Sweet Murder: A Blackbridge Novel

by J. S. Spicer

  He’d be waiting when they got home.

  ***

  Max yawned, peeped one-eyed at his watch on the bedside table. Then he buried his face back into the crisp linen of the pillow. Next to him Jennifer stirred, hooking one ankle over his. It was still early. No rush. He always slept better at Jen’s place, though he wasn’t sure why. He suspected his father’s house just had too much family history haunting every nook and cranny; memories and guilt and condemnation lurked around every corner. Here, it was a blank canvass, clean and fresh, and he could breathe. Max sighed, content. Jennifer stirred again, stretching like a cat, dragging her foot further up his calf. Yes, thought Max, as turned over to reach for her, he much preferred sleeping here.

  A little later, sitting easily at the breakfast bar with freshly brewed coffee, Max switched on the small TV mounted above the kitchen counter. He wanted to see the local news for himself; that way he’d feel more connected to it. It would be more real.

  When the newsreader, adopting a sombre expression, said the name of Felix Vine, Max felt steeped in satisfaction. Vine had taken risks, stolen cars, allowed himself to be seen in the park. Now his face filled the TV screen, his name would be on everyone’s lips. It was just a matter of time before they caught him.

  The report linked him to the murder of Melissa Austen-Brown, the tragic and brutal killing of an old lady would strike a chord with the people of Blackbridge, and they would take notice. At least Max hoped so.

  There was no mention though of Andrew Trent. Karl Drummond wasn’t named either, just a passing reference that Vine was also wanted in connection with another murder in Maidbury. Trent was intentionally left out, at least for now. There was little doubt in the minds of the police, but no hard evidence yet either. The Chief feared panic might take hold if this looked like the beginnings of a killing spree, so, until there was definitive proof that the two murders were linked, he was treading the path of caution.

  Jennifer stepped through the doorway just as the news item finished. She caught a glimpse of the suspect just before the photograph vanished from the screen.

  “Is that him?” She was fresh from the shower, wrapped in a soft, white robe and barefoot. Max snaked an arm around her waist.

  “Yep. With his ugly mug plastered all over the news it won’t be long until we have him.”

  “You will be careful though, won’t you, Max?”

  He laughed, then caught the look of genuine concern etched onto her face. “Of course. The whole force is on the lookout for this bastard. He’s the one who needs to be worried.”

  She hugged his neck; he could smell shampoo in her still-damp hair. All was well; things were good between them again.

  Until his mobile vibrated on the counter. On the screen the caller’s name flashed bright; Pope.

  Immediately he felt Jennifer go rigid, every fibre tensing at the sight of Lorraine’s name. “What does she want?” All the tenderness and serenity of a moment before was blustered out of the room by Max’s trembling phone. Still, he couldn’t help feeling a dose of excitement. That morning’s broadcast about Vine wasn’t the first, they’d run the appeal the night before on the late news segment. Could they have struck lucky so soon?

  “Travers,” he dampened down the eagerness as he put the phone to his ear, conscious of Jennifer at his side. She was still embracing him, but it had hardened and constricted.

  “Max, where are you?” Lorraine’s voice had that keen edge it took on when she had the bit between her teeth.

  “Has something happened?”

  “Lot of calls overnight and this morning. Mostly people from the park, a few cranks, but one lady might be worth talking to.”

  “Who is she?”

  “I’ll fill you in when you get here. How long will you be?”

  “On my way now.”

  He hung up, keen to get going, but aware that Jennifer’s soft brown eyes had hardened to dark pits. Max’s mind did somersaults. They might have a lead. He needed to get to the station, fast! But he didn’t have his car; he’d finally booked it in to get the air con fixed.

  “Jen, any chance of a lift to the station?”

  She hesitated, torn for a moment, not sure whether to be glad he needed her help, or angry that he was rushing off to be with his ex-girlfriend.

  “Sorry.” He gave her a squeeze. “It’s a pain to ask, I know. I can always get a taxi.”

