Death Do Us Part (DI Damen Brook 6)

by Steven Dunne

  After the fatal cut, most of Jemson’s blood had pooled under his head where he’d collapsed, face first, half on, half off the bed, wearing an expression of shock. She recalled the bitter bile of satisfaction from that day, derived from the fact that a rapist and would-be murderer had been eliminated in the act, no matter how unlikely the avenging angel. Most of all she remembered the ordeal of the vulnerable young woman, the beautiful Reardon, her world, like her clothes, torn to shreds in one brutal afternoon.

  It was a short hop to that terrible night when Georgie had been taken from her, raped and bludgeoned to death in her bed, her own avenging angel arriving home after a double shift, too late to save her.

  Caskey drew a calming breath and held up the photographs to compare against Reardon’s bedroom, now completely bare. The carpet was no more, but from the SOCO photographs and the blood spatter plan, it was possible to approximate the location of the bloodstains that Brook had mentioned. She walked to the spot about three feet away from the window where the smears of Mrs Thorogood’s blood had been transferred.

  ‘Bloodstains here,’ she said, noisily putting her feet together on the boards. ‘Mrs Thorogood’s blood.’ She looked across to the window. It was modern uPVC, but instead of a top-opener, it was a double-glazed sash window with chrome locks and fittings. The estate agent who’d let them in had unlocked it, leaving the key with Caskey. ‘Why Mrs Thorogood’s and not her husband’s?’

  ‘No mystery, love,’ said Crump, readying what looked like a camera but wasn’t. ‘Transference is a funny business. Sometimes two people die and both sets of bloods can be transferred on to a shoe or a foot. It doesn’t mean that both bloods are going to show a trace on everything they touch.’

  ‘Even if Coulson’s shoes were covered in both,’ said Caskey.

  ‘The laws of physics don’t require Coulson to step in both sets of blood equally. The female victim died first because her wounds were more severe. Hence her blood loss would’ve been much greater and, crucially, quicker.’

  ‘That makes a difference?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Crump. ‘By the time Coulson prepares to leave the kitchen, the wife has virtually bled out, while the husband was still in the process.’

  ‘So Mr Thorogood’s blood pool was still forming when Coulson left, his shoes covered in the wife’s blood.’

  ‘I’d say so. I checked the plan when you rang. The husband’s throat was cut from behind, but that was his only major wound. He was disabled by it but bled out more slowly.’

  ‘So Thorogood’s torso would have protected Coulson’s clothes and shoes from the worst of the blood spray,’ nodded Caskey.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Crump. ‘But having attacked the wife frontally, he had her blood all over his clothes, hands and shoes within seconds.’

  ‘So more of her blood on him to transfer to other rooms.’

  ‘There you go. You can chart his path all over the property from that contamination. And by the time he reached the daughter’s bedroom, what little of the male victim’s blood he’d stepped in had already been displaced.’

  Caskey nodded, gazing at the blood spatter plan. ‘Okay. But if Coulson arrived in Reardon’s bedroom, killed Jemson, then walked here to the window,’ she said, pointing down at her feet, ‘how come there aren’t bloody footprints between Jemson’s body over by the bed and here?’

  Crump looked across at her. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘According to the plan, the area from the bed to the window is free of blood, apart from this one spot where Mrs Thorogood’s blood appears. But the stain is ten feet away from the bed.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I’m guessing Coulson didn’t trampoline over here and leave it.’

  Crump walked across to her and looked over her shoulder. ‘Easy.’ He brandished the glossy photograph of blood smears at her. ‘That’s not a footprint.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Blood dripping from his clothes? Maybe he knelt down for some reason.’

  ‘Yeah, but how did he get over here?’ insisted Caskey. ‘He had blood on his shoes. There should be traces of that blood travelling to here even if he’s already displaced most of it. Come to think of it, he’d just killed Jemson, so shouldn’t he also be leaving traces of Jemson’s blood over by the window?’

  Crump pulled a face. ‘Bit late for all this, isn’t it? The guy maxed out and is serving the full tariff in Monster Mansion. DI Ford was happy and you didn’t ask any of these questions at the time.’

  Caskey reddened. ‘I’m asking now.’

