by Steven Dunne
Like the Gibsons, Frazer and Nolan’s corpses were slumped together, heads touching, like a couple who’d fallen asleep in front of the TV. Again there was no suggestion of a robbery – expensive watches, mobile phones and cash had been left behind. Brook flicked through the photographs and watched the lengthy video attachment for any sign of a champagne bottle or drinking glasses. He lingered on an image of the kitchen sink in case the killer or killers had washed up and left glasses to drain. Nothing.
Next he leafed through the autopsy report to check stomach contents for Frazer and Nolan, noting with satisfaction that both victims had consumed a small amount of alcohol before their deaths, though it wasn’t specified as champagne in the report. Presumably Ford and Caskey hadn’t seen the relevance and had failed to press the point. Brook made another note.
One thing he wouldn’t need to double check was the complete absence of rage or disorganisation pointing to a sexual crime, either of passion or violence. There was no sign of interference on the victims, visual or forensic – no semen on their intact clothing or skin, or anywhere in the room in which they died. The killer hadn’t masturbated while his victims perished, and unless SOCO found something as yet undiscovered at the Gibson house, Brook felt the same conclusion could be drawn about that morning’s crime scene.
Further, there were no fingerprints at the Breadsall scene that didn’t belong to Frazer and Nolan, and it was a similar story with DNA. Ford’s team hadn’t developed a single forensic lead aside from the bullets recovered from the bodies, making it all the more strange that, in the absence of any supporting evidence, he had set them exclusively to pursue a killer driven by sexual motives.
Brook skimmed through reports detailing the search for Frazer and Nolan’s former lovers, supposed by the strait-laced Ford to have become embittered and vengeful about a past snub. When that bore no fruit, the hunt began for a disgruntled gay sex worker from the local area, and Brook was dismayed at the manpower resources devoted to the futile search for both. He glanced again at the picture of the two dead men.
‘No rage, no mutilation, no lust.’
No former lovers of Frazer and Nolan were identified in the Derbyshire area. The pair were found to be a devoted married couple. Tentative enquiries in Carlisle had also drawn a blank. Furthermore, it had been almost impossible to chase down gay sex workers in a solid working-class city like Derby. If they existed at all, they were extremely thin on the ground, and several sweeps around an area in Peartree known locally as the Mall had produced no leads.
Eventually DS Caskey had interviewed a young man called Derek Davenport, who had been arrested two years previously and subsequently convicted for public lewdness with an unnamed tramp in Markeaton Park. Davenport denied knowing the victims or that he was a male prostitute or knew other male prostitutes plying their trade in Derby. It was all rather pathetic. Belatedly Ford’s team had started to investigate the possibility of a religious component, given the hostility some churchgoers reserved for homosexuals. And that was the limit of the inquiry until the ballistics report had landed a few days before the Gibsons had died.
Given his limited knowledge of guns, Brook read the ballistics report twice then isolated the summary sheet. As Noble had suggested, identification hinged on the rifling marks on the two 9mm full metal jacket bullets recovered from the bodies in Breadsall. Both had similar distinctive features. Striations showed that both weapons were made by Glock, who were the only manufacturer of handguns to produce weapons with polygonal rifling, in this case hexagonal, in their gun barrels.
The rifling helped to propel the bullet from the gun, and any minor imperfections in the tooling left unique striations and scratches on the projectile as it moved at high velocity through the barrel. These impressions could then be studied under a microscope, where ballistic experts would match individual characteristics to a manufacturer and subsequently a particular model of weapon, if recovered.
Because the bullets removed from the victims were standard 9mm ones, it was only possible for EMSOU to narrow down the range of Glock models. Frazer and Nolan had been shot with either a Glock 17, 18, 19, 26 or 34, all of which chambered a 9mm slug.
With a manufacturer identified, Ford’s team had stepped up their efforts to trace the weapons through local gun clubs, including Gibson’s club at Swadlincote, but had turned up no missing weapons listed on the Firearms Licensing Database. After a cull of legally registered Glocks, ballistics tests were ongoing but had so far failed to turn up a weapon capable of firing the bullets recovered in Breadsall. It seemed likely that whoever shot Frazer and Nolan still had possession of the guns, which were almost certainly unregistered and illegal.
