Buried Slaughter (Brian McDone Mysteries)

by Ryan Casey

  “Glad you decided to come along,” David said, as he indicated off the A6 to head towards Whittingham, venturing into the countryside.

  Brian shook his head.

  “You don’t seem too chatty. I swear you used to be chattier than this.”

  “It’s because I’m a little curious as to why you’d let me come along. Why you’d want me to come along.”

  David laughed. He held the steering wheel with one hand and reached to his side for one of the seemingly disused Starbucks cups. He took a sip from it, then gasped. “Brian,” he said, dabbing his lips with his sleeve. “You underestimate my respect for you.”

  Brian scoffed. “Respect? There’s a few words I’d use of your attitudes towards the police, and respect is definitely not one of them.”

  David turned to the left down the winding country road. Pendle Hill was visible in the distance, looming overhead like a spectre on the horizon. “The police? Perhaps. But you’re a civvie now. I like the PCSOs. Really, I do.”

  “What is it you want, David? Really. What is it?”

  David closed his mouth and smiled. This shit didn’t have to answer. He knew he was the one in control. He had Brian in his car after all, goddammit. “Let’s just go take a look at this crime scene. See if we can get a few nice body shots. And then we’ll talk about ‘wants’. Right now, I’m just glad to finally have you in my company. So we can put the past behind us. A new beginning. Right?”

  Brian stared at David’s hand as he held it out. Dirt was wedged between his fingernails. There was a greasy sheen covering them. “Let’s just get there and get out of there as soon as possible. I’ve got a job to do.”

  “But evidently, you deemed this little venture more important.”

  Brian considered replying, but David was right, really. Something had drawn him away from his inane PCSO job. Something had dragged him away from Dirty Dan and his ejaculating cock on that park bench, and towards the highest-profile murder case in the country right now.

  And it wasn’t just passing curiosity. As much as he wanted to believe it was, deep down, he knew that wasn’t the case.

  David’s Honda turned another corner and ascended the bottom of Pendle Hill. The views got more and more magnificent the higher they got. If you squinted enough, you could really believe that it wasn’t the shithole of Preston you were looking at in the distance. It was like a cloudy L.A., lines of cow pats where the Hollywood sign would be.

  As they got higher, barely speaking, Brian noticed a bunch of cars up ahead. A line of yellow tape surrounded an area which had a digger to the left. Behind the area, which was in the open, the deep, thick forest stared back at them. The witches’ forest, or so the myth went. Brian had spent plenty of time in Pendle Hill woods as a kid and a cop to know that the only threatening thing in there was the local village nudist.

  The car stopped beside the yellow tape. A line of journalists, all snap-happy with their cameras, were being told to move back by a police officer that Brian didn’t recognise. Could be from Burnley. Pendle Hill was slap bang in the middle of three towns, so no doubt the individual stations were battling to solve the case themselves. A joint Lancashire effort. A recipe for disaster.

  “Righto,” David said, handing Brian a pass. “Slap that around your neck. Should do the trick.”

  Brian frowned at the lanyard, with LANCASHIRE NEWS VISITOR written on it. “If you think this is going to get you in, you’re wrong, you know?”

  David opened his car door. He tucked his black trousers into his high-top trainers. “Things have changed since you stepped down. I don’t think we’ll have much of a problem at all. Coming?”

  Brian thought back to Scott and wondered how he was getting on. “I can stay for an hour. No more.”

  David winked. “That’s the spirit.” He climbed out of his car and shut the door.

  Brian held his breath and followed.

  To Brian’s surprise, they didn’t have much of a struggle getting through security and onto the scene of the crime. It left him a little reeling, especially as it technically went against everything ethical within the police department, but they were inside the yellow tape, and that was the main thing.

  Brian stared into the trench. His heart pounded. He’d heard about the “horrific scenes of mutilation” on the news last night, but nothing could’ve prepared him for what he saw.

