by J. S. Spicer
Time to make some new memories.
***
Whilst Max had followed up with the body found at the Swallows estate, Lorraine had stayed at the first scene, directing the search, pestering the forensics guys when they arrived. It was soon evident that the body had been removed through the backdoor. Blood and tyre tracks in a narrow lane running along the back of the properties told their own story.
Lorraine was standing in this lane, watching one of the team photographing the tyre tracks, when Max called with news.
Her stomach turned over as she listened, it churned with shock and revulsion, and with hatred for Felix Vine, a hatred that suddenly and completely formed and solidified deep to her core. They’d been too late. They’d reacted so quickly, dragged the agent from his barbecue, tracked down the Steeles in record time, and raced across town to be at their door as soon as humanly possible. But Vine had killed them both, and had done so within hours, perhaps within only minutes, of the detectives’ arrival. His boldness, the cold and uncaring audacity, was a taunt, a slap in the face.
Angry tears threatened as Lorraine continued to listen to Max, heard about his theory for the second dump site. She swallowed, cleared her throat, even so heard the thickness clogging her voice as she said, “I’ll meet you there.”
The children’s playground was only two streets away from the home of Greg and Moira Steele. Lorraine was closer, and drove like a demon, her rage and screaming siren scattering a clear path. She was the first there, stumbling out of the car, the door swung wide and left that way. She ran down a weed-choked path overshadowed by feathery buddleia. Somewhere nearby she could hear a dog barking. Lorraine hurried down broad steps, staggering in her haste and slipping once, her knee briefly and painfully grazing against the hard slabs. She welcomed the pain, the jolt, it fuelled her anger and she turned it to strength. She realised the barking was getting closer; it was frantic, unceasing. Perhaps some dog walker had already chanced upon the scene.
The entrance to the park was a narrow gap in warped fencing. She dashed through. Lorraine skidded to a stop. She froze and stared, her breath coming in loud gasps. It wasn’t a dog walker. It was the Steeles dog. She’d seen the evidence of a pet at the house, including indulgent photos of the beloved mongrel gracing the walls. She knew it was the same dog; the fact it was tied up next to the victim proof in itself.
The sight was macabre. Gregory Steele’s lifeless body, ravaged and bloody, lay across the roundabout in the centre of the playground. One arm dangled drunkenly over the edge. The dog’s lead had been tied to one of the upright handles on the opposite side of the ride. The dog, desperate to get to his master, was running madly back and forth. When one way failed to get it nearer, it switched direction to try running the other way. The roundabout swung round with the dog’s movements, turning in some sick parody of its intended purpose.
Vine had wanted this. Lorraine knew it with rock hard certainty. It wasn’t enough to dump Greg Steele in the playground; he’d wanted him to ride the roundabout. The dog was utilised to provide propulsion.
Nausea punched Lorraine, it took all her self-control to fight down the bile rising in her throat. Still gasping from the run she breathed slow, deep, calming herself, slowing her heart. It took only a few seconds to regain control. Then Lorraine Pope hurried to untie the traumatised dog.
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
Bryan Doyle rose early. After a quick shower he threw on shorts and a t-shirt, slipped his feet into deck shoes, and left the villa. The heat was already building. It wasn’t yet 8.30am but already the air was thick with the promise of another blisteringly hot day. Brian strolled along the path; consciously checking his pace, reminding himself there was no hurry, no clock-watching and no deadlines. He might as well get used to it. Nicole had locked his mobile phone in the villa’s safe, insisted he detach himself from it at least for a few days. Even on vacation there would be calls, texts, emails; some from people who didn’t know he was on holiday and a lot from people who didn’t think that made a difference. It had rankled a little. From Bryan’s point of view he’d be more relaxed if he knew what was going on at work, could enjoy his break, but Nicole didn’t see it that way. He couldn’t really blame her. In the past he’d been guilty of having his phone stuck to his ear during dinners, days out and family parties. Nicole used to tolerate this behaviour with stiff smiles, politely apologising for him when they were in company. Things had changed once Harry came along. She’d insisted Bryan spend quality time with their son; she didn’t want him to be a figure in the background of Harry’s life. It was a bit of a juggling act most of the year. Bryan didn’t always keep his promises, but he did his best. But their annual holiday was different. The outside world wasn’t allowed to seep through the cracks.