  Crump shrugged and thought about it for a couple of minutes. ‘Simples. He killed Jemson, then took his shoes off.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He changed out of his clothes, didn’t he?’ grinned Crump. ‘Maybe he started in here.’

  ‘Coulson stole Mr Thorogood’s clothes from the master bedroom, and according to your blood plan, that’s where he changed, because there were smears of Jemson’s blood in footprints there.’

  Crump shrugged. ‘Look, it’s our job to tell you where and whose the blood is. It’s your job to figure out how and why it got there.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘DI Ford didn’t think it was significant and he signed off. You saw the blood plan. If you weren’t happy, you were welcome to bring it up. Why didn’t you?’

  Caskey remained silent. Brook was right. Ford’s investigation had barely scratched the surface of events that day and she was partially responsible.

  ‘I’m ready,’ said Crump. ‘Where do you want me?’

  ‘Over here at the window.’

  ‘That’s the best she can do,’ said Smee.

  Brook stared at the artist’s impression of the mystery man at Frazer and Nolan’s party before pinning it up on a display board. ‘McConnell approved?’

  ‘As far as she could remember,’ said Smee. ‘It was a while ago. We’re comparing him to local mugshots. Nothing yet.’

  ‘No need,’ said Cooper. ‘That’s Jason Statham.’

  ‘You know him?’ said Brook excitedly, causing a ripple of laughter around the incident room.

  ‘He’s an actor,’ explained Noble. ‘Of sorts.’

  ‘Actually he’d be decent if there’s ever a movie,’ smirked Banach.

  ‘Brad Pitt and Ryan Gosling can play you and me, Sarge,’ said Cooper to Noble.

  ‘And William Shatner for the boss,’ Noble added under his breath.

  ‘I heard that,’ complained Brook, to more laughter.

  ‘I’m surprised you even know who he is,’ said Noble.

  ‘I don’t, it was the way you said it.’ Brook handed the sketch back. ‘Okay, get Jason ready for circulation to the media. What about the party guests?’

  ‘We’ve reinterviewed everyone,’ said Smee. ‘Nobody remembers speaking to the guy, though one person did talk to Frazer about him. All he remembered was what McConnell told us. The guy was a stray they met while shopping and they invited him out of pity to matchmake with the neighbour. Unless we get a hit from the composite, it looks like a dead end.’

  ‘Maybe it’s time to concentrate on the Gibson murder book,’ said Noble. ‘It’s the freshest kill.’

  ‘But also the most accomplished,’ said Brook. ‘Frazer and Nolan were his first kills, where he was developing his method and making any mistakes. He either knew them or knew about them. That’s where he got the idea.’

  ‘But if this is our guy, why kill where he’s been seen?’ demanded Noble.

  ‘Why not?’ said Brook. ‘What news on Fry?’

  ‘Still off the reservation. You don’t seem too worried.’

  ‘Don’t I?’ Brook sighed. ‘He may not be the Champagne Killer, John, but he has a violent temper and he’s out there, desperate and potentially dangerous.’

  ‘And if you’re right that he was struggling with his sexuality and he crossed Frazer and Nolan’s path …’

  ‘Big assumption, John,’ replied Brook.

  ‘I
t’s more than an assumption to say he was in the Gibson house.’

  ‘That doesn’t give him a plausible motive for their deaths.’

  Noble stared at the picture of Matthew Gibson on the photo array. ‘Then maybe he had another motive.’

  Brook looked thoughtfully at the picture, then across to Noble.

  Twenty-Five

  ‘We know you lied about David Fry,’ said Brook, above the din of a cement mixer manned some thirty yards away by Trimble and his son. Both looked on, in damp and dusty building clothes, their hands and arms stained by cement dust.

  ‘You employed him to decorate your parents’ house,’ added Noble, leaning in to Gibson to be sure his helpful information was fully appreciated. ‘A house you own.’

  Gibson’s manner, so confident and sneering on their last visit, was more subdued. ‘Says who?’

  ‘David Fry.’

  Gibson shrugged. ‘His word against mine.’

  Brook’s smile was genuine. This was the part of the job he loved – calmly but relentlessly pulling a suspect’s testimony apart and watching their resistance crumble with it. ‘We also have Fry’s fingerprints on a light switch in your parents’ bedroom. He was in the house.’