  “Archeological dig site. Somebody shows up completely out of the blue yesterday morning and…‌and well, does this. Only one of ‘um survives. He’s traumatised.” DI Marlow stared down into the trench. He was a well-built man with a grey beard, about Brian’s age, perhaps a little older. Brian hadn’t really minded Marlow the few times he’d come into contact with him. He’d only moved to Preston towards the end of Brian’s stint there, which was a shame because he seemed like a good old-fashioned detective. He chewed on a piece of gum, his jaw clicking with every bite. He didn’t seem particularly fazed by what he saw.

  Brian took a few moments to take it all in again. Feet, shin bones, thigh bones, arms, all in a circle at the bottom of the dig site.

  And in the centre, piled on top of one another, seven heads.

  “And you…‌you have no idea what…‌why…‌?” David Wallson’s hand shook as he held his camera. He hadn’t quite mustered up the courage to get a shot yet.

  DI Marlow sighed. “Forensics from Burnley are identifying the heads and bones. Nothing else showing up though. The killer was very professional. Not even a trace of the missing torsos or murder weapon. Or all the muscle and flesh off the bones. Whoever did this cleaned up very well. But anyway, we’re gonna have a chat with our one witness, Darren Anderson, when he’s calmed down again. The man’s completely rattled. Doesn’t want any media coverage or owt. Whoever did this…‌fuck. Sick fuck.”

  Brian squinted at the bones and the severed heads. All of the eyes were open wide, as if they’d been forced that way. Blood had trickled down their detached necks and onto the faces of those below, so that it looked like the victims were crying blood. Loose leaves drifted from the forest in the distance, falling into the trench and scraping over the bones.

  “This witness. How did he survive?”

  “I’m sorry,” DI Marlow said. “But what authority do you have asking questions here?”

  Brian lowered his head. Marlow was right. He didn’t have any authority here. “I’m just…‌I’m curious. That’s all.”

  “You don’t have to pretend to be anonymous to me, Brian.”

  Brian lifted his head. Marlow half-smiled.

  “I know what you did. Letting another officer die to save your own neck like that. But you’re a good cop. That doesn’t just vanish. So I’ll tell you. Because it’s you, I’ll tell you.” He peered at David Wallson with his baggy eyes. “As long as this fuck gets back behind the yellow tape, where he belongs.”

  “Oh, come on,” David said. “I’m the reason he’s‌—‌”

  “I’m fine with that,” Brian said. He smiled at David as a pair of officers pushed him out of the crime scene and amongst the rest of the journalists.

  “You want to be careful keeping company like that,” DI Marlow said. “People might start questioning your integrity.”

  Brian kept quiet. He thought his integrity was under scrutiny long ago.

  “Anyway, the witness‌—‌Darren Anderson‌—‌he says he was working in this trench when it…‌yeah. When it happened. Gunshots. Didn’t see the rest.”

  “Lucky,” Brian said.

  “Very lucky.”

  “The archeological group. What were they here for, anyway?”

  DI Marlow sighed and pulled out his phone. “Davidson Archeological Contractors. Group of eight headed out here to search for some old shit a week ago. Looks like something beat them to it.”

  Brian walked over to the side of the trench opposite again. He stared down at the severed heads, and at the bones, perfectly aligned.

  “I just don’t understand all this
show. I mean, excuse me for calling a massacre ‘show’, but that’s exactly what it looks like. Why would somebody do this? For laughs, or what?”

  Brian peered at the bones. Something wasn’t right. Something that he had to investigate.

  “I mean, it’s one thing finding a dead body,” Marlow continued. “But…‌but arranged like this. And the rest of the bones, I wonder where they are‌—‌Hey! What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

  Almost without thinking, Brian hopped down the side of the trench. His knees stung as he made contact with the muddy ground, like they used to whenever he used to run as an overweight oaf. But he needed to see something. He needed to check, for sure.

  “McDone, get the hell out of there, right this second, or I’ll have to‌—‌”

  “You said Davidson Archeological Contractors were digging for something?”

  DI Marlow glared down at Brian, his eyes bloodshot and desperate. “Brian, now’s not the time for‌—‌”

  “The bones,” Brian said. He pointed at them. He was so close to the decapitated heads now. “Look at them. They’re not related to the heads.”

