“Yes, had a long conversation with Dienst voor Opruiming... yes, well it appears that it’s highly likely that our sulphur mustard came from dredged-up, First World War ordinance found throughout Belgium and France. However, whoever collected it, let’s speculate male, if he is not in a million pieces by now, has a very comprehensive understanding of the mechanical make-up of the shells he has collected. More importantly, that individual has a professional understanding of the safe procedures required when handling potentially lethal chemicals; procedures that are, I’m informed, absolutely essential for safe handling, storage and transportation of the stuff. They tell me it can’t be your average crazy person, their words, Ma’am. I’ve put on the boards details and photographs of the types of ordinance we should be looking for. I’ve distributed them to The National Registry for Scrap Metal Dealers so they will, by the end of the day, be in the hands of all licensed dealers. I’ve uplifted to HOLMES, too.”
“Thanks. That means some brainstorming for possible candidates, please as soon as possible. The System should narrow down the search significantly.” She looked around the room. Jones stood.
“Ma’am, hundreds of cars and trucks have been listed for their frequent travel back and forth to the continent.” He waved a list in the air. “But we have an interesting one, an anomaly to tell you the truth, ‘cos a car, registered to an Eric Johnson, has made regular trips over the last eighteen months, the last visit being in September. On checking the details and by purely knocking on doors, we believe that Eric may have been dead for two years. His son sold the vehicle to a guy who paid cash and took all the documents promising that he would contact DVLA and the insurers. However, he didn’t and so the car is still in Eric’s name. Tax runs out in two weeks, still insured and MOT’d. The son says he came back to collect the tax reminder and paid him fifty quid and the same with the insurance. Even more bewildering, it was an Eric Johnson who drove the car on every occasion it went to France. On further questioning we find that the guy located the V5 by rooting round Eric’s house as the son, and I use his own words, Couldn’t be arsed. I suspect at this point our helpful motorist borrowed Eric’s passport and other personal items.”
The room fell silent and all eyes turned to him.
“Can the son describe the buyer?”
“Son’s a total wreck of an alcoholic who doesn’t know whether it’s Easter or Pentecost. The house is like a refuse site, more dangerous than the possible lock-up we might be searching for, Ma’am.”
“So is Mr Johnson alive or dead?”
“We have no record of a death, Coroner’s Office has nothing, hospitals have nothing, and son has nothing but mush between his ears so we continue to track to see if we can locate the mysterious Mr. Johnson. We’ve started checking ANPR data for the set months throughout the UK. This Renault has only been spotted between Folkestone and Birmingham. He could be our man; a desperate home life can make desperate men.”
“How old was or is Eric?”
“Well, his son looks into his hundreds but that could be the booze. According to the records we have so far he’ll be middle to late fifties. We’re checking with returns of Registered Electors for this address over the last five years.”
“Any images from the Ferry or Tunnel?” someone asked.
“Vehicle number recognition and of course everything about the car and the driver matches. Images of the driver are not easy to identify. Booking done with Eric’s Visa and that’s thrown up nothing. Car tax and insurance paid on the same Visa card. If it’s our man who was driving, not Johnson, then he took a good deal from the house including debit and possibly credit cards. It could, however, also mean Johnson is still alive and travelling. Interestingly, Johnson and his son both draw benefits which are paid directly into a Nat West Visa account, but the son informed me that he also receives regular cash through the door, a ton, here, fifty there. He thinks it’s as often as once a week, but as I’ve said, he’s an absolute mess. He has no idea about a bank account, looked at me as if I was talking French but then he truly believes his father is dead. Doesn’t know where he’s buried or if he were cremated but he assured me he died.”
“Right.” Cyril brought his hand to his head. “Two things, do we have a picture of Eric Johnson to compare with images from CCTV in Folkestone? Did you search his place?”
He looked across at Jones who simply shook his head. “No picture, no authority and certainly no stomach!”
“Has Social Services ever been involved, any Police records on either father of son?” Graydon quizzed.
