brother, then perhaps I could be persuaded to ignore that video and trust you to do the right thing about whether you should or shouldn’t be claiming. But that’s up to you.”

  Derek walked on for a handful of paces before muttering a curse under his breath. “What do you want to know?”

  “Where has he been?”

  “Vietnam,” he said.

  “For how long?”

  “He was there for six months; then he moved on to Thailand.”

  “What was he doing there?”

  “He said he needed a holiday.”

  Derek looked across at Atticus, perhaps to gauge whether his answer was credible. Atticus saw anxiety and suspicion; Derek knew full well what his twin had been doing in Asia and was worried that it might blow back on him. Fear of incrimination was the reason for his reticence. Atticus hid his own disgust; he would extract the information he needed and then, when Alfred’s murder was solved, he would poke into Derek’s dirty secrets.

  “And then? After that? When did he come back?”

  “October.”

  “Why?”

  “He ran out of money.”

  “And you helped him?”

  He chuckled bitterly. “I’m not exactly flush. Did you see where I live? I’ve got a shitty rented house, and I don’t have a pot to piss in. I gave him what I could.”

  “Which was what?”

  “Four hundred quid to rent a place for a month.”

  “Where?”

  “Andover.”

  “I’m going to need the address.”

  Derek recited it.

  “After that? When was the last time you spoke to him?”

  “Not long after I gave him the money. He said he needed more.”

  “For what?”

  “He wanted to go back to Asia. I didn’t have anything else I could give him. We argued, and he left.”

  “No other contact after that? Phone call?”

  “He texted me just before Christmas,” he said, stuffing his hand into his pocket and pulling out an old iPhone. He tapped the text icon, found the sender he wanted and read from the screen. “‘It’s sorted. Don’t need you.’ That’s it.”

  Atticus held out his hand, and Derek handed over the phone. Atticus looked at the message, confirmed that Derek had read it accurately, and then checked to see when it had been sent. It was as Derek had suggested.

  The dogs trotted over to them as Atticus handed the phone back.

  “Did he say anything else? Something that might make sense now that this has happened?”

  “No. Nothing.”

  “When he said it was sorted—that was about the money he wanted. Yes?”

  “That’s what I took it to mean.”

  “Thank you,” Atticus said.

  “What now?”

  Atticus clipped Bandit’s lead onto his collar.

  “Don’t go anywhere,” he said. “I’ll be in touch.”

  45

  Atticus drove back into Salisbury so that he could drop Bandit back at the office. The dog was tired and, after wolfing down the food that Atticus scooped out of the can for him, he settled down on the sofa with his head on his paws and went to sleep.

  Atticus went into the bedroom and uncovered his leather satchel from beneath a pile of clothes. He tipped out the things that he had taken to London and repacked it with his multitool and his set of lock picks. He added a pair of latex gloves and overshoes, included the same camera as before, and then zipped it up. He undressed in order to change into black jeans, a black hooded top and a pair of black trainers with smooth soles.

  He went over to pet the dog, slung his satchel over his shoulder and locked up. He thought about driving, but decided it would be quicker by train. Andover was two stops from Salisbury, and he ought to be able to get there in thirty minutes.

  Atticus took out his phone and opened the chess app. He saw that Jack_of_Hearts had made a move, moving his knight to c3. Atticus stared at the board, plotting out his response, and was just about to make a move when a message arrived in his inbox.

  > Hello, Atticus. I’m pleased you agreed to another game.

  Atticus looked at the message and tried to put himself in the position of the person who had just sent it. He had no idea about Jack at all: it could have been a man or a woman, young or old, and, although the flag by the avatar suggested that he or she was in the United Kingdom, it would have been easy enough to use a VPN to spoof that.

  > I’ve enjoyed playing with you. And I like a challenge.

  > That makes two of us.

  > I’ll be honest, though—your last messages were unsettling.

  > Why?

  > You know more about me
than should be possible. How do you know my name?

  Jack replied with a smiley emoji and then another message.

  > I’d rather leave a little mystery if you don’t mind.

  > I’m not sure what I think about that. At least tell me yours.

