Under Dark Skies (Five Crime Stories Book 1)

by John Moralee

  Boone shivered. She was really feeling the weather despite wearing a heavy grey overcoat. Her teeth were chattering. Her nose was red and numb. She also had the beginning of a cold coming on. It wasn’t exactly the best Monday on record to be investigating some murders.

  Already, two victims had been recovered from the lake: a boy and a girl. The cause of death in both cases was not known, but the coroner suspected drowning. They were in black bags inside the coroner’s van parked on the muddy embankment. They had yet to be identified (the water had made their faces unrecognisable), though it was definitely not an accident that had killed them.

  Bound and gagged people did not kill themselves.

  Earlier that morning the boy had been found floating in the water close to the shore by a milkman making his pre-dawn deliveries. His body had been fully dressed, but he had no wallet or other identification. As the local police recovered his body from the water, they had discovered a second body washed ashore, a teenage female, also bound and gagged.

  The police had contacted Cardiff, asking for assistance.

  After Boone had driven to the town, she had learnt from the local police four teenagers had been missing since Friday night. They had last been seen inside a white transit van. An hour ago, that van had been discovered in the lake, submerged in forty feet of water. The van had been driven off the road at a point where the water was known to be deep, which meant the killer was likely familiar with the area. The van would probably have never been discovered if it had rained or the bodies had not floated up to the surface. The killer’s bad luck was Boone’s good luck, but only if she could take advantage of it. Time was a factor in all investigations. The 24-hour rule didn’t apply here, but the sooner she had some suspects the more likely that the case would be solved.

  She could see a ripple in the dark water. Bubbles. Suddenly, a diver burst to the surface, waving. Finally, that meant the winch cable had been connected to the van. The tow truck standing by started pulling in the cable. She walked over to the truck.

  “How long will it take?” she shouted at the driver.

  “Ten – twenty minutes.”

  “Which is it – ten or twenty?”

  “Twenty,” he said.

  She hated waiting. Two bodies were waiting to be driven to the pathology lab in Cardiff, but she had potentially two more in the water. It seemed like a waste of resources to send just two off when she could wait for the van to be raised, which could contain the others.

  She wished the tow truck could pull faster, but the cable was moving at its maximum speed. She envied the detectives she had sent to speak with the relatives of the teenagers. They would be in nice warm buildings, not freezing outside.

  Twenty minutes later, the transit van broke the surface. The once-white transit van was now coated in black sludge and green slime. It was coming out backwards. The rear doors were wide open, revealing the filthy interior. The open doors explained why the bodies had fallen out.

  Boone waited until the van was completely out of the water before she waved for the winch to be stopped. The van was on the embankment, looking like it had been under the water a couple of years. A boyish forensics officer peered inside.

  “We’ve found the third one!” He sounded happy.

  Boone wasn’t happy.

  “What about the fourth?” she wanted to know.

  Unfortunately, nobody had an answer.

  *

  Boone looked into the van with a powerful torch, being careful not to touch anything. Thick sediment had turned the interior black and water dripped from the roof. The rear seats looked like sinister, crouching human shapes. There was a blanket on the floor between the seats soaked in black grime. The third body was bound on the floor, the legs trapped under a seat. It wasn’t easy to identify the sex by looking at the face – the water had bloated it - but the victim was wearing silk blouse and a short skirt. The second girl. Her watch had stopped at 3.22 a.m.

  Boone shone her torch over the front seats. She could see the dashboard was coated with foul-smelling sludge. Something glinted under the driver’s seat. It was a heavy toolbox, also covered with sludge except where the metal was showing through.

  The gleaming white suits of the forensics team were going to be filthy when they had finished examining the van, Boone knew. She did not envy their work. The chief forensic officer did not need to tell her it was unlikely they would get any fingerprints from the van; she already knew it: water was one of the worst substances for destroying evidence, especially DNA. Boone knew the man would try his best, though. Everyone working on the case was dedicated.