  “No.” She stifled her own pettiness, reminding herself he was with her now, reminding herself that she was the one who’d wanted to slow things down, not Max. He was all in as far as their relationship was concerned. Besides, his phone conversation with Lorraine had been so brief, clipped, soulless. Not even a hello or goodbye. “I’ll drive you. I’ll go and get dressed.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Jasmine Burke poured coffee with a slightly trembling hand. Police officers made her nervous. It wasn’t a guilt thing, Jasmine had nothing to hide. It was just unnerving, they were always so confident. There they sat on her sofa, one at each end, with direct stares, upright yet relaxed. She felt the same about doctors; people who potentially held your fate in their hands, and had tiny smug smiles like they knew all the secrets of the universe. People so self-assured just set her on edge.

  Coffee cups filled she sat in a chair opposite them. They were both good looking, she thought. Maybe a couple? The span of cushion fabric left clear between them seemed intentional.

  “So, Ms Burke.” The lady detective took the lead; her colleague reached for his coffee and seemed content to sit back. “How do you know Felix Vine?”

  “Well, I don’t, not really. At least not now. It was years ago you understand, when we were just kids.”

  Deep lines appeared at the detective’s brow which she quickly smoothed away with an efficient smile. Jasmine noted she could still see a faint trace where the grooves had been. She thought to herself, ‘this woman frowns too much, soon those lines won’t smooth away’.

  “Maybe you could tell us about it?”

  “I recognised the name right away, Felix Vine, quite distinctive isn’t it? The photo they showed on the news meant nothing; I’d have walked right by him in the street without knowing who he was. When I knew Felix he was around twelve I think.”

  “Were you friends?”

  “Sort of. Felix was staying with the Doyles, neighbours of ours. I used to play with their son, Bryan. One summer Felix stayed with them, so we’d all hang out together.”

  “Was he a regular visitor?”

  “No, like I said, it was just that one summer.” Jasmine paused, reaching for her own mug of coffee she took a small sip, gave herself a minute. That summer, so long ago, wasn’t somewhere she wanted to go. “Anyway,” She put down the coffee again. “He must have stayed with them for most of the five or six weeks school holiday. I think the two families knew each other somehow, but honestly I can’t remember. I’m sure though, that Felix only visited that summer. I hadn’t seen him before and I never saw him again after. Mind you, the Doyles moved to another part of town not long after that, so maybe they stayed in touch with him.”

  “Did you keep in touch with the Doyle family, Jasmine? Would you know how we can contact them?”

  “Mr and Mrs Doyle have both passed away, but Bryan still lives in Blackbridge. I don’t have an address or anything, but I hear he’s done well for himself, lives somewhere out in south Blackbridge. You know, the posh part.”

  Lorraine started scribbling in her notepad.

  Max leaned forward, both hands wrapped around his coffee, and gave Jasmine a penetrating stare. “So, to your knowledge, Ms Burke, Felix Vine only came to Blackbridge that one summer, sometime, what? Twenty or so years ago?”

  “It was 1989,” she told him, with a certainty that left him speechless for a second.

  Lorraine spotted it too, jumped in. “You seem very sure of the year?”

  “I am, Detective. That was the year my little brother died. I’ll never forget it.” Max caught
Lorraine’s eye, saw the same questions being reflected back at him.

  “Ms Burke,” he ventured, for a moment feeling like he was on shifting sand. “If you don’t mind me asking, how did your brother die?”

  She took a deep breath and clasped her hands tightly together in front of her, almost like a prayer. “He drowned. A terrible accident.” She stared down at her taut, white knuckles for a moment, when she looked up again she seemed to deflate a little. “I’m sure that’s why the Doyles moved away soon after. It was their pond, you see. Justin was playing by himself. We were always going back and forth between each other’s gardens. He was eight. I was supposed to be keeping an eye on him.” The last words were a sad whisper.

  **

  Within an hour of interviewing Jasmine Burke, Carrie had found and called through work and home addresses and phone numbers for Bryan Doyle. Easy to track, impossible to find. She’d been right about him living in the posh part of town. The Doyle house was double-fronted, detached, a modern build but with timber features and dormers to feign the more traditional style.