The villa belonged to some friends, perched high up on a hillside a few miles inland. The dawn haze hadn’t burnt off yet, but in a couple of hours the blue of the sea would be visible shimmering on the horizon.
Harry had complained they weren’t nearer the beach. To a boy his age there was no point going on holiday if it wasn’t the seaside. He’d pouted and groaned during the flight, but once he’d clapped eyes on the large swimming pool the complaints had stopped. The boy had spent most of the previous two days splashing around happily, watched vigilantly by his father. Harry was a good swimmer, but Bryan doubted he’d ever feel secure enough to turn his back on the boy when he was in a pool. It brought back vivid memories from his childhood. Bryan Doyle knew only too well how easily a little boy could drown. He’d given his son a stern and lengthy lecture about not going into the pool unless one of his parents was present.
The road was steep, curving down over the belly of the hillside. Following a turn in the road the coast view was lost as Bryan stepped amongst the narrow white-washed houses of the old village. His destination was the tiny supermarket at the bottom of the hill. They’d stocked the cupboards in the villa already, but Bryan had noted the supermarket sold fresh pastries and English newspapers. He planned to make it part of his daily routine, this early walk, following by coffee and breakfast on the villa patio as he browsed the news. Nicole was a slow starter, usually perking up about mid-morning. The boy would have his nose pressed against his tablet, immersed in whatever game was the latest thing as he poked at his breakfast, so Bryan gauged this would be his quiet time, before the day began.
Bryan took his time browsing the supermarket. It was small and there wasn’t much to see, but he was still enforcing the slow pace, the chilled-out version of himself, until, hopefully, it came naturally. Eventually, with a warm, sweet-smelling paper bag in one hand and a rolled up paper tucked under the other arm, he headed back.
Back inside the cool villa it was much as he’d expected. Harry was cross-legged on the sofa, intent on the small tablet in his hands. Nicole was nowhere to be seen, but the bowl of cereal next to Harry and full coffee pot in the kitchen were evidence of her passing through. By now she’d be back in their room, knee-deep in a complex concoction of creams and lotions and delving into her enormous makeup case.
Bryan ruffled his son’s hair, getting a grunt for acknowledgement, then fetched coffee and retreated to the solace of the patio.
The table where he sat was still in shade, a comfortable corner. Watching the mists lift out at sea Bryan breathed deep of the warm air and took a sip of coffee. Yes, this would be his morning routine. He could feel the relaxation process finally beginning to take hold. The stress of everyday life was evaporating under the Spanish sun, melting away his worries.
Bryan Doyle enjoyed a rare moment of utter contentment.
Then he opened the newspaper.
**
Max had a painful knot in his spine from sleeping on the Winters’ sofa. It had been a late night, very late. The double murder had turned a bad situation into an absolute nightmare. The press were all over it. Some bright spark had even tried out a headline with the words ‘Blackbridge Slasher’ emblazoned in oversized font. Since the first victim h
ad been killed in Maidbury this was neither accurate nor helpful. The situation was scary enough without embellishment.
Heritage had been furious, about everything, the fact they’d almost missed the connection to the Steeles, the way the killer was mocking the police at every turn, the sensationalist headlines it was creating. Nothing was going right and Heritage blamed Max and Lorraine. He left them in no doubt as to his feelings. He’d torn into them during a very awkward debriefing session at the station the night before. Spittle-flecked, with ringing ears, they’d slunk away to regroup and lick their wounds.
Procedure was being followed. The two crime scene locations were being guarded and examined in detail. Neighbours were being spoken to, though no-one seems to have seen anything. Usually, with murder, the police had to dig until they found the culprit, investigate, follow leads. But they knew who he was. They just didn’t know where the hell he was. And Max really wanted to find the bastard.
He hadn’t been able to rest, hadn’t been able to go home. Instead, since he couldn’t be the hunter, he could at least protect the prey.
