by Graham Smith
‘No.’
A familiar look crosses Alfonse’s eyes. It’s the one he gets when his mind is travelling digital highways and is about to go off-road.
I guess he is thinking of ways he could learn more about the wives or girlfriends of Kira’s clients. Whether there is a way he can identify them without their knowledge.
Once he knows who they are, he can begin to trace their movements, both physical and financial.
I rise from my seat. ‘I’ll see you at Claude’s in an hour.’
Chapter 31
I pull in behind the police cruiser and climb out. Chief Watson had called as I was driving from Alfonse’s.
So here I am. Summoned for the second time today – this one way more intriguing than the first. I doubt Chief Watson will give me a gun, although I hadn’t expected Mother would either.
The plastic crime scene tent erected four hundred yards from the car park is just visible in the fading light. Its presence confirms my suspicions about the reason for the chief’s terse call.
‘Come to the Panchtraik Reservoir public car park and ask for me. I need you.’ He’d rung off before I’d had the chance to agree or refuse.
Insects brought out by the cooling night air are starting their mating calls as I set off towards the plastic tent.
I hang back while the chief finishes his conversation with one of the Tyvek-suited examiners. Farrage and one of his buddies are off to one side talking to a young couple. From their body language and the tears streaming down her face I figure they are either relatives of the person in the tent or they had found the corpse.
Keeping well away from the lake, I skirt the area and take a look around. I’m not looking for anything in particular, just something out of place. Or missing. Or broken.
Like the branches of the dogwood bush by the side of the reservoir.
Not wanting to contaminate any possible evidence, I approach the bush from the side. Using my cell as a torch, I look at the ground to make sure I don’t trample anything I shouldn’t.
Up close and under illumination, the branch of the dogwood looks to have been broken within the last day or two. When I turn my eyes to the ground I find a tyre mark. Not wide like a car tyre but wider than you’d get from a bicycle.
The beam of light from my phone doesn’t extend far into the bush, so I can’t see if the tyre mark goes anywhere. I take care to retrace my steps backwards and grab the nearest officer and show him what I’ve found.
‘Boulder! With me please.’
Chief Watson may have said please, but there is no request in the way he’s called me over.
I match his pace as he strides back towards the car park. There is none of the huffing and puffing you’d expect from a man of his age moving so fast.
As we walk, he gives me the bare facts. An elderly woman has been found by a young couple. They’d thought she was sleeping until they saw the colour of her skin.
The initial examination has shown the woman’s throat has been cut right at the jugular. Beyond that, he hasn’t got much else to tell me. He doesn’t yet know who the woman is or why there is no blood at the scene.
‘Why did you call me, Chief?’
He stops walking and turns to me, one meaty paw massaging the deep furrows on his brow.
‘This is the third homicide victim we’ve had in as many days.’ A thumb jerks in Farrage’s direction. ‘Those assholes couldn’t find their way out of a room with one door and when I asked for a couple of detectives to be sent over from Salt Lake City I was refused. I need your help.’
‘What about the FBI?’
‘They’re not interested. Person I spoke to told me to call them when the body count reaches five. Asshole.’
‘Still, why me? Or should I say us?’ It is only right to include Alfonse.
‘Because you’ve shown more gumption than those morons.’ Again his thumb jerks towards Farrage. ‘You and your buddy achieved way more on the Niemeyer case in one day than they could hope to achieve in a month. I can’t run around wiping their asses while I’ve a whole town to run.’
I can see his predicament. Like every other sizable town on the planet there is an element of society in Casperton who’ll realise when the police are overstretched. Petty thefts will increase; one of the stores or banks may even be held up with the entire police force distracted by the homicides.
It is a balancing act and the keystone for the whole inverted pyramid is Chief Watson.
I want to help, but Alfonse and I are already out of our depth investigating Kira’s death.
‘I’m not saying yes until I speak to Alfonse, but what exactly do you want from us? I’m guessing you’re not gonna toss us a badge and declare we’re now deputies.’
My attempt at humour washes over him. ‘I want to use you in an advisory capacity. So I don’t have to think of everything myself. Those assholes have never had an original idea between them. Go phone your buddy, will ya. I need to get things moving around here.’
As I go back to my car to make the call in private, the officer I’d shown the tyre track to approaches Chief Watson.
Alfonse picks up on the third ring.
When I leave my car to go tell the chief we’ll help, I have to leap out of the way as a tan Chrysler shoots into the car park.
Despite all the police in the area, I run round the Chrysler and haul open the driver’s door. My fist is cocked ready to deliver an unforgettable warning about dangerous driving. At the moment I’m about to strike, I realise the driver is female.
A wave of eye-watering perfume hits me before her words do. ‘You the bozo I nearly run down? You should learn to watch where you’re going.’ She has one of those unmistakable Jewish New York accents. She points at my fist. ‘We both know you’re not going to use that so you may as well put it down and get out of my way.’
When she climbs out of the car the top of her head reaches my shoulder. A cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth drops ash onto her peach-coloured blouse. She doesn’t notice – her eyes are locked onto the tent.