  It was also empty.

  Max and Lorraine weren’t in the neighbourhood long before a ‘helpful’ neighbour sidled up and told them the Doyles were on holiday in Spain.

  Back in the car Lorraine sat tapping the steering wheel, delaying starting the car as she pondered her next move. Max watched her carefully, surreptitiously. She’d pulled herself up by the boot straps and outwardly at least seemed to have recovered from the murder of Melissa Austen-Brown. She’d squeezed the pain of guilt into a ball of steely determination. The absence of the Doyles, maybe their best lead to finding Felix Vine, was a frustrating bump in the road.

  After some moments silence, other than her rhythmic beat on the wheel, she turned to him. For a second Max was struck by her similarity to the woman they’d just interviewed, Jasmine Burke; same intelligent, light eyes, straight nose, strong jaw line, even down to the shallow dimple in her chin.

  “So?” She was narrowing her eyes at him; he’d been staring.

  “Someone at Bryan Doyle’s office is bound to have a mobile number for him.”

  She nodded. “Let’s drive over there; I don’t want to get fobbed off by some secretary over the phone.”

  “OK.”

  She still didn’t start the car though, but stared ahead as if something was puzzling her beyond the windscreen.

  “You OK?”

  Lorraine faced him again. “I don’t get the victims, Max. If this guy was only here for one summer, and spent it with the Doyle family, then why go after Trent and Melissa?”

  Max sighed, guessing the motivations of a cold-blooded killer wasn’t a simple thing. “Hopefully we’ll know more once we’ve spoken to Bryan Doyle. Maybe Felix visited Blackbridge at other times, perhaps he even knew Melissa back then. We only have Jasmine’s take on this so far, and she was just a kid.”

  “Even if he had known Melissa, it doesn’t explain why he killed Andrew Trent.”

  Max couldn’t argue with that; Trent hadn’t even been born in 1989. “Maybe Vine knew his parents.” He shrugged, it all sounded so limp and weak to his ears.

  “Right.” Lorraine finally turned the key and fired the engine. “Let’s get over to Doyle’s office. I want to know everything about Felix Vine’s time here in Blackbridge. Maybe we can find a connection between the victims.”

  As she pulled away from the kerb Max voiced something else that had been concerning him. “What do you make of this drowning? Jasmine’s little brother?”

  “Definitely worth a bit more digging.”

  He nodded. “I’ll ask Carrie to pull everything she can on it.”

  Delays seemed to dog them for the rest of the day. Doyle’s secretary couldn’t tell them exactly where her boss had gone on holiday, just that they’d rented a villa somewhere in Spain. With some prompting she handed over a mobile number accompanied by a sour expression; Max wondered if her reluctance was a result of loyalty or fear of her boss. The number went straight to voicemail. He kept his message short but stressed the urgency, leaving his own mobile number as the point of contact.

  They didn’t have much more luck with the files on the death of little Justin Burke. What there was in the police records was brief and unhelpful, and the pathologist’s report had been swallowed by the black hole of an out of date filing system that was still being upgraded.

  Carrie spent all afternoon hounding, wheedling and bargaining, until finally, as evening was bearing down on them, she was able to bring a scanned copy of the report up on her screen. With Max and Lorraine breathing down her neck on either side they read through every tiny detail, and came up empty handed.

  Justin Burke’s death was from drowning, as his sister had told them, and was deemed to have been accidental, with no other signs of trauma.

  “So that’s that, I guess,” said Lorraine, but she looked far from happy about it.

  “I suppose so,” Max was equally dissatisfied. “I keep thinking about the significance of water in the two murders. Both of our victims were transported over water, and this kid was drowned. I can’t bring myself to ignore a coincidence like that.”

  Lorraine didn’t look convinced. “We know Vine killed Karl Drummond too, but there was no connection to water with that murder. Plus Justin’s manner of death was nothing like the stabbings happening now.”

