by J. S. Spicer
“Moved around?”
“A couple of the wounds show evidence the blade had been twisted or tilted whilst inside the body.”
“So, calm, but sadistic.”
Everson shrugged and reached for his sandwich. “I can tell you the attacker’s actions were controlled, it’s up to you to figure out their state of mind.”
Not an enviable task, thought Max. Stan was giving him contradictions. Why would somebody calmly plunge a knife into someone else nearly a dozen times? If it was passion or rage, or even self-defence, it would have been frantic, not controlled.
“How about time of death, are you able to narrow it down?”
“Between 8pm and midnight,” Stan told him.
Max pushed off the desk. “Thanks Stan, anything else?”
Again Max had to wait for him to finish a bite of sandwich. “Andrew Trent’s body was dumped under that bridge, but it’s not where he was killed.”
“Yeah, not enough blood at the scene,” Max agreed grumpily. He’d been expecting this, but had hoped to be wrong. It meant that, however thorough they were, their examination of the area beneath the bridge could never reveal the whole picture.
Stan gave a rueful nod. “’fraid so. Nor was there any blood spatter at the scene consistent with his wounds. Trent’s clothing is still being examined. Maybe that will tell us something.”
“You’ll let me know?”
“You? Or the lovely Miss Pope?” Everson’s mouth stretched into a ketchup grin. “Where is she anyway?”
Max tried but failed to stifle the sigh in his chest. “She’s following another lead.” He turned away from Everson’s amusement. “Just call me if you find anything, OK?”
Max didn’t hang around, making a hasty exit back to the sticky interior of his car. When they’d left the station he and Lorraine had engaged in a rare conversation devoid of any sniping or suspicion. They both agreed the trip to the retirement home was a waste of their time, but with Heritage breathing down their necks it couldn’t just be ignored.
They’d flipped a coin, the only fair way to decide. Lorraine had lost; she got to interview the old lady about the intruder. In the meantime Max would follow up with Everson. He did his best to keep a lid on his triumph at winning the coin toss, but guessed from Lorraine’s scowl that a gleeful glint of it must have cracked the surface of his deadpan expression.
Driving to the mortuary he’d felt his luck was beginning to turn, with Lorraine tied up on a dead-end he could make some headway. But that wasn’t to be; he knew little more now than he had the day before when he’d first seen the body. By the time forensics were finished with the clothing, assuming they turned up anything new, Lorraine would be back in the game. It felt like they were in a race to the finish line but Max hadn’t even made it out of the starting blocks yet.
He was heading in the general direction of the station, his next move still eluding him, when Carrie called.
“Got a burnt out car by the river, a Toyota, reported stolen around noon yesterday.”
“So?” Max knew Carrie wouldn’t waste his time about stolen cars if there wasn’t some significance to the case. “Trent had already been murdered and his body dumped under the bridge before then.”
“Yeah, I know, but it was stolen from a car park that overlooks the bridge where Andrew Trent’s body was found.”
Max’s mind leapt on these tenuous morsels of information. “You say it was stolen at noon yesterday?”
“That’s when the owner reported it missing, but he’d parked up just after 9am so it could have been earlier.” He heard Carrie breathing on the line, recognised the sense of anticipation it signified.
“Something else?”
“The place where the stolen car has been found, Max, its right round the corner from HeathTrent Enterprises.”
The interior of the Toyota was blackened and choked with soot. On the outside some of the paint had splintered and bubbled from the heat, but the car was still recognisable, the registration plates readable. The smouldering remains dripped pathetically from the torrents blasted onto it by the fire service. The location was a strip of bare land, old asphalt peppered with tufts of parched grass, resting between some chain-link fencing and the overgrown bank running down to the river below. Quiet, but close enough to a cluster of industrial units for the fire to quickly attract attention.