  Boone hoped, as the new DCI, she could lead them to a successful conclusion, finding the killer/killers.

  She would be probably demoted if she didn’t.

  *

  Some hours later, her team of detectives gathered in a small room inside the local police station. It was a terrible temporary HQ, but it was all they had for the time being – a tiny office with cigarette-yellowed walls and no windows. As she entered the room carrying her Dell laptop, DI Michael Hollis greeted her.

  “Congratulations,” he said. She frowned. “On the promotion, ma’am. You deserve it.”

  “Oh, yes, thank you.” The “ma’am” made her feel old. She was only three years older than Hollis. They used to be on first name terms – friends - but the change of rank meant a change of attitude. “You don’t have to call me ‘ma’am’, Mike.”

  “I’m sorry. What should I call you?”

  “Uh – whatever you think’s appropriate, I suppose. You can call me Lisa when we’re off duty, just like before.”

  “And when we’re not?”

  Boone shrugged.

  “We used to call DCI Hammond ‘boss’ before you replaced him. He liked it.”

  “Boss? That’s fine with me.”

  “Okay, boss.”

  Boone walked to the back of the room, putting her laptop on a table facing a row of blue plastic chairs. The detectives were complaining about how uncomfortable they were like a group of whining children. Boone was now in charge of her ex-colleagues, including DI Michael Hollis, who had applied for the same promotion. Michael Hollis was a good detective, but she didn’t know yet if her being his boss would effect their previously cordial relationship. She hoped not. Boone faced her audience feeling tense and nervous. There were a few faces she didn’t recognise – transfers just like her. She asked them to introduce themselves.

  “I thought it’d be a good idea if we went over the information we have so far,” she said. She had their attention. Good. “First of all, a woman called Rachel Rhys made out a missing persons report on her daughter Holly on Saturday afternoon. Holly had not come home after a night out with her friends, which was not unusual, but she had not answered her mobile phone, which was. After trying to contact Holly’s best friend, Candice Owen, and Holly’s boyfriend, Greg Nolan – neither of whom had been seen by their parents since Friday night – Mrs Rhys filed a report with the local police. It wasn’t a very busy weekend for the police. The only other crimes they had to deal with were the vandalism of a bus shelter, the theft of a motorbike, and a couple of drunks fighting in the street. Unfortunately, the local police did not treat her report very seriously until the milkman discovered the first body. The police wrongly assumed Holly and her boyfriend had gone somewhere for the weekend and would return on Monday. Mrs Rhys last saw her daughter Holly alive at seven p.m. on Friday night, when she and Candice were seen getting into the back of a white transit van driven by Greg Nolan. Mrs Rhys saw Greg’s stepbrother Jamey Rider in the passenger seat. Mrs Rhys reported seeing nobody else with them, though someone else could have been in the van we don’t know about. She didn’t know where they went after they drove off, but she assumed they were going to see a band her daughter had mentioned playing a gig. The Scum Suckers.”

  “Nice name,” one detective commented.

  “I have all their CDs,” another joked.

  �
��We’ll need someone to find out where the Scum Suckers were playing on Friday. We need to know where that white van went. DCI Hollis can choose a team after I’ve finished talking.”

  “Thanks, boss.”

  “I’d now like to tell you all about the forensics results. This is preliminary information – we’ll know more in a few hours. First, we now know the identities of the three victims thanks to the co-operation of their families. They are Holly Rhys, Candice Owen and Greg Nolan.” She showed pictures of the teenagers on her laptop, scanned from family photographs. “The other missing boy is Jamey Ryder, as I’ve already mentioned. He’s Greg Nolan’s stepbrother.”

  Jamey was a dark-haired boy with brown eyes.

  “Is he our chief suspect, then, boss?” a detective asked.

  Boss. The word was getting to her already.