Carrie had been surprised when he’d turned up on her doorstep late on a Saturday night, as had her parents, but they welcomed him. They’d sat up talking until the early hours. Arguing, was more like it. Carrie trying to persuade her parents to go and stay with some cousin down south. But they’d refused to leave her alone, and Carrie wouldn’t go with them. She was determined to keep working the case. The link to her home, the threat to her own family, merely strengthened her resolve. Max understood. He saw the stubbornness hardening behind her eyes.
The Winters family were all trying so hard to take care of one another, instead they were tripping over each other with their love and best intentions. Carrie’s mum and dad would never stop worrying about their little girl, not ever. Carrie, a professional woman with a job to do, was dead set on keeping her parents safe. Finally Max was the one to break the stalemate.
“Carrie can stay with me,” he told them.
The room fell silent for a full minute as each person there mulled this over, rolling it around in their minds to check the validity of his offer. Carrie, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, stared and blushed. Then offered Max a small grateful smile. She kept quiet though, watching her parents to see what they’d say.
“Fair enough,” Carrie’s dad, in his calm, calculating manner, quickly saw it was a viable compromise. Her mother looked as though she’d argue, glaring with something close to disgust at Max, as though sure he was about to defile her little girl. Her husband also saw the objections building, and headed them off before they found a voice.
“Max’ll keep her safe, love,” he assured her, with a pat on her knee.
After her parents went to bed Carrie expressed her gratitude by sneaking Max a healthy glug of her dad’s good scotch. He knocked it back and threw himself onto the sofa, where he immediately and deeply slept.
Next morning as Carrie and her parents packed a few things and bustled nervously around the house, Max made phone calls. He would ensure her parents made it to their destination both safely and secretly. A couple of officers would escort them. The house would continue to be watched by patrols in the area, just in case Vine showed his face. He checked in with Lorraine, and with the Chief, keeping everyone in the loop. Finally he rang his father to warn him they’d be having a house guest for a few days; not that Gus Travers was likely to notice anyway, not once he was tucked away with his nose in his books.
Finally he ushered Carrie to his car. Max felt a guilty tweak that he hadn’t called Jennifer. He’d meant to last night, then again this morning. He just hadn’t got round to it. He promised himself he’d call her later.
Halfway home his mobile buzzed. The displayed told him that, finally, Bryan Doyle was returning his call.
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
Max couldn’t remember the last time so many people had been at the Travers’ home. For years it had been just his father, locked in his dusty little fortress, with Max dipping in and out as he saw fit. Their small sitting room seemed crowded, though it was only five people. Well, five people and one golden retriever who thought Christmas had come early. Gus sat in his favourite armchair, eyes half-closed behind his spectacles, but Max knew he was drinking in every word. Carrie and Lorraine were sunk into the old sofa, with Barney squashed deliriously between them. Max alone was standing, leaning one shoulder against the window frame, watching the first shades of evening soften the sky. The fifth person was the Chief. Heritage had dragged a dining room chair from the other room and sat, stiff-backed and stern-faced, in the shadowy corner of the room.
On the coffee table what remained of the pizza Max had ordered was cooling and hardening. No-one had much of an appetite, except Barney, whose nose kept quivering towards the leftover crusts and congealing cheese.
Heritage had arrived an hour ago. Lorraine had been there most of the afternoon. They’d been going over the case, picking it apart and putting it back together, piece by piece. It felt like they were going in circles. For all the information they had, they were no closer to catching Vine.
The Chief cleared his throat, plucking at some imaginary spec on his trouser leg. “Tell me again about this scrapbook.”
Max peeled himself away from the wall and repressed a sigh. The Chief had fixated on the scrapbook as soon as he heard about it.
Bryan Doyle had been appalled to hear of the murders. He and Max spoke for some time. Doyle wanted to help, even offered to fly back to the UK if necessary. Max hadn’t hesitated to tell him to stay put. At least the Doyle family, tucked away on the Spanish mainland, should be safe from harm.