  ‘Then maybe you should arrest him for murder.’

  ‘We have to find him first,’ said Noble. ‘He seems to have gone to ground.’

  ‘Have you seen him?’ enquired Brook.

  ‘Why would I have seen him?’ replied Gibson.

  ‘Because you know him. Because you lied. Because he was in your parents’ house. You’re their landlord. If they didn’t let him in, you did.’

  Gibson was tight-lipped. ‘When can I get my case of champagne back?’

  Brook glanced at Noble. ‘Do you believe this, John? His parents are gunned down and we can’t get a straight answer, never mind the help we ask for.’

  ‘Incredible,’ said Noble, shaking his head.

  ‘I don’t know anything,’ protested Gibson.

  ‘Mr Gibson, David Fry has disappeared,’ said Brook. ‘A man with whom you had a dispute about money. An ex-soldier with a record of violence and comfortable around guns.’

  ‘We have to wonder why you denied knowing him when in fact he’d worked for you,’ said Noble.

  ‘We find that perverse,’ added Brook.

  ‘If not downright suspicious.’

  Gibson was keeping his cool. ‘You think I hired him to kill my parents.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Why would I? I’ve nothing to gain and plenty to lose.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Such as a tainted house that will be harder to sell, plus the hassle of being harassed by you lot.’

  ‘Where does being deprived of your parents come on that list?’ asked Noble.

  Gibson blanched. ‘Top, of course. Look, hasn’t it occurred to you that I could’ve killed my parents with one hand tied behind my back? I wouldn’t need anybody’s help to do it and I certainly wouldn’t take a bottle of champagne and make them dress up for a night out, for God’s sake.’

  ‘You might if they asked you,’ suggested Noble.

  ‘So it’s an assisted suicide now,’ said Gibson, nodding. ‘Problem is, Mum and Dad were healthy for their age.’

  ‘But they weren’t getting any younger,’ argued Brook, glancing across to the Trimbles, smoking cigarettes beside the roaring cement mixer. Trimble Senior discarded his cigarette then tipped the contents of the mixer into a wheelbarrow and turned off the machine. The deathly quiet of the countryside intruded and Trimble made his way over to them, halting a few yards away.

  ‘Everything okay, Matty?’

  ‘Everything’s fine, Jimmy,’ smiled Gibson, a hand held up to reassure. ‘Just a few additional questions.’ Trimble looked from Gibson to Brook and back again before trudging slowly back to the half-built barn, his body language betraying a keen ear tilted in their direction.

  ‘Have you finished testing my gun yet?’ demanded Gibson, loud enough for Trimble to hear.

  ‘We have,’ said Brook, smiling. Two can play at that game. ‘It hasn’t been fired,’ he added, his voice carrying across to the barn.

  ‘When can I have it back?’

  ‘Where is David Fry?’ shouted Brook.

  Gibson’s expression changed. ‘How the hell should I know?’ he replied angrily. Trimble shook out another cigarette. ‘Now, I’ve got work to do …’

  ‘But you know who he is,’ declared Brook boldly.

  ‘I’ve told you, no.’ Gibson turned his face to Brook and Noble, licking his lips nervously. Noble realised Brook’s strategy.

  ‘Then why is his fingerprint—’ he shouted.

  ‘Could I use your toilet, Mr Gibson?’ demanded Brook, before Noble could complete the sentence.

  Gibson held Brook’s eyes briefly, then raised a guiding arm. ‘This way.’

  A moment later, the three men stood in the privacy of Gibson’s spacious kitchen.

  ‘Through there on the left,’ indicated Gibson.

  Brook smiled but didn’t move. He glanced at Noble.

  ‘Fry was in your house,’ said Noble softly. ‘The same David Fry who, while in the army, was brought up on charges for attacking a fellow soldier.’

  ‘We can make the case that the victim of that attack made unwelcome sexual advances towards David Fry,’ said Brook. ‘Which he rebuffed so violently that his victim was in a coma for days. And this is where we get confused. Why, we ask ourselves, would an openly gay man like you hire someone so demonstrably homophobic to work for him?’

  ‘I’ve told you,’ said Gibson. ‘I didn’t hire him.’