“Social Services were involved years ago, child protection issues. Son went through school and required special educational provision. Was assessed as requiring a statement of special educational need and then moved to Rose Hill School for children with learning difficulties. Father threatened with removal of child on more than one occasion owing to violent and drunken abuse but then he somehow met the targets set by Social Services. Nothing in the last ten years. Swept under the carpet once the child was away from school. Now they keep themselves to themselves.”
“Mother?”
“She left when he was thirteen. Without her he’d have been in care so I don’t know if she did him any favours. Mother committed suicide five years ago; tablets, a bottle and a deep bath. The razor across the wrists helped too. She was determined to escape.”
“How does he shop, eat and collect his booze?”
“He goes to the shops I should imagine, Sir. To be honest I didn’t ask. From the rich aroma and living creatures that came through the front door, I doubt he buys clothes, deodorant, soap or toilet rolls.”
“Just when you thought it couldn’t get murkier, it turns pitch black. Well done! Owen, Jones and I are going to pay him a visit. We’ll take a couple of uniform lads with us too, they might give a clue as to who we are. I want a warrant to enter and search.”
“We’ll each need a bloody boiler suit, breathing mask and wellington boots if you want my advice,” Jones chipped in. “When I got home after the previous visit my wife said, Had a good day, dear? What’s that dreadful smell? You’ve been warned.”
“Jones, organise the warrant.” Cyril showed he was displeased.
“Sir.”
***
It was like he had never been away. Lawrence relaxed when he saw the work piled neatly on either side of his desk. His white coat was crisp. Polishing his glasses, he walked into the secretary’s office and smiled. He then went through to the lab and greeted each person, catching up with the work in hand. Everything was just as he had left it, ordered, efficient and well-managed; he had organised this department well and he knew it. He put on his glasses, went to his desk and absorbed himself in work. He was a different man once the other side of his Janus life was temporarily suspended.
***
It was wonderful seeing Janet. Peter had collected her and they had eaten a light meal before she retired to bed early; she seemed exhausted. Peter had slept in fits and starts. He could partly blame the thunder storm that had flashed and crashed with an intense degree of force, regularly illuminating his room a brilliant white whilst seemingly shaking the building to it foundations. There was nothing like a Mediterranean storm to demonstrate nature’s power, Peter often thought, but fortunately, as he stared through the large windows, the morning, as compensation, had dawned bright and a little cooler.
He kept replaying the conversation he had held with Phillip over and over in his head. He had, he felt, to convince Phillip to support a wind-down of their occasional, yet lucrative activity. He dressed and ate breakfast, leaving Janet to sleep in. He took a walk through the garden; it was good to breathe fresh air and hopefully to clear the confusion from his mind.
“Good morning to you, such a difference from Yorkshire!” called Janet.
Peter heard the call, turned and looked up the garden path past a large, gnarled olive tree. He smiled and held out a hand in greeting. He kissed her once on either cheek.
> “A very good morning to you too, my dear. Lovely isn’t it? I do hope the storm didn’t disturb you too much last night, it was an extremely spectacular show hence...” He looked down at the water that had coloured the bottom of each trouser leg as he walked through the foliage.
“Not a bit, I was too exhausted.” She linked his arm and they walked further along the path before stopping at a bench that offered a breathtaking view of the coast.
“The police have been asking about Mary. As you know, they’ve found two of the bodies, by accident, I grant you, but I never expected...” He broke off and stared into the distance. “It’s unlikely that the other two will ever be found but this has really knocked my confidence. Digging a land drain for goodness sake! I’ve probably grown too arrogant.” He turned and kissed her forehead. “It’s got to stop. I know it’s only a couple of times a year but that now for me is twice too many; it’s not as though I need the money, I never did it for that. I started thinking I was in some way paying back, repaying a debt that I owed to the people who had helped me and were now in need themselves. What I was doing felt positive. It just somehow became twisted and distasteful but then I couldn’t stop, the bodies made sure of that and the threats.”
Janet looked out to sea.