‘So, I’m guessing with all the cops around we’ve got a third body inside that tent.’
I don’t answer. I don’t yet know who she is. The way she dominates everything she does proves she is a force of nature. Until I know more about her, there is no way I’m telling her anything that may come back to bite me.
A young cop runs over, his arms spread as if he’s herding cattle. ‘That’s far enough, Ms Rosenberg.’
‘Is that Chief Watson I see over there?’ She makes to brush past him but he shifts his feet to block her.
‘He’s there and I’m sure he’ll speak to you when he’s got something to say but right now he’s busy.’
I leave the young cop trying to obstruct the formidable presence that is Ms Rosenberg, and head back to the tent and Chief Watson.
I’ve heard of, but never met Ms Rosenberg. She is lead reporter for the Casperton Gazette and carries a reputation as a hard woman who brooks no obstruction in her search for the truth. According to legend, it is so long since anyone has used her Christian name even she’s forgotten what it is.
Regardless of her nature, she is a good journalist and her scathingly insightful articles are the main reason Casperton has so little corruption in public office. A cub reporter I’d once dated told me how Ms Rosenberg would spend much of her spare time scouring public documents in her search for irregularities in the finances.
She might not be a nice person or a careful driver, but she keeps the local politicians honest, which means we all owe her a debt of thanks.
Chief Watson sees me coming and leaves the dogwood bush to join me. ‘That was a good find you made there. The tyre marks go right to the water’s edge and then disappear.’
‘Do you think they’re relevant?’
He kneads his temples before answering. A sure sign of his stress. ‘I think it’s too much of a coincidence not to be associated. My guess is her killer moved her from the c
ar park using a wheelbarrow, then dumped it into the reservoir to hide the evidence.’
‘Makes sense.’ I am stating the obvious, but it won’t hurt for him to have his opinions verified. He needs support, help carrying the burden before he has an aneurysm. ‘I spoke to Alfonse. We’ll be happy to offer you some help in an advisory capacity.’
‘Thanks.’ Already he is looking younger and less like a condemned man.
I hold up a hand to cut him off before he starts on another tack. ‘You’ll need to put Farrage and the rest of your detectives in the picture. Catching a killer is too important to waste time in pissing contests. If we get any grief from them, I’ll kick their arses then Alfonse and I will walk.’
Determination sets on his face making me fear I may have overplayed my hand by threatening his subordinates.
‘Farrage!’
His voice carries to the lieutenant who turns and walks over, contempt decorating his face and body language. ‘Yeah?’
I keep my face neutral as Chief Watson explains the new regime. Such is the ferocity of the chief’s words and tone, there’s no way Farrage can misunderstand the consequences of failing to obey.
As Farrage makes to return to his interview, the chief has a final warning for him. ‘If I learn there is one missing word or even a comma from any of the reports you send to me and Mr Boulder, you’ll be out on your ass and the first person I’ll explain your sacking to is Ms Rosenberg. Then I’ll take you round to see the families of the deceased so you can explain why playing games was more important to you than catching a killer. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Yes, Chief.’
Farrage’s demeanour changes at the threat. Gone are the insolence and contempt. The twin threats of public humiliation and being forced to explain his actions to bereaved families are enough to make him sharpen up his act.
‘I shouldn’t have, but I enjoyed that.’
‘It’s been a long time coming, Chief. He deserves every word.’
I think Farrage has gotten off easy. In the chief’s position, I would have thrown punches at anyone who showed me the same lack of respect.
‘You got a strong stomach?’ Without waiting for my answer he starts walking towards the protective tent.
Chapter 32
The smell of cooking meat wafts across the air causing my stomach to flip like an Olympic gymnast. I would have eaten before coming, but, after entering that tent, I didn’t trust myself to keep anything down.
The chief had filled me in on the details of Paul Johnson’s murder and had called back to the station to have the desk sergeant email me all of the reports.
Rounding the back gate, I find the party in full swing. There’s a couple of dozen of the usual crowd, plus a few of Claude and his girlfriend’s family members. I know most of the family members from past events. It’s a relief to see Claude has abdicated the chef’s position in favour of the barman’s role. Nobody will be sick from anything other than a hangover.
I grab a soda and join Alfonse who is talking to a group of friends. I hear him asking about Peter Lester, so I turn to a buddy I sometimes played pool with.
We shoot the breeze for a while until his girlfriend ushers him off to meet someone.
I keep my eyes open for anyone who may be able to help with our enquiries. Seeing a couple of girls I know, I wander across and join their company. I start with small talk, then begin to seed in the odd question. They give me straight answers, some of which are useful.
When I leave the group to get another soda, I’m surprised to see George Chalmers talking to Claude. Thinking about it, I realise that since Claude’s business has grown there’s every chance he now needs a professional accountant.
The bigger surprise is the girl linking arms with Chalmers. I’m no expert on the subject, but I’d say she’s at least six or seven months pregnant.
Ever the gentleman, Chalmers introduces me to the girl. ‘Mr Boulder, this is my fiancée, Ruth.’