After another hour researching the UK availability of the Glock, Brook yawned and logged off, then took out his iPhone to text Noble, even though it was gone midnight. Like most reluctant mobile phone users, he assumed everyone switched off their device at night and any message would be read first thing in the morning.
Bad news, John. Glock, especially the 17, very popular in UK and US. Used by British armed forces and many police forces, including Met, PSNI and us.
As he stood to stretch, Noble replied.
Can’t it wait for the morning!!!!!!!
Brook frowned at the row of exclamation marks and keyed in a reply. It IS morning and I’m the one having my holiday ruined. While you’re on, if I can’t linger for the PM tomorrow, ask Dr Petty if she managed to identify alcohol in Frazer and Nolan’s stomachs. Champagne?
A few seconds later, a reply. Whatevs!!!!!!!!
Brook smiled and went to make more tea. With his brain working in overdrive, he wasn’t yet ready to go to bed. He would only be mulling over the events of the day for hours on end. As he sipped his tea, he stared at the chess board in an effort to unwind. He’d already moved Mullen’s rook as specified, and when he manoeuvred his white pawn to threaten, he jotted down a further series of countermoves before folding the paper into an envelope. Then he slipped the letter about the Black Oak Farm case into the same envelope and addressed it for posting to Wakefield Prison in the morning. No note to acknowledge the letter’s receipt, or that it had even been read. A message in itself. Brook did not want to play Mullen’s mind games.
About to seal the envelope, he paused. He withdrew the letter, flicked on the printer and photocopied it before returning the original to the envelope and sticking the flap down firmly.
Nine
Wednesday 2 November
Brook woke three hours later with his head lolling against the wing of an armchair. He crept through to the kitchen to douse his face and torso in cold water, changed his shirt, made a flask of tea, then set off in the dark for St Mary’s Wharf, still barely awake.
Arriving at the station before six o’clock, he hurried to the office he shared with Noble, ignoring the baleful glance from Gordon Grey, the sergeant on duty at the desk. News of DI Ford’s humiliation had travelled fast, and Grey, one of Ford’s oldest friends in D Division, seemed on the point of verbalising a complaint before Brook scurried out of earshot. Safely ensconced in his office, he poured tea from his flask and logged back on to the database.
The door opened and Noble strode in carrying a vending machine coffee, stopping when he saw Brook. ‘The early bird?’ he said.
Brook’s tired shrug was answer enough. His insomnia was a well-worn subject, and though others might applaud the virtue of his presence in the office, he knew it was a product of his emotional cowardice – work was a welcome distraction from his problematic relationship with Terri. ‘What’s your excuse?’
‘I keep getting texts at ridiculous hours,’ replied Noble, sipping the froth from his beaker.
‘Try turning your phone off at night like a normal person,’ said Brook.
‘Old person, you mean.’
‘Mature is a better fit,’ quipped Brook. ‘Exclamation mark, exclamation mark.’
‘You’re upbeat.’
‘Light-headed more like.’
‘You didn’t see Burton’s piece in yesterday’s Derby Telegraph, then.’
‘Do I ever?’ He spotted the rolled-up newspaper under Noble’s arm and held out his hand.
‘Sure?’ At Brook’s nod Noble passed it to him. ‘You made the front page.’
Unravelling it, Brook saw the headline and a picture of DI Ford standing disconsolately beside the tape of yesterday’s crime scene. He decided to risk a few paragraphs.
Black Oak Farm hero Detective Inspector Frank Ford was dramatically ousted from a local murder inquiry by former London big shot Inspector Damen Brook this morning. Brook, whose spectacular failure to catch serial killer the Reaper in London in the late nineties resulted in a nervous breakdown and a hasty transfer to Derby CID, was not available for comment last night.
Local hero Ford was the latest victim of the force’s baffling decision to accommodate a mentally unstable officer at the expense of local know-how, when he and his team were stood down from the inquiry into the deaths of Albert and Edith Gibson, an elderly retired couple in their seventies, reportedly shot to death at their home in Boulton Moor sometime over the weekend.