  > Jack.

  Atticus stared at the message, wondering how best to reply, when Jack sent another.

  > I’m pleased that Alfred Burns is dead, although what happened to him isn’t justice.

  Atticus found he was holding his breath. He typed.

  > How do you know about Burns?

  > Our paths crossed several years ago. I had hoped that your first investigation might have found out a little more. You knew that he was guilty of more than the dirty pictures, didn’t you?

  The cursor flashed; Atticus didn’t know how to respond.

  > I know you’ll find more this time.

  Atticus looked around, suddenly fearful that Jack was in the carriage with him. But he was not; it was late, and the carriage was empty save for him.

  Atticus looked back to the phone.

  > Your move.

  > JACK_OF_HEARTS HAS LEFT THE CONVERSATION

  46

  Atticus spent the remainder of the journey staring at the exchange with Jack and trying to work out how it was possible that he knew so much about him and the investigation into Burns. Again, just like before, he was thwarted.

  It was half past nine in the evening when Atticus disembarked from the train and walked to the address that Derek Burns had provided. It was a flat above an off-licence on Bridge Street. The buildings on this side of the road were three storeys tall, with commercial premises on the ground floor. Number 13 was sandwiched between a door that led up to a unisex hair salon—‘A Cut Above’—and an off-licence. The door to the property was next to a bank of letterboxes that suggested that there were six flats behind it. There was an intercom next to the letterboxes with cardboard inserts that identified each tenant; the insert for Flat 5 was empty.

  Atticus looked at the door. It was not particularly impressive, with a series of glass panels between thin wooden slats. He would have been able to force it, but it faced onto a busy street, and a group of youngsters had congregated outside the burger bar. There was no way that he would be able to get inside without giving himself away.

  He walked down the road a little, crossing over onto the other side and leaned against the wall of a passage that offered access to a parking space behind the shops. The kids outside the off-licence looked as if they were settling in for the long haul, and a group of four older men—Atticus assumed from their buzz cuts that they were soldiers—got out of a cab and went into the Dragon Garden Chinese restaurant.

  His phone rang. He took it out and saw that it was Mack. He was tempted to ignore the call, but couldn’t rule out the possibility that there had been a break in the case.

  “Evening,” he said.

  “Where are you?”

  “Andover.”

  “What are you doing there?”

  “Following up on a lead.”

  “Go on,” she prompted.

  “I’m looking into Burns, like I said. It’s nothing yet—if I find anything out, you’ll be the first to know.”

  “Heard that before.”

  “I promised—I won’t do anything to embarrass you.”

  He knew that the sensible thing to do would be to tell Mack that he had found out that Alfred Burns had only recently been back in the country and that he had been living just over the road from where he was standing now. But Mack would need to apply for a search warrant to legitimately get inside the property—none of the exceptions to the Police and Criminal Evidence Act would apply in these circumstances—and that would take time. Atticus was impatient, and he had the advantage of being able to investigate Burns while the news of his murder was yet to break. Once that changed, things were liable to get unpredictable. Whoever was responsible for murdering him and burying him in the graveyard would be forewarned; outstanding evidence might be destroyed and the trail obscured.

  He wasn’t going to wait for that to happen.

  Atticus’s method wasn’t legal, but that would only be relevant if he was found out. He would just make sure that he was careful.

  “Can I ask you a question?” he said. “Have you gone public with Burns’s identity yet?”

  “Not officially,” she said.

  “Unofficially?”

  “It might have leaked. There’ve been tweets naming him in the last couple of hours. We can’t play dumb without looking like we’re hiding something, so we’re preparing a statement. Should go out in the next hour.”

  He wondered whether he should mention Jack, but decided against it. He didn’t really know what he could tell her—that he was being trolled by someone whom he couldn’t identify who knew more about him and his work than ought to have been possible? Where would that get him? He needed to know more first.

  “Anything to report at your end?” he asked instead.

  “Two things, actually. The PM on Burns has come back.”

  “COD?”

  “Unclear. There’s a hole in the top of his head.”

  “A bullet?”

