by Steven Dunne
‘Remember any names?’ McConnell shook her head. ‘Please try. It could be important.’
McConnell sighed. ‘Well, there was one that stood out, the last one they introduced me to. Alex? Ollie? Something like that. A very shy man.’
‘He stood out from the others.’
‘Oh yes. Terrible state he was in. I felt really sorry for him. His wife had died the year before and he hadn’t been out since. Socially, that is.’
‘Then how did he come to be at Stephen and Iain’s party?’ ventured Banach.
‘The boys had met him somewhere – shopping, I think – sobbing his little heart out doing the things he’d done with his dead wife. And Stephen and Iain, being so soft, befriended him and invited him to their party to cheer him up.’
‘Did it work?’ asked Banach.
McConnell shook her head. ‘He tried to have a good time, but the poor man was inconsolable.’
‘Did he know Stephen and Iain were gay?’
‘I wondered about that,’ said McConnell. ‘The boys liked to act a bit more butch when they were out and about. You know, to discourage bigots and such.’
‘But at the party it was clear.’
‘Oh yes. Iain in particular was very, you know, camp. Especially around his friends.’
‘So maybe this Alex or Ollie got a shock when he found out,’ suggested Noble. ‘Maybe he said something.’
‘Not to me,’ said McConnell.
‘He didn’t seem disgusted or appalled?’ offered Banach.
McConnell shook her head. ‘He seemed fine about it. Really. In fact, now I think about it, he said there wasn’t enough love in the world and we shouldn’t hate people for expressing it differently. I remember thinking that was nice.’
Noble’s interest waned. ‘Was that the only time you saw him?’
She laughed guiltily. ‘Yes, thank God.’
Banach indicated the photographs. ‘Is he in any of these?’
McConnell moved the photos around, grouping them in batches, staring at them with a mixture of pleasure and sadness. ‘These were Christmas. These were summer. Their engagement party. That was a lovely day.’
‘We’re interested in this man ringed in red pen,’ said Noble. ‘The rest have been identified and eliminated.’
‘It’s not very clear,’ said McConnell, picking up a couple of pictures, her eyes narrowing in concentration. ‘Did you try Stephen and Iain’s computer?’
‘We did,’ said Noble. He picked up another photograph to show her the image of a man in a cable-knit V-neck sweater leaning behind a pillar. He was mostly obscured but he appeared to be shaven-headed. ‘This isn’t much better, but that’s you there and you look like you might have been talking to him.’
‘That’s Alex,’ said McConnell with a laugh. ‘But he wasn’t called Alex. Something slightly less common. Ollie? Willie? God, my memory. Anyway, he was very shy and intense. Didn’t have a clue about small talk, to be honest, though he wasn’t bad looking. But there was no spark.’
‘How old?’
‘Forty. No more. Younger than me. Is that the only shot of him?’
‘Unfortunately. Do you remember anything else about him? Where he lived, perhaps.’
‘He didn’t live in Breadsall because he drove to the house and I remember he told me about his journey. Roadworks and all that. I mean, who cares, right?’
‘Do you remember any details?’
McConnell considered before shaking her head. ‘Sorry.’
‘Did he mention work?’
She shook her head again. ‘Not a word. He didn’t like talking about himself, and when he did, he was very boring. No social life, you see.’
‘Did anything at all strike you about him?’
‘I remember he was extremely fit – muscular. Now you mention it, he did talk about going to a gym to lift weights.’
‘Did he say which one?’
‘Afraid not.’
‘And have you ever seen this man at one of Iain and Stephen’s functions, or in any other context?’ said Banach, laying down a photograph of Matthew Gibson, taken from his application for a National Firearms Licence.
‘Never seen him before,’ said McConnell after a few seconds of contemplation.
‘Or this man.’ Banach laid down another photograph, this time the mugshot of David Fry.
McConnell shrank back. ‘He looks like he’s been in the wars.’
‘Do you know him?’ McConnell shook her head. ‘Okay. You’ve been a big help.’