The murders are believed to show significant similarities to the recent slaying of gay lovers Stephen Frazer and Iain Nolan, who were murdered in their Breadsall home last month.
However, turning up to investigate this morning, DI Ford was forcibly denied access to the crime scene by members of DI Brook’s squad.
Brook, originally from Barnsley, who has benefited from the support of successive Chief Superintendents despite a propensity for alienating fellow officers, became Senior Investigating Officer on the inquiry the morning the bodies were discovered and swiftly demanded DI Ford be placed on gardening leave after Ford objected to his removal from the case.
It was DI Ford, readers may remember, who was responsible for last year’s arrest of Luke Coulson, leading to a conviction for his role in the murder of Monty and Patricia Thorogood and the vicious sex attack against their daughter Reardon at their farmhouse in Findern. Ray Thorogood, Coulson’s co-conspirator in the attack, remains at large while a third conspirator, Jonathan Jemson, died at the scene.
‘Gardening leave?’ queried Brook.
‘As soon as Charlton saw the paper, he told him to clear his desk.’
‘Good for him.’
‘And assuming we want it, Frank’s been ordered to provide full co-operation or risk instant dismissal – which might affect his final pension.’
‘I see.’ Brook tossed the Telegraph on to the desk and sipped his tea.
‘You’re taking Burton’s hatchet job well.’
Brook smiled. ‘To be expected. Why else do you think Charlton wanted me as SIO?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Don’t tell me you fell for his “go-to guy” routine. Charlton wanted Ford off the investigation because he’s past his sell-by date, but, since he’s a popular officer, anyone stepping into Frank’s shoes was going to get flak, so Charlton gives the poisoned chalice to someone who’s accustomed to it. Me.’
‘When you put it like that,’ conceded Noble. ‘Though I think you underestimate Charlton’s respect for your abilities.’
‘Do I? Either way, it’s done, and at least it’s been quick and brutal.’
‘But Brian Burton—’
‘Has done us a favour, John. We only started yesterday, so Charlton would know that Burton could only have picked up that garbage from Ford or one of his team. And you know how Charlton hates off-the-record briefings he can’t control. At least now we have a clear run.’
‘And if Frank’s got any sense, he’ll keep his head down until his retirement drink.’
‘Don’t hold your breath for the invitation. How’s Caskey taking it?’
‘I haven’t seen her, but I’m guessing she’s not happy.’
‘If she’s ambitious, she’ll get over it. And when she gets a chance to think about it, she’ll realise Frank was on the slide.’
‘Not soon enough to push him in the right direction,’ argued Noble.
‘Frank’s stubborn and he’s not a complete idiot. If Caskey made the running, Frank would be only too pleased to steer from the back seat.’
‘That’s what I hear,’ said Noble. ‘Black Oak Farm was all her work, apparently. Smee heard Ford was sleeping one off and Coulson was already in custody by the time he dragged himself to the scene. Still took all the credit.’
‘Interesting that Caskey didn’t mind.’
‘Loyalty?’
‘Who knows.’ Brook shrugged. ‘Any idea why she moved over from Armed Response?’
‘Smee heard her partner was murdered in Kent and she transferred out soon after.’
‘Go on.’
‘That’s all I know except that it was sudden and violent.’
‘Really? I thought the station ran on gossip.’ Brook took a sip of tea. ‘Let me know if you hear anything else.’
‘You mean find out.’ Brook smiled his confirmation. ‘Not like you to take an interest in people.’ Brook didn’t react, so Noble grinned and puckered his lips. ‘Or do you have an ulterior motive?’
‘No I do not.’
‘Course, I forgot. Angie told me you came out of the closet yesterday.’
Brook frowned but didn’t bite. ‘Where are we on yesterday’s legwork?’
‘Nothing from door-to-door. No sightings of suspicious callers, no one spotted any new faces on the estate, which, let’s be honest, is on the road to nowhere.’
‘And strangers would stand out a mile without the cover of darkness.’