  Carrie looked from one to the other of the detectives still hovering at her desk. They were no longer competing. Nothing more had been said to her about giving either one a heads-up over the other. The murder of the old lady had deepened the seriousness, and the urgency, of the investigation. Now they were working together, but as they stood in quiet consultation Carrie saw the disappointment in their faces, felt the frustration sapping their spirits.

  When they finally drifted away she noted the hesitant steps; they were coming up against too many brick walls. Hell, they knew who the murderer was, but still the case was stalling on them. Max seemed to be hanging a lot of importance on whatever Bryan Doyle could tell them.

  Carrie stared into space for a time, wondering how she could help. Details were what were missing. Details were her forte. The biggest question was the connection between the victims, or rather the lack of connection. But now they had something else, a date; the summer of 1989. Carrie decided she’d work late again, take a trip back in time, and see what she could dig up from the past.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Felix Vine sat cross-legged on the creaking single bed in Mrs Jacobs’ spare room. In his hand was the list, the paper had softened and rumpled from continuous handling. He was itching to cross off another name. He’d had to make peace with the fact that Bryan Doyle was out of reach for now. Bryan’s absence took away some of the excitement that was true; he’d hoped Bryan would be around to see Felix making headline news. That wasn’t to be, at least not for the next week or two. What the hell, at least there was another family on his list. Again he regretted that he couldn’t have done this in the right order, worked backwards, but his own fiery impulses had denied him that kind of structure, that kind of discipline.

  He glanced towards the narrow sash window. He’d pushed it wide but the room was still stifling. Now though a shadow fell across it as a cloudbank inched towards Blackbridge. Felix carefully put away his list and went to stand by the open window. The street below was quiet. It was mid-afternoon. Felix glanced at the sky; it seemed weeks since they’d felt a drop of rain. Leaning against the frame he thought he detected the first halting brush of a breeze. He squeezed the window ledge with impatient fingers, feeling suddenly trapped, like a prisoner staring through the bars of his prison cell. The news reports had stolen his freedom. Leaving the safety of the house was playing with fire. Every passing car or twitching curtain set him on edge. Just walking along this street was enough to have the hairs on the back of his neck vibrating with the thrill of discovery. Part of him enjoyed how alive the danger made him feel, a pulsing mass of sense and poss
ibility. But, as smothering and restrictive as it felt hiding away at Chantelle’s, Felix knew that what mattered above all else was completing the task before him. Getting caught would be bad. Getting caught before he’d finished what he set out to do, was unthinkable.

  On the street below a man walked along the pavement. He glanced up, just once. Felix stepped back, into the dim interior, away from the light and the air and the prying eyes. The constriction seemed to tighten in his chest, and he recognised the boiling feeling deep in his gut which could erupt into a plume of glorious rage.

  He needed to leave this tiny room; the walls were too close, the air too thick on his lungs. He closed his eyes for a few moments and drifted in a purer place; sought the sense of freedom he cherished so badly. Once he was calm he headed downstairs. Outside might be unwise, but he didn’t have to rot away in one tiny bedroom.

  **

  Chantelle Jacobs usually took a nap around three o’clock. After a cup of tea she’d settle into her favourite armchair. In the cooler months she’d pull a tartan blanket across her legs, but she didn’t need that today. Today was warm even to her old bones. The window was open a crack and the chirping of birds drifted in from the garden. Chantelle made herself comfortable. Listened to the silence of the house around her, the muffled birdsong from without, and let her eyelids grow heavy and close. She almost tumbled into a doze, but after five minutes her eyes fluttered open again.

  Floorboards creaked above. For a second the sound startled her; sometimes she forgot he was in the house. Chantelle sighed. It was nice to have some company, she’d been by herself for such a long time. She was surprised though, that he was still here. She’d thought it would be a brief visit and had been eager to make the most of having someone else about the place. What if he stayed indefinitely though? Did she want that? She smiled to herself; Felix wasn’t much of a conversationalist but he’d helped out around the house.