Dead Lands

by Lloyd Otis

  Muller glanced at his colleague with a look of concern. ‘Where did you see it?

  ‘I saw it on top of the fridge!’

  ‘If she did leave in a hurry she’ll return.’

  ‘I’m not so sure. He’s sick, a real piece of work.’ Kearns knew her words weren’t formed on a gut instinct but on a belief.

  ‘Don’t worry we’ll check back tomorrow,’ Muller assured her. ‘He won’t be expecting that.’

  ‘Let’s go back, now!’

  ‘No, I said we’ll check back tomorrow!’

  Muller had been in the job longer than Kearns so it gave him the edge of seniority. Kearns continued to argue the point for a while before relenting.

  *

  Tomorrow arrived. Muller and Kearns returned to the house but after a few knocks on the door without reply, Muller’s impatience mushroomed.

  ‘He’s taking the piss,’ he said. ‘I’m definitely going to nick him now.’

  Muller crouched down and opened the letter box. He peered through but remained static for far too long. Not an inch of his body moved.

  ‘Hey Muller, what’s going on?’ Kearns received no answer from her colleague. ‘Muller?’ She dragged him back.

  ‘What’s going on, what did you see?’

  Muller’s ghost-white gaze moved towards her and his words trickled out. ‘Blood, there’s a lot of blood.’

  Kearns pushed him to one side and peered through the letter box herself then screamed inside. The once whitewashed walls were now daubed in red and the T-shirt the man had worn lay discarded upon the floor. Kearns raised her knee to stomach height and sent her foot crashing into the door. The blow weakened the structure but didn’t do enough to break it open, so she kicked it again while Muller stood next to her still in shock. She gave it another kick, and another.

  This time it burst open and she stumbled through. Muller snapped out of his shock enough to regain his senses. He stormed into the lounge while Kearns stood next to the blood marks on the wall to follow its trail. Muller came rushing out.

  ‘Nothing in there,’ he said. ‘I’ll check upstairs.’

  Kearns stopped him and directed her fellow PC to the one place they had failed to search on their last visit. The cupboard underneath the staircase. This time Kearns pulled the cuff of her jacket over her fingers and yanked down the handle. It sprung open and a dead woman lay slumped inside, with her neck wrapped with a scarf of blood. Worse still, Kearns knew her. Rhianna Thomas didn’t exist as the man had claimed but Louise Tellow did. Or used to.

  The quiet girl and best friend from Kearns’ school days lay dead before her and an anxious Muller paced up and down with shredded nerves. He radioed for help, leaving a shell-shocked Kearns rooted to the spot, staring at Louise and recalling the pull on the man’s V-neck, the sweated roots of his hair, and Louise’s purse left on top of the fridge. She remembered all the clues, hung her head and mouthed the words, ‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.’

  SEVENTEEN

  London

  Breck felt stressed. The whereabouts of the POI still weighed on his mind but in a way, having just one Troy to concentrate on demanded less from him. It meant that his focus could be shifted to the version he could get closest to. At the moment, a few things were not adding up but first things first. He had a contact within the Norwegian police that had a good chance of putting a watchful eye on the POI up there.

  ‘Hello. Can I speak to Morten Hoebeck.’

  ‘Who is calling?’

  ‘It’s Detective Arlo Breck from Cransham Police Station in London.’

  ‘One moment please.’

  Breck hadn’t spoken to Morten in a while but knew his friend would be indebted to him forever as he had once saved his life.

  ‘Hey, Arlo is it really you?’

  ‘I hope so. How are you Morten?’

  ‘Oh, I have a dodgy leg and suffer from a lack of sleep.’

  ‘Ingrid and the kids?’

  ‘All fine.’

  ‘Good. The reason I’ve called like this unexpectedly is because I need a favour. We have a POI in a murder case that has decided to go on holiday in your part of the world. I have it on good authority that he’s in either Spitsbergen or on Bear Island.’

  ‘Nice for some. What do you need from me?’

  ‘I’d like you to keep an eye on him.’

  Morten sighed. ‘We are so busy here that getting someone to locate him will be tricky.’