Ruth’s face is a picture of contentment, and when she speaks her speech patterns and vocal intonations mark her as the perfect match for Chalmers.
Judging by the lilac twinset and the pearls around her neck, I reckon they’ve both met their soulmate. Their lives will be already planned out, right down to the Florida retirement complex they’ll move to.
They’ll live safe and sensible lives together with respectability. A pool boy or a secretary may engage them in a dalliance but they’ll never leave the security of their marriage.
What I can’t believe about their relationship is her being pregnant with only one ring on her finger. As far as I’m concerned, Chalmers is too careful.
As they move off to talk to other guests, I turn to Claude. ‘How long they been together?’
‘I think they hooked up some time last year. It must have been before I opened the new shop. They were at the opening party. They’re a natural couple don’t you think?’
I remember the opening party, but I don’t recall seeing Chalmers there. Although I do remember being somewhat distracted by the attentions of Claude’s rather forward cousin.
Casting my mind back and doing some mental arithmetic, I work out Chalmers must have met Ruth a month or so after splitting from Kira.
I keep my eyes on them as I talk with Claude. Everything about their interaction depicts them as a genuine couple. If Chalmers is faking it to cover his feelings for Kira, he should be a Hollywood star not an accountant in a town like Casperton.
Throughout the evening, I make sure to circulate and speak to everyone I want to. As alcohol loosens tongues, I learn lots of different things but only a small fraction of it is useful. Having already agreed to meet at his place after the party, Alfonse and I stay apart to better talk to as many people as possible.
A game of water polo starts in the pool, but I keep my distance.
As midnight strikes I am talking to a couple of regulars from the Tree when a drunken guest trips over his own feet and cannons into me. I stagger back a few steps before my feet catch on something. Twisting as I fall, I see water rushing towards my face.
Instinct makes my hands go out to break my fall, but they don’t get any resistance from the water as I tumble into the pool.
I go in head first. I can feel my knees hit the edge of the pool as water swirls around my head. My eyes and mouth are pressed shut as I thrash my arms around to try and escape the water. The only effect it has is to draw my legs into the pool after me.
Despite my terror, I feel them slithering over the pool’s edging. I can also feel my heart racing as panic sets in.
With my body submerged, I thrash for what seems like hours until I find the right way up.
Pushing my feet down, I locate the bottom of the pool and thrust upwards, desperate to be out of the water as soon as possible – to feel cool air on my skin.
I just hope I’m not at the deep end. If I am, I’ll have to be rescued.
When my head breaks the surface I gasp in a precious lungful of air. My push off the bottom is so fuelled by terror it sees me shoot so far out of the water that I lose my balance and stumble backwards when I land.
A firm hand on my back stops me going under again. My eyes seek the shortest route to safety. I’m three large steps from the side, but the chest level water slows my exit from the pool.
To my mind it is a living beast, clinging to me, holding on so I can be pulled into its depths and pressured by invasive rivulets, until I open my mouth for air and let it conquer me.
Concerned with nothing but escape, I ignore the laughter of the party-goers. It’s not their fault they don’t know I can’t swim. That any body of water deeper than a puddle scares me witless.
I feel a hand on mine. It’s Alfonse reaching into the pool and guiding me to the chrome steps. I realise for the first time my eyes are stinging and my mouth has clamped shut.
Clambering up the ladder, I see concern in Alfonse’s face and mirth in everyone else’s.
‘Sorry, dude
. Dunno what I tripped on.’ The slurred words come from the drunk who’d bumped me.
Knowing that delivering a gut punch to a drunk is a good way to get hurled on, I grab his shirt with shaking hands, shift my weight from one hip to the other and toss him into the middle of the pool. Let the water beast have him.
He’s lucky. If there weren’t still kids running around, I’d leave him lying in a bloody heap.
Claude arrives and tosses a towel at me. ‘C’mon. I’ll loan you a pair of shorts and a T-shirt.’
I follow him into the house, happy to be out of everyone’s gaze and away from the water.
Chapter 33
The Watcher settles down in front of his computer with an energy shake and a packet of power bars.
His fingers tap out the beat of the seventies classic rock songs blaring from his iPod. He’s too young to have liked the bands in their heyday, but when he reached his teens, he fell in love with the riffs and lyrics. It’s a love that has deepened over time. Now he won’t listen to anything else.
He chases threads of intelligence as he probes the lives of those who’ve helped him select his next victims.
He’s thankful for the internet, for Facebook, Twitter and Instagram. Each of these networks is loaded with information about his targets and helpers.
It doesn’t take long to draw up a list of possibles. After that he just has to whittle down the list until he can select the most appropriate victims. The next ones must have a different connection. Must be able to be taken down together.
The opportunity has come along to throw a delicious curveball into the pattern and he is excited about making the pitch.
He knows how much the police are under pressure. He’d watched the cars arrive at Panchtraik Reservoir.
It had been inspired to place Evie Starr’s body up there.
After Paul Johnson’s body had been found on the road towards the reservoir, the siting of the old woman’s body would make the cops think it was someone travelling that way.
