Tethered to the Dead: DS Lasser series volume three (The DS Lasser series. Book 3)

by Rob Roughley

  ‘Are you OK, sir?’ he asked.

  Bannister looked up, his face a strange amalgamation of relief and dread.

  ‘She’s got blond hair,’ he whispered as if to himself.

  Cooper looked down, Bannister was losing the plot, he’d read somewhere that stating the obvious was one of the first signs of losing your marbles.

  ‘Yes, sir, but I don’t see...’

  ‘It’s not her, Cooper, it’s not Kelly Ramsey!’

  51

  Lasser hesitated before stepping over the threshold; past the point of no return, he decided he might as well make the most of it. The elderly woman, whose name turned out to be Mrs Foxtrot, walked past him, trailing a floral scent in her wake.

  ‘Now what would you like, tea or coffee?’

  ‘Tea please, one sugar and just a splash of milk.’

  ‘Thank goodness for that,’ she smiled in relief. ‘I don’t know how to use the coffee machine and Christopher won’t have the instant stuff.’

  I bet he won’t, Lasser thought, only the best for Mr Fulcom. ‘Not too keen myself, Mrs Foxtrot.’

  ‘Oh please, call me Hannah.’

  Lasser smiled. ‘Now I think he said the desktop was in the lounge.’

  Pushing open the first door on the right, she pointed across the room. ‘Is that it?’

  Lasser looked over her shoulder. ‘I thought you said you knew nothing about computers?’

  She blushed slightly and laughed. ‘Just a lucky guess I’m afraid, now I won’t be long.’

  ‘No problem,’ Lasser walked into the room as she hobbled toward the kitchen. Everything about the space was exact; the sofa was positioned directly in front of the huge plasma that hung over the ornate wooden fireplace. He looked at the walls; photographs in beech wood frames placed at just the right height, each one aligned perfectly with its neighbour. Two showed electrical pylons from oblique angles, black and white, the structures standing stark against a cloudless sky. Another was a close up of a red plastic bucket, the kind kids take to the beach to build sandcastles with. However, this one seemed suspended in mid-air, holes punched into the sides, water cascading out forming a mini rainbow.

  Crossing the room, he clicked the power button on the computer and slid open the desk drawer, empty, apart from a couple of elastic bands. The screen pinged to life and he scanned the icons all arranged neatly on the left hand side of the screen. All the usual suspects were there, media player, adobe, Firefox.

  ‘Would you like a biscuit with your tea?’

  Lasser looked up and then patted his stomach. ‘I’m trying to lose a bit of weight so I’d better not.’

  ‘They’re Hobnobs?’

  Lasser wagged a finger. ‘You’re a temptress, Hannah, but I don’t want to spoil my tea.’

  She giggled and disappeared from view. Lasser clicked on a couple of icons he didn’t recognise, but each one was password protected. Looking around the room revealed nothing, no cupboards to rummage through and no letters thrust onto the mantelpiece. It was obvious Fulcom had a practical mind, an ordered approach to life, and Lasser didn’t trust people like that. In his experience the less on show, the more the individual had to hide.

  ‘It’s ready!’ Hannah shouted.

  Taking one last look around the room, he left and wandered through to the kitchen. It was the same in there; no post-it notes stuck to the gleaming chrome fridge. No empty cups or plates left on the draining board, the place was like a show house. Everything shone with newness and he began to wonder if all the cupboards were bare, empty shelves, empty fridge, like the set of a TV soap opera.

  ‘Have you managed to fix it?’

  ‘Not yet, Mrs F,’ he picked up the plain white mug and took a sip. ‘This is a very good brew.’

  She beamed at him. ‘You don’t get many people these days who appreciate a well-made cup of tea.’

  ‘Well, I think it’s an art form, and you are definitely an expert,’ he took another gulp.

  ‘So, do you think you’ll have to take the computer away? I mean, I wouldn’t mind, but normally Christopher tells me when he expects someone to call.’ For the first time she looked nervous, she fiddled with the plain wedding band on her finger. ‘It’s not that I don’t trust you...’

  ‘Don’t worry, Hannah, if I can’t sort the problem I’ll leave the computer here and arrange another time to pick it up.’