  It wasn’t what Breck wanted to hear but he had faith. ‘Anything you can do would be appreciated, old friend.’

  ‘OK, leave it with me.’

  ‘Thank you and we’ll talk again soon.’

  Breck ended the call then went to the post room to find it empty. A rota system existed for the junior officers but whoever was supposed to be doing it wasn’t around. Breck had a choice to make. Either wait until someone turned up, or find his letter himself. He chose the latter. He walked past the franking machine, straight towards a pile of letters stacked high at the end of the room. After sifting through he found the envelope addressed to him and opened it there and then.

  It had the information he requested from a friend, with the envelope postmarked Brighton. There were still a few people around that he could trust and it pleased him.

  Breck took out the two pages from inside that contained a list of names and dates of people previously represented by Peter Clarke. He had no time to investigate each one, instead he was after a quick win with a name that he recognised.

  That’s what he hoped for.

  The first page drew a blank and it wasn’t until he reached the end of the list on the second page that he found a familiar name. Jacob Simpson, a former police informer. Breck and Kearns knew him very well and he seemed the obvious choice for a solicitor who wanted to help a friend in trouble.

  As soon as Breck stepped out of the post room he saw Beatrice. She spotted him too. For a moment, it seemed as if she was going to walk the other way then she changed her mind. Breck considered fleeing as well but then thought better of it. At the very least it’d be embarrassing. A charm offensive might work though.

  ‘You look a little annoyed.’

  ‘Pat told me that I have to search a load of professional services companies for Ceinwen’s place of work and go to Janet Maskell’s post-mortem. She was a bitch about it too.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re not overreacting?’

  ‘Maybe a little but come on, Arlo, you know me. I’m learning the ropes but I want to get more involved with investigating crime here at the SCU, not do silly stuff. You’d be a good mentor.’

  Breck was taken aback. Even though she was still upset with him for leading her on she saw beyond that. He felt a bit awkward and it made him wonder. Had she really accepted their now ‘formal’ working relationship?

  ‘Finding Troy’s girlfriend could be key to the case. We need to locate this woman. I’ll also speak to Pat, tell her to ease off you.’

  That seemed to be enough to placate Beatrice and she softened her stance then handed him a piece of paper with an address on it.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘The address of Janet Maskell’s sister, you’re going to speak to her remember?’

  ‘Oh great, thank you, Bea,’ Breck said, wondering what had happened to Kearns. She should have been back from The Cambas by now.

  *

  Still wiping her stinging tears from her eyes after dashing out of The Cambas, Kearns checked the time. She feared that Breck would be wondering where she had got to and become suspicious. Her eyes darted across the street where she spotted a phone box and she made her way across the busy road. As she approached a rocker jumped in. Kearns wasn’t in the mood and flashed her badge. The lad, a teenager with a hairstyle that forgot the 60s had long gone, thought about ignoring her for a brief second. Then changed his mind. When he exited, a few studs from his thick leather jacket almost caught the strap of Kearns’ handbag. She cursed under her breath.

 
Kearns picked up the receiver and dialled Breck at the station and when he asked about Troy’s alibi she panicked. If she said that he had been there and Breck later found out he hadn’t, it would cause a far bigger issue so she played it straight.

  ‘The landlord Phil Kenzie didn’t recognise him at all. Mind you, they get a lot of punters in there so he could’ve missed him. I’ll make my way back to Cransham shall I?’

  ‘No, Pat. Go to Peckham instead. We’re going to visit Jacob Simpson.’

  ‘The one that used to give us information?’

  ‘Yes, that’s the one.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘He’s one of Clarke’s old clients. I think our solicitor is the dodgy Clarke you were referencing. Do you remember the address?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll make my way there now.’

  Kearns worked out her quickest route to Peckham then waited, giving herself enough time to mull things over. Mary Tellow’s words hurt but she just lashed out at the closest link to her dead daughter which happened to be Kearns. Those words also did something else. They destroyed any lingering doubts she had and decimated any guilt she harboured about keeping the truth from Breck. Justice for Louise was all that mattered to her and getting it would set her free.