Max circled the wreck, rolling so many questions around his mind. In the last twenty four hours officers had talked to everyone close to the victim. Lorraine had coordinated all the interviews, assigned tasks, organised the troops. They were supposed to be joint lead on this investigation but she’d taken control, grabbing the reins in her steely grip. Max had let her, so far. She was good at what she did. Whilst she was immersed in managing the finer points, Max was happy to hang back, wait for his moment. As long as Carrie kept him in the loop he’d give Lorraine all the rope she wanted. Meanwhile he’d keep his eyes open, look for his moment, his break when he found that chink of light that would lead him to an arrest.
Was this car that chance?
His train of thought was broken by a new arrival on the scene.
Lorraine.
She weaved her way through the firemen still clearing up their equipment. He’d hoped she’d still be tied up with the old lady, give him more time alone, but here she was. He managed a polite nod in her direction then continued assessing the burnt out vehicle.
“Carrie called, filled me in.”
Max silently cursed his favourite analyst. He’d hoped she’d have dragged her feet a bit before contacting Lorraine, given him more of a head start.
Lorraine shielded her eyes to peer into the charred interior. After a moment she too started to circle, but came to an abrupt standstill, right in front of the car. Her hands found her hips and a familiar look appeared on her face; eyes narrow, forehead contracted. He saw concern there, an expression he’d come to know during their doomed relationship, but one he rarely saw when she was on duty. What was cracking that frosty armour?
“Lorraine?”
Her eyes found his. He thought he detected something more than concern, a spark of fear perhaps.
“Max, I’ve seen this car before.”
CHAPTER NINE
Max risked a quick glance at his watch. It was almost eight. Shit! He’d meant to call Jennifer an hour ago. He’d known it was gearing up to be a late night, but had got side-tracked. Now it was too late. He was trapped in Chief Inspector Heritage’s office. At the moment the Chief’s focus was on Lorraine, who sat stiffly on the chair next to Max.
“You should have reported it right away, Detective.”
“Yes, sir. I just didn’t think much of it at the time.”
“You thought enough of it to write down the registration number.”
“Yes, sir.” There wasn’t much else she could say. Max had quizzed her on the same point himself; a vehicle was either suspicious or it wasn’t.
Heritage, always gruff, always spiky, was in a worse mood than usual. “Tell me again.”
Max could almost feel the tension building in Lorraine. She sat high in her chair, spine straight, chin lifted, hands folded carefully in her lap, but this studied composure wasn’t fooling Max. Since they’d found the burnt-out Toyota she’d been shaken up. The outer layer looked as cool and controlled as ever, but he knew her too well, and there were tremors beneath the surface.
“I noticed a blue Toyota behind me on my way to interview Trent’s partner at HeathTrent Enterprises. When I left some time later I thought I saw the same car again, so I made a note of the registration. But I wasn’t certain, it was just an instinctive reflex.”
“You didn’t see this car, or anything else suspicious, whilst you were with the team at the bridge?”
“No, sir.”
Max risked another glance at his watch and swore silently again. He’d finally managed to speak to Jennifer. After leaving several grovelling messages he’d had enough sense to leave it al
one, back off, and leave the next move up to her. It had worked. She’d called him back. He’d been canvassing the area near the burnt-out car and, midway between a garage spewing oil and noise and a dusty furniture warehouse, they’d had an intimate, if brief, conversation. Jennifer had softened, was willing to listen. She even agreed to see him. He’d arranged to pick her up at eight o’clock. They’d go for a quiet drink, just talk things over, calmly, openly. That’s all they needed, he was sure.
Standing her up wasn’t part of his plan, but fifteen minutes after the phone call with Jennifer he’d hit the first real break in the case.
“Tell me about this boat?”
Heritage’s thought process was running parallel to Max’s, though for different reasons. To distract himself from worrying about Jennifer he spoke up. He also suspected, for once, Lorraine wouldn’t mind having the spotlight move away from her.