“Apart from the discovery of the bodies what’s changed? The police are looking for Mary and you just happen to be a piece of her life’s jigsaw. They’ve seen your diaries and they’ve returned them. So what has changed? I don’t think being married for a day makes you any more involved with her than any other of her acquaintances, do you?”
“It was something that the police officer didn’t say, the way he looked, and I don’t mean his ailment. I experienced the strangest of feelings; he’s not your average copper. He might have arrived at my door simply enquiring about Mary, but he left with added items on his agenda, I feel sure of that. You did tell him about this place and you did explain fully the extent of the estate left to me by my parents?”
Janet nodded, “Everything we discussed. I even invited him here.”
Peter turned sharply, an annoyed intensity suddenly appearing on his face.
“You did what?” he growled.
“Actually it was an offer to see him in Nice for a weekend but unfortunately he’s too busy. Before I left, there’d been two attacks in Harrogate using some kind of chemical. He’s probably got that on his plate too. I do have a date with him when I return. Peter, remember what you often say, Friends close and enemies, closer, yes? I’ll ring him occasionally and see what he’s up to.”
Peter calmed and tapped her hand that was resting on her thigh.
“Right, yes right. You’re right of course. I’m sorry. There’s a meeting on Thursday, a house picnic organised by an extremely muscular, flamboyant, gay character whom I’ve met before apparently, it looks like there’s another shipment planned.”
Peter stood and pulled Janet to her feet.
“How is your mother?”
Janet just smiled.
Chapter Twenty-One
The house, a small one, within a row of detached homes, was as obvious as a bruised and blacked nail on a manicured hand. The plain, dark blue mini bus stopped two houses away. Cyril climbed out of the front passenger seat, put on his jacket and was followed by Owen. The others exited from the side door.
“Your shout Jones and you can lead the way.”
They didn’t open the gate as it lay in two pieces amid other refuse, tangled within the overgrown garden to the right of the path. Cyril looked at the facade and he could feel his skin crawl immediately. He was correct; the front garden had the appearance of an overgrown refuse tip. The occasional window in the facade was broken and the curtains were predominantly closed or hanging at acute angles from one side.
“Where there’s muck there’s brass,” one of the uniformed officers proffered.
“At this address, where there’s muck there’s even more muck. I’ve never seen ‘owt like it. I did warn you, Sir,” replied Jones as he knocked on the door.
A downstairs rag of a curtain twitched and a face came close to the dirt-smeared glass then moved backwards quickly into the darkness.
“Knock again!” Cyril instructed.
Jones simply turned the handle and the door opened, releasing a smell that seemed to have been loitering behind it for weeks if not months, waiting for this moment, along with what must have been two dozen flies and bluebottles, to escape. Hands quickly moved to cover mouths.
“It’s OK, it’s the Police. We’re coming in, Trevor. No need to be alarmed!” Jones shouted. “You know me.”
They moved into the hall and Jones turned left to the room where they had seen Trevor. Flies were everywhere. Rubbish and litter were scattered over every surface. They moved carefully watching where they placed their feet.
“Christ, something’s definitely died in here and if we’re not quick I might be joining it or them. Jones, is that bucket full of what I think it is?” an officer remarked, his words muffled by his handkerchief held tightly to his mouth and nose.
Jones just nodded in the affirmative. Trevor was sitting in a chair, his arms folded and his head down. To their amazement, he was crying. An empty bottle of whisky lay next to the chair. Cyril indicated to the two uniformed officers to conduct a thorough search outside. Owen was sent upstairs. Cyril stood away in the doorway watching Jones.
“Trevor, we’ve come to talk to your father.” He leaned towards Trevor with his latex gloved hand and touched his shoulder. “Is he here?”
Trevor shook his head.
“Do you know where he is?”
“Dead!” The strong smell of consumed alcohol hit Jones squarely in the face and he had to turn away.
“Why are you crying?”
“He’s not bin, he al’as comes with money and whisky, he’s not bin, he’s not bin.” Trevor’s voice grew angrier. He leaned over and picked up the empty bottle and threw it feebly across the room. It landed against a number of dirty pizza boxes. “He al’as comes.”
“Who comes, Trevor?”