Brook had dozed off in the office chair when the vibrations of his mobile woke him. He snatched it up from the desk. ‘Terri?’
‘It’s me,’ said Noble.
‘John,’ said Brook, rubbing his eyes and trying to work his dry mouth. ‘What time is it?’
‘Nearly eleven,’ replied Noble. ‘You thought I was Terri?’
Brook stood to massage his back, scouring his brain for a believable lie. ‘She went to the Duke for cigarettes half an hour ago. She must be having a quick drink.’
There was a pause at the other end of the line. ‘Everything all right between you two?’
‘Course. What’s up?’
‘Frazer and Nolan. Petty confirmed they were drinking champagne before they died.’
‘Another connection to the Gibsons.’
‘And I spoke to Maureen McConnell again. She didn’t know Gibson or David Fry.’
‘Fry?’
‘We had a mugshot, and as he was a similar build to one of the unidentified partygoers, I thought it was worth a punt.’
‘No joy?’
‘None. Though interestingly, McConnell did say the guy we still can’t trace is straight. And according to her, he was grieving for his wife.’
‘How did he end up at Frazer and Nolan’s house?’
‘She reckons he was a stray they picked up and tried to matchmake, but they didn’t hit it off, and anyway he was too cut up about his wife to be back on the market.’
‘Homophobe?’
‘The opposite.’
‘Doesn’t rule him out,’ said Brook. ‘Maybe he saw the blissful couple and resented their happiness. Did you get a name?’
‘Alex, Ollie or Willie.’
‘And this was the guy hiding behind the pillar.’
‘Right. That was the only party he attended. He was only on a couple of pictures and he managed to avoid getting his face clocked on both.’
‘Check Frazer and Nolan’s social media again.’
‘I have. He’s not there.’
‘Don’t their friends have camera phones of their own?’
‘Sure, but do you go to parties and spend your time taking pictures of everyone?’
‘I don’t go to parties. Is it worth putting McConnell in with an artist?’
‘Might as well. We’re getting nowhere. Oh, Matthew Gibson’s partner, Trimble, also has ancient form, though not quite as long ago as Gibson’s.’
‘Soliciting?’
‘No, he was married with a baby when he was seventeen. Most of his jacket is connected to booze. D and D, assault, ABH. And he did eight years for armed robbery. Released in ninety-nine.’
‘Armed as in with a gun?’
‘The same. But he’s been clean since, apart from an affray charge on a Stonewall march in London ten years ago.’
‘Interesting. What time are you briefing tomorrow?’
‘Eight,’ said Noble. ‘Too early?’
‘Mid-morning to me,’ mumbled Brook, feeling the stab of guilt again. He sensed Noble about to ring off. ‘Ask Caskey to attend, see what she can contribute on Frazer and Nolan.’
‘Are you sure?’ said Noble eventually. ‘She may have baggage.’
‘We all have baggage. Do it anyway.’
Brook woke at four after fitful sleep. He padded downstairs to make tea, then returned to his office to check for messages on his iPhone. Still nothing from Terri.
He opened the desk drawer and rummaged around
for his ex-wife’s phone number, pocketing the scrap of paper before taking his mug out to the porch to drink his tea in the cold, sharp air of late autumn. Winter was in the air and the thought depressed him. Getting out on to the hills to spring-clean his mind was a lifeline he missed during the dark months. Even if he wasn’t entangled in a case, too many of his favourite walks were too boggy to attempt. For the first time in an age, he hankered after a cigarette.
Instead, resolved on his course, he drained his tea and left the cottage.
Thirty minutes later, Brook approached the end of the A52, the road damp from rain and the traffic sparse. A flask of tea and a bulky torch sat in the passenger seat next to him. At Markeaton roundabout, instead of heading into Derby and then on to St Mary’s Wharf, he swung right on to the A38 and powered down the trunk road heading towards Birmingham. Ten minutes later, he pulled off the A38 on to the old Burton Road and headed for the village of Findern.