“The owner is a guy called Eddie Marcham. He has a lock-up unit on that stretch of riverbank. He also has a record for dealing in stolen goods. He keeps the boat moored nearby, an old motorboat. Says he takes it up river in the summertime, offers boat trips to the ice lolly and sun cream brigade on hot days.”
Heritage grunted and pushed back in his chair so it creaked in protest. “Nothing to do with shifting hot goods up and down the river then.”
Max exchanged a wry look with his boss, risked a quick glance Lorraine’s way too, but she seemed happy to leave him to it for now.
“Marcham’s a character all right, sir, but I don’t think he’s hiding anything, at least not this week. He was happy to let us look around, and didn’t hesitate to tell us his boat had been moved.”
“So he’s cooperating?”
“Well, he was. He got less obliging when I told him we’d need to take the boat away for analysis.”
Heritage gave a flick of his hand, his way of dismissing Eddie Marcham and his objections. “What have forensics found so far?”
“Blood that’s a match for the victim, but not enough.”
“Not enough? How much do you want to find?”
“Enough to confirm that’s where he was killed, but that doesn’t look to be the case. We’ve still got officers searching the area. Trent must have been killed somewhere nearby, then our killer used Marcham’s boat to take the body up river and dump it under the bridge.”
Heritage’s chair creaked again. He looked down at his hands, fingers laced, thumbs rolling around each other, as his mind sorted the facts so far. Without moving his head he peered at Lorraine from under heavy brows. “You’re sure the break in at the retirement flats wasn’t connected?”
Lorraine gave a curt shake of the head, her perfect blonde bob swayed in sympathy. “Doesn’t appear to be, sir. Ms Austen-Brown could only give a vague description of the intruder, if that’s what he was; white, average height, dark hair, maybe late thirties or early forties. She thought she saw a knife but couldn’t describe it. This all happened in the early hours of the morning. I think she saw a strange man and got spooked. By the time uniforms arrived there was no sign of anyone.”
“But she thought she saw a knife?”
“Not when he was inside the building, sir. She said she saw something shiny in his hand when he got out of his car.” Lorraine gave half a shrug; there was nothing concrete to follow up.
“Could she describe the car any better?”
Another swift head shake. “No, sir. Just that it was dark in colour. No make. No reg.”
Heritage nodded, satisfied, and unclasped his hands. “OK, get back out there, both of you. We have to find the original crime scene. We’re chasing our tails here.”
Max and Lorraine started to rise, but were halted by their boss. “Wait.” He waved them back into their seats. “I want you both to keep your eyes open on this one.” Heritage pointed meaningfully, almost menacingly, first at Lorraine, then at Max. “This bastard is playing with us, thinks he can lead us around by our noses for his own amusement.” Heritage stood, turning his back on them to look out of the window. It was still light; the sun resting near the horizon warmed the evening air. Another hour though and it would be dark, and Max had a night of grubbing around in wasteland to look forward to, instead of making up with Jennifer.
Max slipped his phone from his pocket. He’d dial her number the second he was out of the Chief’s office.
Lorraine watched Heritage with interest. Max knew how she felt. The Chief was acting oddly. Lorraine wasn’t the only one rattled today. After gazing at the sun setting over Blackbridge for several long seconds, the Chief faced them again. The shadows in the room distorted his already haggard features. For a moment he looked ravaged and tragic, but when he spoke it was the same rumbling growl.
“I don’t like this one, guys. This bastard made sure we found the body. I’ll bet he’s behind the anonymous tip we received. He followed you.” His index finger was digging in Lorraine’s direction again. “Then he leads us right to the boat he used. I don’t think you’ll have to search long to find the murder scene. He wants us to find it.”
“Sir,” Lorraine’s voice had lost its crystal tone, it was scratchy and unrecognisable. “You think there’ll be more victims?”
“I really hope not.”
