Once Davis had a modicum of control, he lifted his head, scrabbled in his pocket and pulled out a hankie. He wiped his eyes and blew his nose, finishing with a blow of breath. “Okay. Sorry.”
Anderson said, “Seaman Davis, was that your daughter Dawn.”
Davis nodded.
“I’m sorry but you need to say it out loud.”
There was another audible blow of breath, before Davis said, “Yes, that’s Dawn.”
“Thank you.”
“What happens now? Can I take her home with me?”
“Not just yet, the Pathologist has yet to release her body.”
“In that case, I’ll wait here,” said Davis.
“It could take some time,” Crane explained gently.
“I’ve nowhere else to go. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be,” Davis spoke equally quietly, settling in his seat and staring at the window with the closed curtains, which just a moment ago had framed, like a picture, the body of his daughter.
48
“Right, listen up.”
Everyone obeyed Anderson’s call and came together at the front of the incident room. Yawning, gulping down coffee and leaning against desks and filing cabinets, they all turned their bleary eyes towards their SIO, wondering why he’d called them in so early in the morning.
Anderson was glad to have some news to break to the team. Day after day there had been little to go on and after witnessing the devastating grief of Seaman Davis yesterday, Anderson needed all the good news he could get. The strain on his team was clearly visible. Their faces looked dirty with fatigue and their eyelids blinked rapidly as though trying to wash the cobwebs of tiredness away that were gumming up their eyes.
“I know you’ve all been working unusually long hours,” he began. Everyone nodded their agreement to that. “Well, it looks like our hard work is paying off.”
Anderson’s quiet sentence ran around the room like an electric current, straightening shoulders, opening eyes, making downturned mouths smile. The only one who didn’t look pleased was DS Bullock, Anderson noted. Instead of being pleased, he looked shocked. His eyes widened and his grip on the chair he was leaning on tightened. Anderson had seen that look before; on the faces of defendants as they were waiting for the judge to pronounce sentence. Or on suspects being caught red handed. Whichever scenario applied to Bullock, Anderson and Crane would have to keep an eye on him.
“DC Douglas has made a major breakthrough in the case. He’s found an ice cream van that was stolen a couple of months ago from a Birmingham firm called Galletto’s. We’ve had it shown to the witness who remembered seeing an ice cream van on the day that Dawn was taken from Birmingham and she has confirmed that that’s the one she saw.”
“Bloody hell.”
“Excellent work,”
“Way to go, newbie.”
Anderson let Douglas have his few seconds in the spotlight, before continuing. “So, overnight we ran the registration number through the automated number plate recognition system and we’ve got a list of all the sightings by date. Crane here has the breakdown ‘to do’ lists, so grab one from him and get on with plotting the route the van took on each date. In the meantime Crane and I will follow up with the Birmingham Police and see if they can identify from their local knowledge, anywhere where the van might be stored. Okay, dismissed, let’s get on with it.”
As his team jostled for position, lining up to grab a pack of information from Crane, Anderson noted that instead of following his colleagues, DS Bullock left the room. Anderson, who was by now convinced that there was definitely something off with his DS, followed him, and as he left the incident room, he saw the door to the toilets swing shut.
Anderson quietly opened the door to the men’s toilets to hear someone retching repeatedly, before flushing a toilet. Anderson timed his entrance as Bullock left the cubicle and the two men met in the middle of the space.
“You alright, DS?” Anderson asked, although it was very clear that he wasn’t. Bullock’s pasty white forehead was sheened with sweat, his hands were shaking and his legs seemed unable to hold him. He staggered drunkenly to the sinks where he held on tight.
“Sorry, guv, not feeling so good today. Must be something I ate.”
“You sure? I hope it’s nothing contagious.”
“No, just a dodgy prawn sandwich. I’ll be alright in a bit,” and Bullock leaned over the sink and splashed his face with cold water.
“Well, if you’re sure?”