Skirting the village to the east, Brook turned on to Longlands Lane and drove through an attractive housing estate before taking a single-track lane heading back out into countryside, following it until it began to peter out.
About a mile from the village the track widened out towards an open five-bar gate, a FOR SALE sign bolted to the gatepost. Beyond, the gravel drive opened into a circular turnaround. As Brook drove nearer, Black Oak Farm reared up out of the darkness like a ghost ship. From what he could see, the farmhouse was a large and imposing modern bungalow built in an L-shape of pale stone, dotted with darker stone and wood trim for a Spanish ranch effect.
He parked and turned off the engine and headlights, plunging himself back into virtual darkness. Apart from the glow of the occasional lorry tearing by in the distance, the only other artificial illumination came from hazard lights blinking faintly on the abandoned cooling towers of Willington Power Station a couple of miles away.
Stepping out of the car, he flicked on the powerful torch and trudged towards the squat building, sweeping the beam around him as he walked. He arrived at the front door, a sturdy gnarled wood and mottled glass affair, recognising it from the scene-of-crime film. He turned the handle, expecting it to be locked. It was.
He stepped back to look out into the blackness before setting off to walk full circle around the empty property. Even in the eerie gloom he became quickly convinced that there was no ground high enough to afford a clear view of the farmhouse. If Ray Thorogood had wanted to monitor the progress of Jemson and Coulson on that fateful day, it would have been hard to find a vantage point on surrounding land. Unless, of course, he was in the house the whole time, hiding from cameras.
Brook shook his head. ‘No. You weren’t here, were you, Ray? You couldn’t have been. Someone either tipped you off that things were going badly, or …’ He left the thought hanging while he mulled it over, then walked around the property a second time. At the rear of the house he came to the French windows. Inside was the kitchen where Mr and Mrs Thorogood had perished.
He leaned on the handle to point his torch through the glass, and to his surprise it gave way in his gloved hand and the door opened inwards. After a superfluous look round, he stepped quickly into the murder room, closing the French window behind him, and stood for a moment to get his bearings, his pulse quickening.
When he walked, his footsteps echoed in that way unique to an empty house, where sound is no longer absorbed by carpets and furniture. The faint smell of disinfectant and new paint reached his nostrils.
Sweeping his torch around the room, he realised that the entire kitchen had been refurbished. It was now a completely different space. The bloodstained wallpaper on the walls had been replaced with washable white paper, the ruddy terracotta tiles had been pulled up and in their place were wooden floor panels painted with white non-slip paint. Everything he remembered as having colour of any kind had either been removed or painted white. Not his favourite colour scheme, but then the house had been the scene of a violent triple homicide. Not surprising that the seller, presumably Reardon Thorogood or her representatives, would want neutral colours throughout, especially in the room where two people had been so horribly butchered. For some crimes, even the chemicals of a professional trauma cleaning service couldn’t expunge the horror.
The pine table and chairs had gone and the garish hacienda-style doors had been replaced with modern double doors, also white. The kitchen surfaces, which had been pine, were now blocks of marble, light grey with darker flecks for contrast. The security camera was still in place, though, high on its bracket in the corner of the room. It was dormant, much to Brook’s relief.
After a thorough examination by torchlight, he made his way across to the brand-new white telephone. From its cradle on the wall, he lifted the handset to his ear. It worked.
He gently returned the receiver to the cradle, which nestled next to a thermostat, then made his way towards the interior of the house. At the double doors, he flicked idly at a wall switch, flooding the kitchen with dazzling light from new recessed ceiling fittings.
He blinked at the harshness and flicked off the lights immediately, plunging himself back into torchlight. In the redecorated white hall he briefly flicked on more lights to get his bearings before heading for Reardon’s bedroom. On the way, he recognised the door of the security cupboard that had provided the dramatic opening frame from that day after Reardon had rebooted the system. He tried the handle, but the suite was locked, then swung the torch towards the ceiling to find the camera that had recorded that opening scene. It was in the same position but, like the one in the kitchen, appeared to be off.