  DI Marlow shook his head. Two other officers appeared at the side of the trench and climbed down, grabbing Brian and pushing him back up the ladder, away from the bones, away from the severed heads.

  “There’s seven heads and there’s seven sets of bones,” DI Marlow said, as Brian found himself being dragged further and further away from the crime scene, towards the pack of journalists, whose cameras all snapped Brian, including David Wallson.

  “The bones are too old to be related to the heads,” Brian called, as the officers bundled him into a police car.

  “What are you saying?” DI Marlow called.

  “I think Davidson Archeological Contractors found their lost treasure after all.”

  The door of the police car slammed shut and the sounds from outside were drowned out.

  The engine of the police car came to life. One of the officers, with a ginger goatee and freckly bald head that Brian vaguely recognised, leaned to the back of the vehicle. “Let’s get you down to the station and have a little word, eh?”

  The vehicle came to life. David Wallson looked on. DI Marlow looked on.

  It was at that moment that the realisation of what he’d just gone and done hit him, full force.

  Fuck. What an idiot. What a stupid bloody idiot.

  Chapter Four

  Brian sat in the plastic seat. He held his hands tightly together and looked around the dismal grey room; inhaled the sweaty air. Opposite him, at the other side of the table, DC Edgar kept her mouth closed and waited to be joined by her colleague. The room was familiar to Brian. Very familiar. However, sitting on the opposite side of the interview room desk wasn’t one bit familiar.

  And he didn’t like it at all.

  “Look, can’t I just say my apologies and get out of here?” Brian asked. He tried to look DC Edgar in the eye, but she remained silent. A younger police officer. Another new recruit since he’d left the upper ranks. There had been all change in office over the last two years. He barely recognised the place anymore.

  “Please. I can go home and we can both forget this‌—‌”

  “You know how this works, Brian.”

  The voice came from the opposite side of the room. The door had opened.

  Brian’s stomach sank when he saw the bucktoothed, rodent-like demeanour of the man walking into the interview room, holding a cup of decaf coffee.

  Stephen Molfer. Or DS Stephen Molfer, as he now was to Brian.

  He pulled his seat aside and plonked himself into it. “Long time no speak, my old friend. Just a shame about the circumstances, eh?”

  Brian held his breath. It took every ounce of strength inside him to resist lashing out at Molfer. Fucking Molfer and his stupid, patronising grin.

  “Let’s see…‌Hopping into the middle of a crime scene. Jeez, Brian‌—‌I hear PCSO duty is boring, but wow. That’s just morbid.”

  “Stephen, let’s just get the formalities done with and‌—‌”

  “Stephen?” He slid his ID across the table. “Detective Sergeant Molfer, I’ll have you know. So please could you repeat that? With a formal apology attached, perhaps? Then we can think about letting you walk out of here. As long as you promise to do nothing of the sort again, of course.”

  Brian gritted his teeth and widened his eyes at DC Edgar. She simply stared back at him, a small smile peeking across her face.

  “Say the words, Brian,” Stephen said. “Say the words and we can think about letting you get back home with nothing but a…‌yeah. A minor suspension from your PCSO duty.”

  “Stephen, I‌—‌”

  “Detective Sergeant Molfer.”

  Brian took a few deep breaths to calm himself. A red-hot flush spread across his cheeks. He cleared his throat. There was no way Stephen Detective Frigging Sergeant Molfer was letting him out if he didn’t humour him.

  “I’m sorry. Detective…‌”

  “Detective Serge‌—‌”

  “Detective Sergeant Molfer. I’m sorry for…‌for…‌”

  “I’m sorry, Detective Sergeant Molfer, for recklessly interfering with a crime scene.”

  “For recklessly inter‌—‌”

  “No, no. Again, from the beginning.”

  The heat continued to engulf Brian’s cheeks. Fucking bastard Molfer. “I’m sorry, Detective Sergeant Molfer, for interfering with a crime scene.”

  “Recklessly.”

  “Recklessly.”