Bullock nodded his agreement and Anderson had no alternative but to take the man’s word for it. But he didn’t believe him. Not for a minute.
49
Crane had to admit that over the last few hours, they had made enormous progress. The van, on its various journeys, had seemed to start and end at an area in a Birmingham suburb with lock up garages. The CCTV had shown it driving into the street housing the garages, but hadn’t captured the exact one it was parked in. The Birmingham Police had investigated and working on the premise that a vehicle used to snatch children would have extra security on the garage it was stored in, had identified three possible garages.
The phone on Anderson’s desk rang and Derek snatched it up.
“Ah ha,” he said. “Mmmm, alright,” he continued, before replacing the receiver.
“Well?” Crane’s voice was as sharp as the bolts of pain currently firing down his leg. “What’s happening?”
“A friendly local Judge has just signed a Search Warrant for forced entry into the three garages,” said Anderson.
“Thank God for that,” Crane said putting his leg up on a chair and rubbing his thigh.
“Come on then,” Anderson stood.
“Where?”
“To the communications room. Quickly.”
“Alright, just let me take a couple of pain killers first,” and Crane dry swallowed them as he limped after Anderson. He was beginning to feel like the mermaid in the Hans Christian Andersen tale, the one who wanted to be human. Her wish was granted, and her tail was split in two to form legs. But every step she took was excruciating agony. That just about summed him up, he decided as he limped after Anderson, trying to push the pain from his mind.
The room they entered was dim, populated with people sat at desks, mesmerised by the large computer monitors in front of them.
“Nearly ready,” an operator said to Anderson.
“What are we waiting for?” hissed Crane, as he tried to balance himself with his stick.
“Okay, guv, we’re up.”
“This,” said Anderson and indicated the large screen on the wall.
The screen hissed and flickered for a few moments, before clearing to provide a view of a row of lock up garages.
“Is that?” Crane said.
“Yes, the Birmingham police ready to break into the lock ups. One of the officers is wearing a webcam so we can see what’s happening.”
“Nice,” Crane nodded. “Saves a trip up there.”
“Exactly.”
The picture wobbled as the officer began walking with his team to the first garage. For a moment the screen was filled with the back of a police officer working with bolt cutters to free the locks. They could hear the scuffle of feet, the sound of deep breathing and then, at last, the creak and groan of a metal spring as the door sprang open.
By torchlight, they could see… that the garage was empty.
“Fuck,” came the expletive from Birmingham. “Next one.”
Crane and Anderson watched as the operation was repeated, with the same result.
“Jesus,” Crane’s frustration exploded. “Don’t say we’ve got it wrong.”
“Have faith, Crane,” cautioned Anderson as the officers turned to the third garage.
Once again the screen was filled with the broad blue-cladded back of the officer with the bolt cutters. There were one, two, three cracks of metal breaking and then a rattle as the door rolled upwards.
“Bingo!” someone shouted.
“Out o
f my way then,” said the officer with the camera and the view cleared of bodies to reveal an ice cream van.
50
Bullock didn’t need to look in the mirror to see how awful he looked. He knew his fear could be seen in the sweat on his brow, the trembling of his hands and the shaking of his legs. It seemed to be rolling off him in waves and he was sure everyone could see it; a black fog swirling around his head, rendering him incapable of rational thought. It had been bad enough when they’d identified the dead girl. But it had transpired that that had been the least of his worries. For it was the evidence the Birmingham police had collected from the ice cream van that he was most afraid of. His leg bounced up and down rapidly under his desk as he thought about what had been found.