  “Jamey Rider has not yet been found dead or alive. He is either a victim or a suspect, but until his body is found, I’m assuming nothing. The divers are still looking for him.”

  “Searching that lake could take days,” Hollis said. “If he doesn’t float, they’ll never find him, boss.”

  Was that a criticism of her?

  “It has to be done,” she said. “Now ...”

  A click of a key replaced the images on her laptop with post-mortem photographs downloaded from the pathology lab. Modern technology meant she could receive the autopsy reports from Cardiff while working the case here – no need for travelling back and forth. The detectives grimaced as they saw the gruesomely bloated, pale corpses.

  “Each victim was bound in the same way, suggesting the same person or persons tied up all three. There were no physical wounds, except rope burns on the wrists and feet and minor bruises probably sustained when the van crashed into the water. They were definitely alive and conscious when the van entered the lake.”

  She paused to let that sink in. Drowning had to be a terrible way to die. She remembered choking after swallowing water in a swimming pool. Drowning had to be a thousand times worse.

  “The rope used was a climbing rope sold only in good sports shops. I want someone to trace down where it was bought and who bought it – a volunteer?”

  An eager detective constable volunteered.

  “The black tape was a common make sold anywhere. However, the techs have obtained partial prints on the tape over Holly’s mouth and Greg’s. The prints have not been identified yet, but it will hopefully convict the suspect when we get one.”

  Hollis said: “He isn’t a genius, leaving prints, boss. We haven’t got a supervillain.”

  Some of the detectives laughed. She had the suspicion they were laughing partly at her. Hollis was turning into the resident comedian, using her as his foil. Every time he said the word “boss”, she detected the extra emphasis. The sarcasm. It was subtle but it was there. She guessed they had stopped being friends already.

  The detectives stopped laughing when Boone continued. “There is also male DNA inside both female victims.”

  A female DC asked the question they were all wondering. “They were raped?”

  “Perhaps. There’s no bruising to prove it, though. It is possible the killer or killers forced the girls to have sex, perhaps believing they would be released if they complied. As you can imagine, this information is highly sensitive. We don’t want the relatives knowing about it. The lab is already looking for matches with known sex offenders. All we need is a suspect to match the prints and DNA, which is why we need to know more about the victims. I’ll re-interview the families myself. DI Hollis will head up a team tracing the white van. Good luck, everyone.”

  DI Hollis approached her after the meeting broke up. “Er, boss, can I ask you something?”

  “Sure,” she said.

  “Why are you re-interviewing them? Is it because you don’t think I did a good job?”

  “No,” she said, quickly. “It’s just that the grief counsellors arrived after you spoke to them, so they’ve had time to deal with their shock. They might remember something they didn’t earlier. You know how it is.”

  “I see,” he said, sounding not very convinced. “I guess that you can think of questions I didn’t ask. I mean, you are the DCI.”

  He left her feeling like she had stepped on his toes. Damn it – she hadn’t meant anything by what she’d decided. She wanted to see the parents to satisfy herself nothing had been missed, but Hollis was convinced she didn’t value his work. A week ago, they had been friends – but now? Now there was tension between them.

  *

  “Mr and Mrs Rhys - I’m Detective Chief Inspector Boone.”

  Rachel Rhys was sitting on her couch, being held by her husband Kevin. They both looked blankly at Boone as she sat down opposite them.

  “I’m in charge of finding out who killed Holly. Do you mind if I ask you some further questions?”

  “My wife’s answered enough questions,” Kevin Rhys said. “That other detective already did that. But I’ve been thinking. I reckon I know who killed our Holly. That other boy – the one you haven’t found. It must be him. What’s his name?”

  “Jamey,” Rachel said. “His name is Jamey, Kevin. You’d know that if you paid more attention to our daughter’s life while she was still alive.”

  “Rachel ...”

  “Don’t Rachel me!” She pulled herself away from her husband and rushed out of the room. Boone heard a door slam.