  The sides of Stephen’s mouth twitched. “Good. Very good.” He closed the papers in front of him, whatever the hell they were. “Anyway, I’ll be in touch with your department about that temporary suspension. Maybe we can look at keeping it to the minimum if the officer in charge of the case doesn’t believe that the culprit offers a significant risk of repeated offence.” Stephen stopped and stared closely into Brian’s eyes. “I can trust you on that, can’t I? For old times’ sakes?”

  Brian shrugged. He’d been stupid going along with David Wallson to the crime scene in the first place. What on earth was he even thinking? He wasn’t a Detective Sergeant anymore. And the reason he wasn’t a DS was because he chose to run away from all the crap and life-sucking duty that came with it. So why had he gone searching again?

  “I understand, you know?” Molfer added. The way he still had that wrinkly smile on his face suggested that no, in fact, he did not understand. Quite the frigging opposite. “I realise it must be tough. I realise that…‌that bug. That desire for solving mysteries. It doesn’t just die with a…‌how can I phrase it without being condescending?”

  “You probably can’t, I’d imagine.”

  “Well, a demotion,” Molfer said, chuckling. Then, he patted DC Edgar on the back. “Anyway. We’d better let the man leave. Your department will be in touch with you regarding the suspension.”

  “Oh, come on. Do you have to?”

  “Brian, I’d love to let you walk away unscathed here. I really would. But I don’t make the rules.” He stuck out his bottom lip and turned on his best puppy-dog eyes.

  Evil fucking puppy-dog at that.

  “Hope you come out of this one alive,” Molfer said, as Brian snatched his coat and emerged from the dingy pit of misery. “I’m rooting for you.”

  As he walked down the corridor‌—‌the corridor he used to walk down every day‌—‌Brian realised he had more self-restraint than he’d ever imagined.

  But he needed to get the hell out of here before he turned right back and punched the bloody lights out of Stephen Molfer.

  “Hey, Brian!”

  He stopped in his tracks and cringed as he heard footsteps approaching behind. If Molfer said one more thing…‌

  “Glad I caught you.”

  When Brian finished spinning around, he realised it wasn’t Stephen at all, but instead, DI Marlow from the Pendle Hill dig site.

  A wave of embarrass
ment crashed over him. He felt like a schoolkid in the spotlight of the headteacher’s wrath all of a sudden. “Listen, DI Marlow, I apologise for‌—‌”

  “Ah, forget it. You’re a detective at heart. That doesn’t just go away. I mean, what you did, it was a pig-headed, dick-cheesed move and a half. But you were, um…‌you were right.”

  Brian squinted. DI Marlow could barely look at him, as he scratched at his greying moustache.

  “Right? About what?”

  DI Marlow sighed and held out a couple of sheets of paper, filled with more text and numbers than Brian could even subconsciously be bothered to scan through. “Results just came in from forensics over at Burnley. The bones. You’re right. They didn’t match the heads.” He stuffed the papers back under his arm, keeping them out of sight, and looked over his shoulder. “I, er…‌I just thought you should know.”

  Then, he turned around and scooted off down the long, well-lit corridor of the station, towards the buzz and chatter of the office, towards everything Brian used to hate about his past.

  “Oh, and…‌erm…‌Your lift. They’re waiting out front for you.” Marlow raised his bushy eyebrows as he backed into the double doors and pushed through.

  A twinge of fear sparked up inside Brian. His lift? Shit‌—‌Stephen Molfer hadn’t gone and called Hannah to pick him up, had he? Fuck. He’d tell Hannah about today, but of course, in his own condensed, moderately biased version of the truth. He rushed down the corridor, sprinted down the stairs and barely broke a sweat. Fuck. He’d have apologised to her in his own way. Maybe it was the afternoon media. Maybe they’d printed the photos of him being dragged away in the afternoon editions and she’d put two and two together. Shit.

  He ran through the reception area, past Friendly Jill The Desk Lady, through the doors and into the growing autumn chill.

  The visitor parking area was empty. Hannah’s red Fiesta was nowhere in sight. There were two cars in the parking area next door. A black Ford Escort. And a…‌

  “Couldn’t leave you to catch the bus all the way back home. I’d offer you a pound, but I hear those bastard bus bandits are upping the prices yet again.”