They’d got the discarded blanket that the girls had been wrapped up in. They’d found the stash of ketamine used to tranquilise the girls and of course the fingerprints. They were everywhere. The rational part of his brain realised that it could take days to sort the evidence out and identify his associate. But the irrational one, the dominant side for the moment, was convinced that the end was near. He considered flight. But where would he go? What would he do for money? Everything he had was tied up in the house. Maybe he could get a quick sale? Maybe he could delay some of the evidence coming to light? They hadn’t found the white van used to transport the girls, they hadn’t found the secret meeting place, they hadn’t found Clay…
That was it. Clay. He had to get rid of Clay. Clay was the one who had done the abductions. Clay was the one who had let one girl escape. Clay was the one who had given the second girl an overdose. Clay was the one person who could identify Bullock.
Bullock’s body flooded with relief and he almost fell off his chair as he relaxed. There was a way out after all. Clay was his way out. He wouldn’t need to do a runner. But he would still need to put a plan in place that would ensure his disappearance. He’d put the house on the market as soon as he could, change his name, empty his bank accounts… yes it could be done. As long as Clay was out of the picture.
He reached under his desk and grabbed his briefcase, which was mostly used for effect. He’d wanted to portray the organised, dedicated detective and a briefcase said all of those things. It also hinted that every night he was taking work home with him, earning brownie points from the governor. Of course he wasn’t any of those things, nor did he do any of those things. He went to work, did as little as possible whilst there and then went home at night with never a second thought for the cases he was working on.
Popping open the clasps of the case, he took out a burner phone and put the briefcase back under his desk. He was just pushing himself out of his office chair when DC Douglas said, “Off somewhere?”
“Just phoning the missus.”
“Don’t forget your phone then,” Douglas nodded towards the smart phone on Bullock’s desk.
“Ah,” Bullock said, looking at the burner phone in his hand. “We use a different phone to communicate. Can’t abide her tying up my work phone.”
Bullock hurried away after blurting out the lie, but he was sure Douglas’ eyes were still on him. He could feel them following him all the way to the door.
Once in the men’s toilets and after checking that no one else was lurking in a cubicle, he flipped open the phone and called the only number in it.
“Mm,”
“Clay?” Bullock hissed.
“Yeah,” Clay drawled. “What do you want? I was asleep. You just woke me up.”
“Well, very soon lack of sleep is going to be the least of your worries.”
“Eh? What?”
“We need to meet. Soon.”
“Alright,” Clay didn’t sound very excited about the idea. “If you say so.”
“I do say so. Meet me at the farm.”
“Why so far away? Don’t know if I’ve got enough petrol.”
“For fuck’s sake, stop moaning and just do as you’re told. I’ll see you there at 5 pm.”
Bullock closed the phone to end the call and placed his hands on the white porcelain sink. The unyielding, cold surface was just what he needed. For that’s what he would be. Cold. Unyielding. In control. Very soon Clay wouldn’t be a threat, just a distant memory.
51
Clay had eventually arrived at the farm where their Satanic meetings took place, after making Bullock wait for 15 minutes, most of which he’d spent pacing around the property and constantly looking at his watch. Bullock had found the farm through a friend of a friend, who knew of an agent wanting to get the place off his books. The old man who’d owned it had died and they’d couldn’t finalise the estate until it was sold. As a result Bullock had got it for a song and had paid for it in cash out of the proceeds of the sale of his house near Birmingham. He’d spun the wife a tale about not getting as much out of the sale as he thought they would, and blamed the smaller house down south on the increased property prices in the area. When he’d bought the farm he’d been careful enough to put the property in his wife’s maiden name. The floors were creaky, the roof leaked, some windows were broken and from the back, the house appeared to be sliding down a slight incline. Bullock wasn’t bothered about any of those things, for the house had a cellar which was cool, dry and large, running under the whole of the house.
Bullock watched from inside the farmhouse as Clay dragged himself out of the van and clomped over to the house in the black biker boots that he favoured. Christ knew why he liked them, for as to his knowledge Clay had never owned or even ridden on a motorbike. His boots raised the dust on the path and then threatened to break some of the floorboards of the wooden veranda as he stomped around on it. Going outside to meet Clay. Bullock was repulsed by the man’s dirty clothing and hair that was matted and greasy.