  Kearns couldn’t recall much of her journey to Jacob Simpson’s home, the people, the sights. Instead her thoughts were split between memories of Louise and her own daughter. Kim blamed Kearns for ending the marriage and destroying the family home. Funny, because Kearns thought the idea of a family home died long ago. Her daughter and former husband now lived north of the border, and even though Scotland wasn’t that far away, when someone didn’t want to see you anymore it was far enough.

  EIGHTEEN

  Jacob Simpson, Peter Clarke’s former client and police informant, lived on the type of council estate the rest of civilisation didn’t want to remember. It stood as a monument to the underprivileged. A place where the graffiti formed a sea of misspelt words and scraps of litter danced across the ground. Breck felt the pinch of an icy breeze and slowed down as soon as he recognised the block. He waited in the car for Kearns, knowing it’d be far more comfortable inside than out and anyway, he could listen to the radio for company. A discussion on immigration dragged on, those for and those against. Some of which Breck found interesting. A caller said we should create closer ties with Europe. While another person said that if we did we’d lose our Britishness. Breck cut it short when he spotted Kearns. He switched off the radio and left the car to meet her over by the local playground.

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘Yes fine, why do you ask?’

  ‘Nothing you look a bit out of sorts. So, Troy’s Cambas alibi is a lie?’

  ‘The manager said he didn’t recall seeing him.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. Right, let’s go and see Jacob Simpson.’

  Breck tapped Kearns’ arm and pointed to a door protected by wrought iron bars. Jacob Simpson had long ago turned his back on his middle-class upbringing. He squandered the chance to apply himself to a legitimate education by laying claim to a PhD in criminality. When Breck knocked on Jacob’s door he felt the whole estate were watching. Jacob wasn’t the quickest to answer so Breck decided to turn up the volume.

  ‘Jacob, long time no see. We need you to let us in!’

  Jacob’s croaky voice floated out from an upstairs window and he hid his face behind the once white curtains. ‘Hey, keep the noise down, I’m coming man.’

  A few minutes later he released the lock and greeted them with bloodshot eyes. Simpson, a self-confessed hippie that didn’t want to let go of the past, styled his shoulder length hair with a parting down the middle and made sure that his shirt’s yellow geometric patterns matched his crinkled shorts. The brown Jesus sandals on his feet exposed hardened toenails that had begun to curve downwards. A casual flick of his hand invited them in but he remained unimpressed and made it known.

  ‘You want to get me killed shouting like that?’

  ‘You took your time to open the door,’ Breck replied. ‘What did you expect?’

  Kearns observed the cheap Beatles memorabilia propped against patchy lime coloured walls. They were life-sized cardboard cutouts of McCartney, Lennon, Harrison and Starr, placed upright. Breck glanced at the cutouts too while the sounds of Janis Joplin played low in the background.

  ‘Where did you nick those from?’

  Jacob took offence to the question. ‘Didn’t nick ’em. They were given to me by the manager of the cinema after their Yellow Submarine film came to the end of its run.’

  ‘Somehow, I feel like there are more than three of us in the room,’ Breck remarked in jest.

  ‘Man, what do you SCU lot want?’

  ‘Information.’

  ‘I don’t do that anymore man, give you lot stuff.’

  Both officers ignored his statement. ‘We’re looking for a suspect. A close friend of Peter Clarke. Do you recall the name?’

  ‘Not sure.’

  ‘Clarke’s a solicitor that defended you on two occasions.’

  Jacob let his brain tick over for a while. ‘Where’s the money?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Man, I don’t talk for free.’

  Breck turned to Kearns. ‘Is he serious?’

  ‘Chill out brother. I just need to pay my bills.’

  Kearns brought the experience of her robust policing to the fore by exerting a sharp slap to the side of Jacob’s head. ‘Do you think we’re soft eh? You know we can’t pay you for information. We’ll ignore one or two things and that will enable you to continue your dealings without interruptions.’

  ‘What dealings?’