  Relief flooded her pale green eyes. ‘Oh that would be better, I mean, I don’t want to cause you any more work, but...’

  ‘I understand and you’ve been more than helpful. Now the problem isn’t down here, do you know if Christopher has a router upstairs?’

  He felt sorry for the woman as she started to chew at her bottom lip, the uncertainty back in her eyes. ‘I’m sorry; I don’t know what a router is.’

  ‘A small plastic box, about that big,’ Lasser explained, holding his hands six inches apart. ‘It should have small flashing green lights on the front.’

  She shook her vigorously. ‘Oh no, I’ve never seen anything like that.’

  ‘You see, that could be what’s causing the problem and people tend to keep them in strange places, under the bed or a window sill behind the curtains.’

  Mrs Foxtrot tick-tocked her head from side to side. ‘I don’t remember seeing anything like that upstairs.’

  ‘Would it be OK if I took a quick look, because if it is something to do with the router than I’m pretty certain I can sort it?’ he felt like a total shit as the elderly woman tried to decide what to do; her hands came together the fingers entwined in indecision.

  ‘Look I’ll tell you what, if you feel a little uncomfortable about letting me wander around upstairs then why don’t you come with me?’

  ‘It’s not that I don’t trust you...’

  Lasser held up his hands. ‘I understand, you’re just being cautious...’

  Hannah flapped her hands at him. ‘No, it has nothing to do with that I’m just trying to remember if I turned my iron off.’

  Lasser blinked in surprise. ‘Do you want me to come with you and check?’

  ‘Oh no, you get on with your work, I won’t be long.’

  He watched as she hurried down the hallway her feet encased in brown ankle length moccasins whispered over the wooden floor, a moment later she was gone.

  Lasser poured the sweet tea down the sink and headed upstairs.

  52

  Bannister felt as if he were being poked intermittently with a cattle prod. One-minute waves of disgust would wash through his mind, followed by the knowledge that Kelly was still missing, still out there somewhere, probably dead.

  He could feel Cooper’s eyes on him; he’d made a spectacle of himself, lost the plot. Bannister knew that as soon as he got the opportunity Cooper would start to spread the rumours. It was natural, people gossiped and the truth became enlarged like a balloon filled with toxic waste. Eventually the rumours would reach the ears of his superiors and they would start to watch him closely, spies in the ranks would gather information and report to those in command. He was fucked, Lasser had been right, he should have come clean about his connection with Kelly, but he hadn’t been able to do it, being kept out of the loop would have been agonizing. To be restricted to a bystander watching as someone else poked through his past would have been too much to bear.

  ‘Where’s Chadwick?’ he asked trying to inject some authority into his voice.

  The body still lay on the ground, waiting for forensics to arrive, the late afternoon sun drying the clay on her alabaster skin.

  Bannister listened in disbelief as Cooper explained about Stan Burrows and the unfortunate accident. By the time Cooper had finished, Bannister could feel the rage threatening to swamp him.

  ‘So what the hell was a gardener doing at a crime scene?’

  ‘I’m not sure, sir, he did say at one point that you’d asked for his help in finding the girl.’ Cooper swallowed as he saw Bannister’s face cloud over.

  ‘I ask
ed him to find the track through the woods that doesn’t mean he’s given a grandstand view of the proceedings!’

  ‘No, sir,’ Cooper looked at his shoes.

  ‘And where the fuck are forensics?’

  ‘I...’

  ‘Get on the phone and find out what’s taking them so long.’

  ‘Right away, sir,’ Cooper replied, pulling the phone from his pocket, he walked away with it slapped to his ear.

  Bannister looked down at the girl; it was obvious she hadn’t been in the water long as the body wasn’t bloated, and as far as he could tell the skin looked intact. He looked away and swallowed, trying to block out the image of his daughter, trying to find a glimmer of professionalism. The ground was littered with weed and chunks of drying clay, crouching down he looked at the rope binding her feet. It looked old; the cord frayed around the edge as if cut from a longer piece, dark and grimy looking. Picking up the end, he raised it to his face and sniffed, rubbing the twine between his fingers, they came away slippery with oil or perhaps grease, he sniffed again detecting the faint whiff of diesel.