“The man who brings the money in the night comes; he opens door and leaves whisky.” He looked at Jones as if he were a fool for asking such a stupid question. “He hasn’t come. He al’as comes. Oh! He has al’as come.” He wiped his nose on what was left of his jumper sleeve.
Cyril could hear Owen upstairs. His eyes scanned the floor and the cluttered surfaces. His shoes stuck to the carpet as he moved to retrieve a card sign from amongst what looked like used, improvised toilet paper. The sign read in large, black letters, 4 Sail only the S was reversed.
“Is it the man who bought the car or someone else? Is it your father, Trevor?”
Trevor simply lifted his shoulders and started to cry again.
“Sir top of the stairs, and turn right!”
Cyril turned, put the board against the wall and carefully made his way with some difficulty up the cluttered stairs.
“Here, Sir. In here.”
He saw Owen first, holding a handkerchief to his face and then he realised why. The sight of the full and rancid toilet bowl topped with what looked like a moving crust of bluebottles and larvae made him retch.
“That’s not what I want you to see.”
Owen held back the mould-green shower curtain to reveal the extensively decayed remains of an adult male, covered in what looked like a rippling layer of white, pink flesh but on closer inspection they were larvae. Around the body were the discarded, brown pupa cases. He looked at Owen and removed the blue silk handkerchief from his top pocket.
“Bloody hell fire! Call it in Owen, SOCO, forensic pathology, the whole shooting match and Social Services to help with that poor, confused sod down stairs. I need a long shower and a stiff drink. I want a top to bottom search. There’s a sign downstairs, from the car, probably, advertised on the drive. Bag it and take it.”
Owen removed his mobile and made the call, then rang Liz.
“Ma’am we’re at
the house. You might want to come and see this. Be prepared though. We’ll be here until SOCO arrives. Yes, we’ve found a body or what’s left of one. We need some house to house in the vicinity. Somebody must have asked themselves questions about this place and wondered about its occupants. You wouldn’t like to live within a mile. Someone’s failed here...It was in the bath Ma’am.”
Cyril descended the cluttered stairs with more care. No matter how long you had been in the force, nothing ever prepared you for sights like these. He returned to Jones who was still trying to console Trevor, who was now visibly shaking; the DT’s were setting in quickly.
“I’m calling for a car. Stay here and give details to Forensics. Pathologist will be some time I’d imagine. Do we have lights in here?” Cyril asked, wiping his hands on a handkerchief.
“No power and believe it or not, no water other than a tap in the yard. What’s happening to m’laddo here? He’s in an awful state.”
“Social Services will get him cleaned up and he’ll soon be treated by a medic. I imagine looking at him he’ll probably end up at the hospital, but who knows? Once we’ve collected any relevant material from here and he’s a little more stable, we’ll have him in for questioning. When you’ve done here, call at the houses along the road and see if you can get anything on the family or the mystery delivery man.”
“Told you we’d need NCB suits and breathing gear.” He smiled and raised his right eyebrow. Some bosses just never listen. “It’ll mean one suit for the cleaners I’d imagine, Sir?”
“Too right, Jones, you’re too right! Probably need to go through twice!” he smiled. “By the way, from what I’ve seen upstairs, the lack of internal running water is no surprise.” Cyril just shook his head and left.
***
Cyril couldn’t remember how long he had stood in the shower but, whatever the time, he felt it had not been long enough. Now, in a different suit, he was ready to return to the HQ and his office. He hadn’t eaten; the memory of the bathroom hung like the putrefied smell in his mouth whenever he thought of food. He stood looking at a small painting on his wall. It depicted a huddled man and his dog walking past a snow-covered church. He had bought the painting recently from an auction house in Harrogate. The artist, nicknamed Braaq, had lived in Harrogate but sadly had died young. He inhaled the menthol vapour in the hope that it would clean the smell that seemed to loiter in his nostrils. As he stared at the figure in the painting, it made him think of the mysterious figure delivering alcohol and cash to Trevor in the night.
Only The Dead: an explosive new detective series Page 12