“Well? What’s the matter? Why have you dragged me all the way out here?” Clay was clearly not in the best of moods, which was fine, because neither was Bullock.
“Because they’ve found the ice cream van,” Bullock said, wanting to add ‘you moron’ but thought better of it.
Clay’s attitude quickly changed from sullen to frightened. “Oh shit.”
“Exactly.”
“I thought you were supposed to stop them doing that?”
“I’m only one man, Clay. I can only hide so much. Someone else in the office found the van and there was nothing I could do to stop it.”
“So what happens now?”
“Well now there is a forensic team crawling all over it. They’ve found your ketamine stash and the blanket you wrapped the girls in and, of course, your finger prints will be all over it.”
Clay began pacing up and down the wooden boards, running his hand through his hair and Bullock very much hoped Clay wouldn’t touch him with that filthy hand. The tangled mess of hair looked like an open invitation for every bug and insect small enough to make their home in it. The thought of fleas and nits making their home in Clay’s hair made Bullock scratch his own head.
Clay stopped pacing and confronted Bullock. “What shall we do?”
“We don’t need to do anything. But you have to get away, that’s for sure.”
“Do you think that’s best?”
“Of course I do. It’s all very well identifying you, but if they can’t find you, then you’ll be fine.”
“But, but, where should I go? I don’t know anywhere else. I’ve lived here all my life.” Clay grabbed at Bullock’s jacket. “Help me! You’ve got to help me!”
Bullock smiled inside, careful not to let it show on his face. He loved it when a plan came together. Forcing himself to put his arm around Clay’s shoulders, he said to the unsuspecting man, “I’d been thinking about that while I waited for you. I’ve got an idea. Here, come inside, I’ve got something that I think can help,” and Bullock moved away from the door so that Clay could go inside first. Once the big man had his back turned to Bullock, he picked up the wooden slat he’d found in the garden. Sturdy and thick, it had several rusty nails protruding from
it. It was just what Bullock had been looking for to help Clay on his way to somewhere where he’d never be found.
Bullock was in a much brighter mood on the way back from the farm. He might be a bit sweaty and dirty - all that dragging and rolling up a dusty rug hadn’t been good for his suit - but all in all he felt that he was back in control. Clay had weighed rather more than Bullock had thought he would. He supposed it was something to do with Clay being a dead weight and he grinned at the pun. He relived the moment when Clay had walked inside the farmhouse. All it had taken was one good swing from the piece of wood to make Clay tumble to the floor. As his head had banged down, the nails had pierced his skull, meaning that the wooden slat was securely fastened to his head. Bullock hadn’t bothered to try and take it out and had just rolled him up in the carpet with it still in situ and dragged him outside onto the verandah. He’d backed up his car to the steps and then tipped Clay into the boot.
After a quick stop at an unsupervised rubbish tip, Bullock drove back to Aldershot with the windows open and the car radio tuned to Jazz FM. It was his favourite radio station and the one that his wife had hated the most. He was beginning to find out how truly liberating it was to be on his own. No nagging wife. No grovelling assistant.
He was just thinking that his life had at last turned a corner, and that the only way was up, when his mobile phone began buzzing in his jacket pocket. Pulling off the road, just in case it was work calling, he stopped the car and looked at the screen. His good mood dissolved in an instant. The call was from his wife’s parents. As the mobile buzzed angrily at Bullock, he wondered why they wouldn’t stop pestering him. They were constantly asking for him to help them since his wife had mysteriously disappeared from their lives. They were starting to think that Enid’s illness, which meant she was unable to see them, was suspicious. Their frail voices warbled through the phone, moaning at him, asking what they should do about this, that and the other. Carping on that they needed help. Just like Clay. I need help. We need help. Everybody fucking needed his help.
Rules of the Earth: A dark gripping detective thriller (Crane and Anderson Book 1) Page 14