  Her husband sighed. “It’s that boy, I’m telling you. He must have done it. I want you to catch him and put him away in prison for the rest of his life.”

  “What makes you suspect him?”

  “Because he was strange.”

  “Strange how?”

  “He was always lurking behind Nolan, like a shadow. And he was always dressed in black. A long black coat. Like a vampire. He was a sullen, moody kid. He was probably a Satanist or something. You’re looking for the killer, he’s the guy. When you catch him, let me go in the room with him for just ten minutes ... I wish my Holly had never met either of those boys. My Holly was a good girl until she started dating Greg Nolan. He was only interested in one thing. You know what teenage boys are like. Holly couldn’t see he was no good for her. Once she started going out with Nolan, she stopped doing her homework. All she cared about was him, him, him, but he wasn’t worth it. The kid was a bad influence. He had a criminal record for shoplifting, so-called joyriding and vandalism. You have seen his criminal record, haven’t you?”

  Boone nodded. When Greg was twelve, he had been caught stealing DVDs from the local HMV. The timing was just after his father got divorced from his mother. He had continued committing shoplifting for over a year, then had graduated to stealing cars. A child psychologist had concluded he was acting out his emotions over the divorce. He had been given therapy for over a year, which seemed to have worked, for he had not been caught committing any crimes since. Boone wondered if Nolan had just learnt how not to be caught.

  The other boy, Jamey Ryder, had no criminal record, though he had been cautioned a couple of times for being with Greg Nolan when he committed a crime.

  *

  Holly’s best friend Candice had lived in a house close to Holly’s. Candice’s parents could not tell Boone anything useful about their daughter’s life. They were too distraught. Their other daughter Natalie was also upset, but she was a smart ten-year-old, desperate to tell everything she knew about her older sister.

  “My sister went out with Holly and her boyfriend on Friday night,” Natalie told her. “I was sort of glad she went out because I could watch what I like on the telly. She’s always grabbing the remote. I hated her doing that. Now’s she dead. Does it make me a bad girl?”

  Her wide eyes were desperate for reassurance.

  “No,” Boone assured her. “No, it doesn’t. She knows you loved her. What else can you remember, Natalie?”

  “There was other boy with them, too.”

  “Was he Candice’s boyfriend?”

  “No. Cand
ice didn’t like him. He was creepy. He wanted to be her boyfriend, but she wasn’t interested. She already had a boyfriend, anyway.”

  “She did?” Natalie nodded. “What is his name?”

  “I don’t know, but I heard her talking about him. Last week, Candice and Holly were in her bedroom with the door closed. They wouldn’t let me in, so I listened to the door because I heard them laughing and whispering. They were talking about stuff.”

  “Stuff?”

  Natalie squirmed. “You know. Stuff.”

  “Natalie, I know it’s embarrassing to talk about it, but it’s very important you tell me everything.”

  “They were ... talking about what they liked doing with their boyfriends. Kissing and other ... you know ... things. Doing it.” Natalie was blushing. She looked down at her trainers. “I didn’t mean to listen. Honestly. I was just curious. I don’t want a stupid boyfriend. Ugh – it’d make me sick doing that stuff. Don’t tell my mum about this. It would kill her.”

  *

  Greg Nolan and Jamey Ryder had lived in an old pebble-dashed semi-detached house with Greg’s father and Jamey’s mother. Boone felt uncomfortable when she entered the hall and saw a framed family photograph. The family looked happy in the picture. For the occasion, Jamey had worn normal clothes, not black. He didn’t look like the creepy Goth everyone had described.

  Somewhere she could hear sobbing. A WPC stepped out of a doorway, wiping her eyes. She looked embarrassed to be caught crying. “Chief Inspector! I – um -”

  “It’s okay,” Boone said. “Where are they?”

  “The mother is in the kitchen, having a cup of tea. The father is in the living room. I’m afraid he’s been drinking.”