The Chief was right. It didn’t take long to find the place where Andrew Trent was murdered. There was a narrow alley, a slice of space intersecting two buildings. It was perhaps fifty yards from the front door of HeathTrent Enterprises.
Max imagined it; Andrew Trent, leaving work, strolling along without a care in the world. The area was in transition, in the throws of casting off its air of neglect to embrace a new rash of young blood with cash to throw around. Old brick warehouses were converted into trendy loft space, any building with character was embraced on the surface whilst the innards were heartlessly ripped out to make way for open-plan, air-conditioned luxury. Many of the properties stood empty, awaiting their fate; conversion or demolition. At the time Trent had walked these streets there were very few people about. The office workers had left for home, or the pub. The few houses still rubbing shoulders with the wave of regenerated neighbours had blank stares, their inhabitants long gone.
No one to hear or see a thing.
Uniforms were knocking on doors but mostly their knocks went unanswered. They’d have to return tomorrow and the next day, when the workers were back at their desks.
It was procedure, but Max wasn’t holding his breath.
Trent had met his end halfway along the alley. Whether he’d been dragged in there by force, coerced or tempted, they’d probably never know. But the darkly-soaked ground and the arcs and spatters of blood trails snaking across the walls left no doubt this was where Trent had drawn his last breath.
The end of the alley furthest from the street was blocked by mesh wire. Someone had cut through this; careful and precise snips all down one side, so that a section of fencing could be pushed open like a door.
As the narrow alleyway filled with floodlights and forensic technicians, Max and Lorraine left the bright frenzy of activity to step past the cut piece of fence. Torches in hand, they gingerly picked their way through a rubble yard. There were no streetlights, no security lights, no windows lit to illuminate their way. They kept the river to their right, feeling the chillier air from that side against their cheeks.
For once he didn’t relish his job. The break with the boat and murder scene should have been galvanising him, giving him the boost he needed, finding the momentum to peel away more of the layers that still hid the truth from him.
He’d called Jennifer the second he pulled shut the door on Heritage’s office. Lorraine had stalked away stony-faced when she realised who he was calling.
Jennifer had understood. That was one thing that was great about her, she knew the demands of his job and she knew the sacrifices it demanded. Somehow, caught between Jennifer’s understanding and Lorraine’s ice queen act, he just felt sour inside.
The first chink in the darkness
was a rusty amber glow from an outside light fixed up next to a padlocked garage door.
“That’s Marcham’s lock-up.” Max swept the torch beam over the ground ahead until it picked out the riverbank a few yards away. “And that’s where the boat was moored.”
The boat was gone now but it was easy to visualise where it had been by the slick stone steps cut into the bank and guide posts jutting up out of the water. By taking the shortcut through the cut fence it was barely any distance from the alley to Marcham’s boat.
“Looks like it was planned,” Lorraine said, sweeping the area ahead and behind. “The alley, the cut fencing, the handy boat.”
“Maybe. Given the timeline we have it was probably still light though, so it’s possible it was opportunistic.”
Max heard the lack of conviction in his own words.
“Why even bother to move the body anyway?”
It was the same question that had been bothering Max. “I don’t know. He doesn’t seem to be trying to hide much does he?”
Lorraine ventured to the water’s edge. She stared into the darkness of the river as though willing the answer to emerge from its depths. Max joined her, careful to keep a good couple of feet between them.
“If he’s not trying to hide things,” she murmured, still gazing down at the sluggish flowing water. “Maybe he wants to show us something.”
Max thought about what Heritage had said, about the perpetrator playing games with them. He was starting to understand the Chief’s disquiet on this case.
He risked stepping a little closer to Lorraine. “I think we should take a boat ride.”
CHAPTER TEN
He hadn’t intended to come here.
Not yet anyway, not so soon, but the lure had proved too strong. Besides, he was in control. He would keep his distance, watch and learn. After all, this was his final goal, he had to be ready. Surveillance wasn’t merely wise, it was necessary.