  ‘That is a lie,’ said Brook.

  ‘You can’t prove it.’

  ‘For now, it’s enough that I know,’ said Brook. ‘And what’s more, I know why.’ Gibson narrowed his eyes at this. ‘Now, I’ve given you a chance at discretion, but if I don’t get full co-operation and the truth this instant, I’ll be forced to go back outside and start asking your partner.’

  Gibson stared for several seconds and Brook let him stew in his discomfort. Finally Gibson’s head dipped. ‘Please don’t do that.’

  ‘Then tell us about your affair with Fry.’

  Gibson’s expression soured. ‘Affair, you call it.’

  ‘What would you call it?’

  ‘A moment of madness.’ He shook his head, took a deep breath. ‘David was … is struggling with his sexuality.’

  ‘Struggling in what way?’

  ‘He’s gay but he’s having a hard time facing up to it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Who knows how people see themselves?’ said Gibson. ‘But with David’s background and his life in the army, being gay was not the easiest option.’

  ‘And he sees his sexual urges as a form of weakness.’

  Gibson nodded. ‘That’s exactly it.’

  ‘A weakness that could be overcome?’

  ‘If he fought it hard enough.’

  ‘But you can’t fight nature.’

  ‘No, you can’t,’ declared Gibson, on safer ground. ‘In the community, we believe that every queer-basher is trying to smash his own desires to a pulp. The more violent the attack …’ He left the rest unsaid. ‘He was sorry about that poor boy in the army, but others were watching so he had to make a point and hang tough for public consumption.’

  ‘I see. And was he struggling with his weakness whilst your parents were away last year?’ said Brook.

  Gibson closed his eyes in self-loathing. ‘I want you to know I love Jimmy with every fibre of my being.’

  ‘Noted,’ answered Brook.

  ‘This thing was over in two days and it was strictly NSA, or supposed to be.’

  ‘NSA?’ enquired Brook.

  ‘No strings attached,’ explained Noble.

  ‘But it hasn’t turned out that way.’

  ‘Far from it.’ Gibson put a hand over his eyes. ‘God, what a mess.’

  ‘We need to know eve
rything,’ said Brook.

  ‘Very well. The house was empty, my parents were in Cornwall. Davey had posted a few flyers in the neighbourhood offering decorating services, gardening, that sort of thing. Mum and Dad’s house was looking a bit tired and Davey was cheap and needed the money.’

  ‘So you hired him?’

  ‘He spruced up a couple of rooms for me, yes.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Surely you can guess the rest.’

  ‘This is a murder inquiry, Mr Gibson,’ said Noble. ‘Not a game show.’

  Gibson took a deep breath. ‘I went to check on progress one day just before Christmas.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘Jimmy was up in Scotland visiting his family and … Davey and I had … sexual relations.’ He covered his eyes with a hand again. ‘I can’t believe I was so stupid. In my parents’ bed as well,’ he added with a twisted sense of pride, glaring at Brook, daring him to judge.

  ‘And then?’

  ‘And then nothing. We went our separate ways.’

  ‘So why was Fry hammering on your parents’ door before Christmas?’ asked Noble.

  ‘A few days after we had sex, he asked for money. A lot of money.’

  ‘More than you’d agreed for the decorating?’

  ‘Fifteen hundred pounds.’

  ‘And you refused to pay.’

  ‘Yes, I refused to pay.’

  ‘He tried to blackmail you,’ said Noble

  ‘Fifteen hundred pounds is hardly blackmail.’ Gibson’s smile was crooked. ‘I used to be in the business, so I understand the kind of sums that could change hands if you picked up the right mark.’

  ‘So if not blackmail, what would you call it?’

  ‘He just tried it on, that’s all.’

  ‘Money for services rendered.’

  ‘And for not sharing our little indiscretion with loved ones.’

  ‘And you said no?’

  ‘Of course I said no,’ exclaimed Gibson, indignant. ‘I’ve never paid for sex in my life, and I wasn’t about to start.’

  ‘I’m sure we can root around for the irony another time,’ said Brook. ‘What happened then?’

  Gibson shrugged. ‘He’s married, same as me, so the sword cut both ways. When I said no, he started to bargain, came down to a thousand or he’d tell my parents.’