  Breck returned to the conversation. ‘Well we can smell something funny in here for a start. Pat, has he been smoking pot?’

  ‘Yes, I think he has.’ Kearns sniffed the air.

  ‘Alright, alright. Let’s talk.’

  Acknowledging the hopeless of the situation Jacob sat down on a tired lime green sofa and pushed a ready-made joint, the size of a large biro, between his chapped lips. Kearns exchanged a concerned glance with Breck but he put her at ease and she sat on a wooden chair with a taped right leg. Breck rested on a disconnected pine speaker box with splintered edges and they both watched Jacob light up then fire out a thick plume of smoke that mushroomed. It drowned the room in a sea of misty grey, forcing Breck to wave a clear path just to see.

  ‘Put that out, I don’t want my clothes smelling of the stuff,’ Kearns moaned.

  Breck placed a gentle hand on her arm because he realised how important Jacob could be for the next step in the investigation. He didn’t want her to derail that.

  Jacob stubbed out the joint and put it into an ashtray, sat back and sunk into the sofa. Breck wondered what would provide the impetus for him to go out and find a real job because wedged next to him was a pile of bank notes bulging from a brown paper bag. Enough to last him a few months, others a year.

  It helped that everyone in the room knew the visit was off the record. There’d be no need for Jacob to worry about reprisals, or being called an informer from any of his peers.

  Breck ignored the bulging bag of cash. ‘Tell me something, have you had a visit from Peter Clarke recently.’

  ‘Not seen him since the court case against the council, I swear man.’

  ‘Ah you do recall his name. That’s good. Clarke’s friend is in trouble. He says he’s been set up for a murder so I reckon there’s no better place for him to come to than here for a bit of guidance. A bit of Jacob guidance.’ Breck adjusted his position on the speaker box. ‘We know you’ve still got your ear to the ground and might have picked up something.’ Six months had passed since Jacob left Parkhurst. Breck believed he wouldn’t be in any rush to return.

  ‘Haven’t seen him for ages. Sorry.’

  Breck refused to believe Jacob. ‘I can see to it that you end up back inside. It’s the least I can do as you’re not willing to help us.’
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br />   ‘You’re going to pay me, right?’

  Breck was firm in his response. ‘No, we’re not.’

  Silence ensued where Jacob squinted a little, cracked his knuckles too before he caved in. ‘OK. Clarke telephoned me, man, said he had a friend in trouble. I recommended a place outside London where he could stay low.’

  ‘Where did you recommend?’

  ‘A place where money is paid, no questions asked.’

  The two officers sat in silence and Jacob took a while to cotton on. Then released a laboured sigh and both officers had a look of dissatisfaction which worried him. Breck stood up without saying a word and left the room which caused Jacob to twist his neck to follow his direction.

  Jacob’s attention reverted back to Kearns and he tried to work out what was going on. In a flash, she sprung forward and slammed an ashtray decorated with ‘happy ash’ into the side of his head. Jacob let out a screeching wail and held his left ear, screaming in pain.

  Kearns’ eyes bulged with rage and she slammed him again. This time she tore the skin leaving a distressed Jacob to wrap his arms over his head for protection. He curled up on the sofa and Kearns walked back to her seat.

  When Breck re-entered the room Jacob uncurled his body. He forced himself upright and held his bloodied ear, while Breck appeared to be a little uncomfortable with what he saw but refused to comment. The result mattered. It always had.

  ‘Nice place you have here. There are a few strange items in the bathroom that I’d usually bring down to the station but I can overlook that.’ Breck received no response from Jacob so added, ‘Maybe I should take another look and check them out, leave you and Kearns together for a bit longer.’

  ‘No, man, wait.’ Jacob couldn’t bear the thought of being left alone with Kearns again. He lifted his hands in defeat and showed his palms. ‘I have information. You’ll find what you’re after in a bed and breakfast (B&B) up in Yorkshire.’

  ‘What’s the name of this B&B?’

  ‘The Clear View. Run by a shady businessman named Lance Pringle.’

  Both Breck and Kearns smiled at the news but each for different reasons.