Brook’s smile was bleak. It wasn’t as if he’d broken in, he reasoned, failing to alleviate his own disquiet.
With a deep breath he pushed at the white door of Reardon’s bedroom. More white was inside. White walls, white blinds, white woodwork. The bed and the rest of the furniture were gone. The carpet too. The boards were bare, awaiting the flooring of choice of the new owner, if one could be found after such an infamous act.
Brook stepped noisily on to the boards, staring down at the grain in case Jonathan Jemson’s blood had soaked through to the wood. If it had, there was no longer a visible stain.
He moved into the en suite bathroom, again retiled in white. The original had been pale yellow, he remembered. There were no tea lights around the bath, and he made a mental note to recheck SOCO photographs and film to see how far, if at all, Jonathan Jemson had prepared the conflagration, a final act of destruction against the Thorogood family, before unexpectedly meeting his own fate.
Returning to the kitchen, he headed for the French windows and left the house the way he’d come in, closing the door firmly behind him.
Back at his car, he heard a noise from the lane and a small but lively dog panted its way over, jumping eagerly at him for attention, its big wet nose pushing at his hands.
Brook ruffled its friendly head, felt the collar and looked down the lane for an owner. An elderly man was leaning his hands and chin on a long hiking pole. The first fingers of dawn stretching above the horizon framed the man’s head sufficiently to show him squinting suspiciously at Brook.
‘Morning.’ Brook tried to sound nonchalant. He opened the passenger door and dropped the torch on to the seat.
‘Morning,’ said the old man doubtfully. ‘Here, boy.’ The dog abandoned Brook and ran excitedly back to its owner.
Brook gestured over his shoulder at the farm. ‘Nice spot.’
‘Used to be,’ drawled the man, showing no sign of moving off, despite the dog’s zeal.
‘Any idea what it’s selling for?’
The old man thumbed at the estate agent’s board. ‘Reckon they could tell you.’
Brook smiled. ‘Course. Just wondered if you knew.’ He made an ostentatious note of the estate agent’s number and climbed into the car, setting off back towards the village under the slowly rotating gaze of the old man.
Fourteen
Brook sat quietly at the back of th
e darkened incident room, staring at the photograph of the elderly couple slouched in their chairs, as Noble began.
‘First things first.’ Noble glanced at Cooper and heads turned to him.
‘An hour ago EMSOU confirmed a match on the bullets that killed Mr and Mrs Gibson with those taken from the bodies of Stephen Frazer and Iain Nolan.’ A murmur of excitement and trepidation travelled around the darkened room.
‘It’s a series,’ confirmed Noble.
‘Great,’ mumbled Charlton, sitting next to Brook.
‘The other new information is that, according to the post-mortem, Mr and Mrs Gibson died between eight o’clock and midnight on the night of Saturday October the twenty-ninth,’ said Noble. ‘And based on evidence at the scene and the victims’ habits, we estimate that the killer gained entry to the house sometime between eight and ten o’clock.’
‘Habits?’ enquired Charlton.
‘They were dressed,’ explained Noble. ‘Their son says they went to bed no later than ten o’clock every night, so if they opened the door to their killer, which we think they did, it must have been before ten. After that, getting their attention might involve a lot of noise.’
‘Do we know why they let him in?’ said Charlton.
‘They may not have let him in,’ said Noble. ‘But they were trusting enough to open the door.’
‘And with a gun, if he couldn’t smooth-talk his way in, he’d simply enter by force,’ said Smee.
Charlton nodded, deep in thought. ‘Okay. But if the killer was in the house by ten, why think they could’ve died as late as midnight?’
‘Because he brought champagne,’ said Noble. ‘And all three took the time to have a glass before the fatal shots were fired.’
‘It wouldn’t take more than half an hour to drink a glass of champagne,’ said Charlton.
‘But getting to know the victims would take longer,’ said Brook softly.