  ‘They should be here in five, sir, apparently the town is gridlocked, the water board are still digging up the roads.’ Cooper said.

  ‘OK, I want this place cordoned off; I want bodies in the woods.’

  ‘Right.’

  When he heard his phone ring, he thought of ignoring it, chances are it would be a solicitor acting for Stan Burrows. Knowing his luck, it would probably be that bastard Sinclair, demanding to know why an elderly man had been rugby tackled to the ground leaving him hospitalised with a shattered hip. Bannister sighed, the phone carried on its incessant bleating.

  Dragging it from his pocket, he checked the number and frowned. ‘Suzanne, what is it, what’s the matter?’

  Twenty seconds later, he was running for the car.

  53

  Lasser gave the first two bedrooms a cursory glance, spare rooms devoid of almost any furniture, no pictures on the walls no cupboards and no drawers. This was a house built for a family, not some pompous arrogant twat living on his own. The bathroom had been transformed into a huge wet room; the gleaming power shower looked capable of sandblasting granite. Sliding open the drawer of the medicine cabinet, he saw an array of expensive aftershaves, a pack of disposable razors and a tube of Preparation H.

  At least Fulcom wasn’t perfect in every way; the thought of the teacher suffering from haemorrhoids brought a smile to his face. Leaving the room, he headed for the last door on the long landing. Fulcom’s bedroom, this room was dominated by a king-sized bed, the dark blue sheet folded back neatly, the pillows plumped to perfection. Crossing the room, he slid back the doors of the built-in wardrobes. Suits hung from hangers, one for every day of the week, shirts folded expertly into individual compartments, some still enclosed in polythene wrappers. The bottom of the wardrobe taken up by a huge shoe rack, Lasser frowned; maybe they were looking for the bastard child of Imelda Marcos as footwear of all descriptions was on display, brogues in brown and black leather, polished to a high shine, boots, trainers, open-toed sandals, at least half a dozen pairs.

  Lasser slid the door closed; this whole thing had turned out to be a complete waste of time. Closing the bedroom door, he headed back to the top of the stairs, his earlier euphoria dissipated. Mrs Foxtrot stood below looking up at him with the same smile fixed in place.

  ‘Silly me I hadn’t left the iron on at all. I just get so forgetful these days.’

  Lasser began to walk down the stairs, ‘Better to be safe than sorry, Mrs F.’

  ‘Did you find what you were looking for?’

  ‘Afraid not, I had a look around but I can’t find it.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ she paused, ‘did you try the attic?’

  Lasser stopped, ‘The attic?’

  She pointed towards the ceiling. ‘It’s just that I know Christopher spends a lot of time up there. I mean, I don’t know what he gets up to, but I’ve called round a few times and he always seems to be bumping about in the attic.’

  Lasser looked up; he could see the hatch half way down the landing. ‘I might as well give it a try,’ he said as he climbed up.

  ‘There’s a switch on the wall, just press it.’

  It looked like a light switch, Lasser looked back down the stairs, and Mrs Foxtrot nodded at him.

  ‘That’s the one.’

  He jabbed a finger at it and watched in amazement as the hatch started to slide back. When it was fully open, a pair of ladders appeared and glided down toward him, he could hear the hum of an electric motor coming from above.

  Hannah clapped her hands and laughed. ‘It always makes me smile; it’s like something out of one of those James Bond films,’ she shook her head sadly. ‘My Harold used to love those old films.’

  Lasser grinned down at her and began to climb up poking his head through the gap, he broke out into a wide grin. Bingo.

  He was half way through the open hatch when his phone began to ring.

  54

  By the time he arrived at the Ramsey house, the light was fading rapidly as half a dozen solar street lamps threw out paltry cones of light.

  He recognised Bannister’s car and Doc Molder’s old Land Rover. PC Sally Wright was standing guard by the front door of number eight. Climbing from the car Lasser looked at the other houses; he could see a television flickering in the window of number six, and a bedroom light switched on in number four, the rest of the properties were in darkness.

  ‘Evening, Sally.’