Most of what Bryan Doyle could recall from all those years ago wasn’t news. Felix had stayed with the Doyle family for several weeks one summer. Felix’s father was a lorry driver, when he landed a lucrative long-haul contract doing runs to and from the continent he’d dropped Felix on Patrick Doyle. The two men were old army buddies. They’d mostly lost contact, but when it came to entrusting his son to somebody, Patrick was still top of the list.
Bryan and Felix had just been regular kids, playing out in the streets of Blackbridge, exploring, getting up to no good occasionally, but nothing out of the ordinary. Jasmine sometimes tagged along, but not always. Bryan Doyle grew up next door to Jasmine, to him she was an annoyance, the mouthy little neighbour girl who pestered him. But Felix had liked her. Bryan suspected he had a thing for Jasmine. It was usually Felix who allowed her to hang out with them.
Bryan had dragged the depths of his memory, desperate to offer something that might give the police an advantage. Everything he told them they already knew about, except for the scrapbook.
Doyle told Max that Felix had been really enamoured of the Doyles’ SLR camera. They’d snuck it out with them a few times. Whenever he could, Felix would get some passer-by to take their picture. Over the summer he’d saved his pocket money; money given to him by the generous Mr and Mrs Doyle. Before he went home he paid for three sets of pictures to be developed, bought small albums, and made three identical scrapbooks. One for each of them; Felix, Bryan and Jasmine.
Max repeated all of this to his boss and the others. He could see why it was appealing, especially as Bryan thought some of the photos were taken at the places now being used to dump the bodies, but it didn’t give them Felix Vine. Also, Bryan confessed he’d never been overly sentimental, and his album, of which he could remember little, had quickly found its way into a bin and was long gone.
“No word from the other one yet?”
This time Max couldn’t repress the sigh. The Chief had been sitting in exactly the same spot half an hour ago when Max left the voicemail message for Jasmine. He wasn’t too hopeful; if Bryan had ditched his album, it was probable Jasmine had too. They hadn’t remained friends after that summer, after all.
Lorraine, seeing his irritation, stepped in. “If she doesn’t call back tonight, we’ll be on her doorstep first thing.”
Herit
age gave a curt nod, but looked anything but satisfied. Max wished the Chief would just go and let them get on with it.
But he kept sitting there, perched like a watchful gargoyle. “Shouldn’t we have eyes on her?” he demanded, his narrowed eyes sliding from Lorraine to Max.
“We offered,” Max picked up again. “She refused. Didn’t want the disruption.”
“What if he’s targeting her?” Heritage rumbled, his eyes slicing into Max as if he was the enemy.
“We’ve got cars patrolling the areas around where she lives and works anyway. It’s the best we can do at this point if she’s declining protection.” Max was having to fight his own irritation. Having Heritage sitting there throwing out criticism, pointing out all the holes in their case, wasn’t helping. Max knew just how bad things were.
The Chief leaned forward, planting his palms flat on his knees. “I want this bastard caught. I assigned this case to both of you to make sure you could still work together. But now I need results. As I see it, the best chance we have is staying close to any potential victims. You need to put somebody on Jasmine Burke, whether she likes it or not!”
Finally, Heritage rose from his seat. Max and Lorraine exchanged a knowing look, one of relief. They’d work better without their boss breathing his dragon-fire down their necks.
“What makes you think Jasmine is a potential victim?” The question came from Gus Travers. His voice, quiet but strong, drew every pair of eyes.
Max’s heart sunk like a stone in his chest. His father had kept quiet so far, sitting in his chair, drinking everything in, but not interfering. Now he was challenging Max’s boss. This couldn’t help.
Heritage didn’t answer right away. He took a moment to straighten his tie whilst he assessed the mild old man across the room.
When he did speak, Max was surprised to hear a trace of respect in his voice. “This maniac, Vine, has come back to Blackbridge to act out some sick and twisted re-enactment of his childhood memories. Jasmine is an integral part of that. Doyle too, but at least he’s safe in Spain for now. All these other victims, strangers who just happened to live in the same house, they’re probably just the warm up before he goes after his old friends.”