  “Fyfe doesn’t think so. There’s scorching around it, but he says the pattern isn’t what you’d see from a gunshot at close range, and there’s no foreign object—no casing or anything metallic—inside the hole. He’s asking for a second opinion.”

  “The second thing?”

  “A bit more conclusive. We have a name for one of the victims. Abbie Ross. She went missing in 2005.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Dental records,” Mack said. “Fyfe’s confident.”

  “What do we know about her?”

  “Seventeen years old, broken childhood, ended up in foster care. Last seen at Grosvenor House youth club near the railway station. They had regular music nights there. She played bass in a band. They rehearsed, she left to walk home, and she was never seen again.”

  Atticus closed his eyes and dug back through his memories. “Burns was connected to Grosvenor House,” he said. “He worked for the council—he was a caretaker, I think. See if you can dig anything out.”

  “I’ll check.”

  “And try to find anyone who went there at the time she disappeared.”

  “Already doing it.”

  “What about the other victims?”

  “Still looking.”

  Atticus looked over at the building again; he had an idea how he might get inside. “I’d better go.”

  “Keep me posted.”

  “Ditto.”

  He ended the call.

  47

  There was a Domino’s farther along Bridge Street. Atticus went inside and ordered a large margherita. He paid for it and took it back to the door to the flats. He pressed the button for the first flat.

  There was no answer.

  He tried the next button.

  “Hello?”

  “Pizza.”

  “Wrong address.”

  “No, I think this is the right one.”

  “I didn’t order pizza. Piss off.”

  Atticus took a moment, then pressed the third button.

  “Hello?”

  “Pizza.”

  “Sorry—what?”

  “Pizza delivery.”

  “I don’t think we ordered pizza.”

  “You’re flat three?”

  “That’s us. But we didn’t order anything.”

  Atticus sighed. “Must be a prank call. We’ve had them before here. Look—I’ve got a pizza, and I’m just going to have to throw it away otherwise. Would you like it?”

  “I don’t have any money.”

  “No charge.”

  “Go on, then. That’s kind. We’re on the second floor.”

  The lock buzzed and the door opened. Atticus pushed it back and went inside, following the stairs to the first-floor landing. There were two doors, the one on the left
marked with 1 and the other with 2. Derek Burns had said that his brother had been living in Flat 2.

  Atticus crossed the landing and climbed the stairs to the second floor. The layout was identical, with another two doors. The door to the left, marked with a 3, was open, and warm light spilled out onto the gloomy landing.

  Atticus tapped his knuckles on the open door. “Hello? Domino’s.”

  He heard footsteps, and the door opened all the way. There was a young woman there, late teens or early twenties, dressed in black and with black makeup around her eyes. Atticus heard music in the background and recognised The Sisters of Mercy.

  “Thanks again,” she said, taking the box from Atticus.

  “Sorry to bother you,” he said.

  “Free pizza?” She smiled. “No bother at all.”

  “I was in here last week,” Atticus said. “The flat downstairs. The customer was really weird.”

  “Really?”

  “Flat two. There was something about him.”

  “Sorry,” she said. “Don’t know the neighbours at all. We just moved in.”

  The girl closed the door, and Atticus heard the sound of laughter from inside. He went down the stairs again and stood in front of the door to Alfred Burns’s flat. It was thin and flimsy. The landlord had evidently taken the decision that he could afford to be stingy with the quality of materials inside, given that the front door would deter most unwanted visitors from accessing the building. That wasn’t the soundest philosophy—it had been easy enough to get in, and now he could spend as long as he liked picking the lock—but he doubted the landlord was prepared to spend a penny more than strictly required.

  Atticus reached into his bag and took out the gloves and overshoes. He put them on and then fetched his lock picks. The door was secured with a simple Yale lock; he took out a tension wrench and a pick, slid the former into the top of the keyway and the latter into the bottom. He raked the pins, jiggling them quickly, and used the wrench to ensure that they fell and stuck in place at the shear line. He turned the lock and the door swung open. It had taken less than twenty seconds and made very little noise.

  He stepped inside the flat.