‘Agreed.’
‘So, depending on the post-mortem, that gives us a window of between three and five hours on either Saturday or Sunday night,’ said Brook.
‘How do you work that out?’
‘Because the Gibsons unlocked the door, John. It gets dark around five in late October, but even on Saturday and Sunday there’d still be people around, arriving home from weekend work or an afternoon’s shopping.’
‘Or the match,’ nodded Noble. ‘Derby were at home on Saturday.’
‘On that basis I’d say we’re looking at the killer’s arrival time being later, when things have quietened down, say between seven o’clock and midnight latest.’
‘No later?’
‘Gibson said his parents were in bed early, after which I’d be amazed if they’d get up to answer the door, much less unlock it, especially for a stranger. Once in bed, it’s a stretch for most people to do anything other than shout out of a window. That counts double for the elderly. Not to mention the sort of commotion you’d need to make, banging on the door, getting them to take notice.’
‘And the Gibsons were still dressed.’
‘Exactly. The killer arrived before they went to bed. If he’d broken in, that’s another set of variables, but there’s no evidence to support that. They opened the door for him, or them, and once inside, pacification was a simple matter. Though the actual shooting could’ve taken place a long time after ingress.’
Noble smiled faintly. ‘And you think midnight might be too late for ingress?’
‘If the Gibsons were anything like my parents, they’d be in bed before ten o’clock.’
‘Which would narrow the window to three hours.’
‘Something else to ask Matthew Gibson.’
‘Speaking of Gibson,’ said Noble. ‘His parents would definitely open the door if he came knocking in the early hours.’
‘That doesn’t make him a more viable suspect, John. He’d still have to rouse them out of bed and get them dressed.’
‘He had house keys, and we only have his word for it that his parents left their key in the lock. If he lied, he could have slipped in before they went to bed and shot them.’
Brook shrugged. ‘Then why not leave it until later and shoot them asleep in bed. No fuss, no bother. He doesn’t even have to see their faces. And why all the rigmarole with the music and champagne? Find me
a motive and someone who saw him on the estate and we’ll step into him. No hits on his car, I assume?’
‘Cars,’ corrected Noble. ‘He’s a wealthy man. He’s got a BMW SUV and an Audi A3. But no hits on either. We’re widening the search and trawling through traffic cameras, but it’s a needle in a haystack.’
‘Then concentrate on the three-hour window for Saturday and Sunday,’ said Brook. ‘Assuming the killer didn’t park on the Gibsons’ street, get DC Cooper on to appropriate CCTV and traffic film and expand the canvass to neighbouring streets.’
‘He could’ve left his car anywhere within a mile radius and walked the rest,’ said Noble. ‘Maybe even further. It’s not a major route, so we’re struggling for serious film. We might get lucky with business premises, but there aren’t too many and views will be limited, cameras lower quality.’
‘Get it done and tick it off,’ said Brook. ‘Someone’s prepared this carefully so I’m expecting a dead end, and we can assume Breadsall was the same. The choice of locations may be no accident.’
‘Out of the way, quiet but with good access routes,’ nodded Noble.
‘Right. And canvass as far back as a month. If this is a series, the Gibsons would have been under the microscope soon after Breadsall.’
‘On it,’ said Noble.
‘I assume there was a canvass in Breadsall.’
‘Ford’s not that far gone, but you’re right – they turned up nothing. Posher area too, so residents that much more vigilant. I can get Cooper to have another look at the film, but it’s semi-rural and cameras will be confined to the main road, if any.’
Brook made a ticking motion with his hand. ‘Anything from bins and grates?’
Noble shook his head. ‘The killers are hanging on to their Glocks for the next couple.’
‘It’s not a confirmed serial killer yet, John. Victimology isn’t a perfect fit.’
‘Two respectable married couples, quiet, devoted.’
‘But age and sexuality set them apart,’ insisted Brook. ‘We need ballistics to give us a concrete link.’
‘And two killers?’
Brook shook his head. ‘That’s very odd. A pair of armed men breaking into the homes of married couples, taking only their lives. What’s the motive?’