  ‘Good evening, sir,’ she smiled at him as he walked towards her.

  ‘Have any of the neighbours put in an appearance?’ he asked, hooking a thumb over his shoulder.

  ‘Not a peep. There’s just DCI Bannister and Doctor Molder inside.’

  Lasser scratched his head, the daughter missing and now the husband found dead and not one concerned neighbour had been to the house.

  ‘I heard from Cathy Harper this morning, she was asking about you.’

  Lasser stopped and turned, when Cathy had worked for the force she and Sally had been close friends, thick as thieves. He narrowed his eyes as he tried to read the expression on her face. While they’d been together both he and Cathy had agreed to keep their relationship secret, deciding that the job was hard enough without giving people reason to gossip and speculate. Lasser had stuck to his side of the bargain, but from the look on Sally’s face, it seemed as if Cathy had confided in at least one of her colleagues.

  ‘How is she?’ he asked, trying to appear nonchalant.

  ‘Fine, in fact, she’s coming over from Southport on Friday we’re going out for a meal; you know just to catch up.’

  ‘Well, tell her I said hi.’ he reached out and grabbed the handle of the front door.

  ‘Well, that’s just it. She was wondering if maybe you’d like to join us?’

  Lasser paused, six months of wondering and hoping, of checking his emails on a daily basis until it felt like an obsession. The slow decline back to a life he prayed he would never see again, cheap booze, and endless cigarettes. Lying alone in the dark wishing he could somehow make things right, wishing she were here with him.

  ‘Thanks for the offer, Sally, but I’m busy Saturday night.’

  She looked at him in surprise. ‘I said Friday, not Saturday.’

  Lasser shrugged. ‘I’m busy every night,’ he replied, before pushing through the door.

  He found Bannister and Molder in the back garden, the trees threw long shadows on the lawn as the last of the sun quivered behind the wooded hill.

  ‘Evening, boss.’

  Bannister looked over his shoulder and grunted; Molder gave him a cursory nod and then pushed his half-moon glasses up the bridge of his bird-like nose. Lasser looked down at the body of Jonathan Ramsey, his fair hair tinted crimson, eyes closed, a bead of water trickled from the corner of his eye like a tear, running down the side of his face before dropping onto the grass.

  ‘Accidental?’ he a
sked, nodding at the corpse.

  Bannister raised an eyebrow and looked at Molder. ‘That’s what I want to know, Sergeant.’

  Molder looked distressed. ‘I can’t say for definite, not until I get him back to the lab.’

  ‘What about the head wound?’ Lasser asked, inwardly delighted to see the pathologist looking uncomfortable. On more than one occasion, Molder had kept him dangling, storing information so he could pass it onto the DCI, making Lasser look like an incompetent buffoon while he bathed in the glory.

  ‘Well yes, yes, it does look suspicious. Though of course he could have fallen somewhere in the garden, it could have been an accident.’

  Lasser pursed his lips. ‘So he falls and cracks his head on one of the rockery stones and instead of going to get help, he decides to lift the lid off the hot tub and go for a dip, fully clothed.’

  Molder glared, his lips a thin slash across his narrow face.

  Bannister moved his weight from one foot to the other. ‘Does that sound plausible to you, Doctor?’ he asked darkly.

  Molder’s tongue darted out, like a lizard searching for a tasty fly. ‘Well no, but I couldn’t be one hundred percent certain, until...’

  ‘Take a guess.’

  Molder looked as if Bannister had asked him to strip naked, and perform cartwheels around the garden. ‘A guess?’

  ‘Yes, in your expert opinion was this man murdered?’

  Molder looked down at the body, his eyes feverish behind his cut-off glasses. ‘Well,’ he paused, ‘if pushed, then I’d have to say yes it does seem suspicious.’

  ‘Right, get the body back to the lab; I want facts not bloody guess work!’

  Molder looked aghast, his face flush with embarrassment, pulling out his phone he walked toward the house on stick insect legs.

  Bannister watched him go with a sour expression. ‘They’ve discovered the body of a young girl near the Hall.’ It was said in a matter of fact way, as if they were two friends discussing the weather.