DEAD & BURIED a gripping crime thriller full of twists

by Helen H. Durrant

  “The flat. That’s where we’ve both been holed up.”

  “Well, he’s not there now. The police are all over it. Somewhere else. Come on, you must know.”

  “You’ve lost me.” Garrett spat out a gob of blood. The blow on his head had made his nose bleed.

  “I’m running out of patience. If you have anything to offer you’d better speak up now.”

  Garrett shook his head. “I could look for him for you,” he suggested. “The lads on the estate, they’d talk to me.”

  “Not an option. No information, so no use.” He knelt down beside Garrett. “Pity. In different circumstances I could have used you.” He took a knife from his pocket and placed it against Garrett’s throat.

  The lad screamed, “No!” He felt the cold steel against his neck. “I can help! I’ll do anything.”

  “It’s just business, nothing personal,” said the man.

  Garrett struggled but it was hopeless. The man put a hand around his throat and squeezed. At the same time the blade went in smooth and deep between two ribs. It pierced the chest wall and entered the heart. As he took his final breath the man kicked him down the embankment and into the black waters of the river.

  * * *

  The dog had gotten used to his evening stroll. Calladine usually took him to the common, let him run loose for five minutes or so, and headed home. Given all the health advice he was getting perhaps it was time to extend the walk a little further. Sam seemed up for it.

  He’d taken the transition from Marilyn to Calladine well. Unlike Marilyn, the DI didn’t treat him like an infant. He spoke to the dog as if he was one of his team, a member who didn’t answer back. Tonight he walked around the perimeter of the common and onto the lane that ran the back way to Hopecross. “We’ll have a hike up this hill. Head-clearing exercise.” He patted the dog.

  There was little traffic so Sam ran free. He stuck to the pavement and didn’t stray far from Calladine’s heels. Calladine hadn’t realised that once you reached the highest point of the lane, you could see the Pennine Inn. There was a pull-in for cars and a bright red sports job was parked up.

  A woman was standing against the bonnet with a pair of binoculars pressed to her eyes. Sam barked and ran towards her. She jumped.

  “Sorry.”

  “You should have him on a lead,” she said, brushing at her dress. “He’s moulting. But he’s a lovely boy.” She bent down and ruffled Sam around the ears. “I forgive you, handsome,” she added, and plonked a kiss on his head.

  What was it with women and dogs?

  “Something interesting caught your eye?” She didn’t look the birdwatching type but according to Ruth this was the place to see hawks.

  “A moonlighting employee. It’s not allowed. There can be safety issues. I knew Annette was up to something. Telling me she couldn’t work tonight because of a family problem. She must think I’m stupid. I saw the note in the book.”

  He nodded at the hotel. “That’s an expensive place.”

  “The bloke Annette is in there with is a regular. That’s good business I’m losing. She’d better have a good excuse or I’ll sack her.”

  Calladine coughed. He’d no idea what she was on about. “Do you live locally?”

  “Sort of. Droylsden. Know it?”

  “That’s on the way to Manchester. I’ve probably passed through it a couple of times.”

  “She’s come out here thinking I won’t find out. This is way off the beaten track.”

  He chuckled. “You’re not dressed for climbing hills either.”

  She smiled back. “I’m a city girl. I should explain. I run a model and escort agency. Annette is one of my girls. Or was one of my girls until she branched out on her own.” She took a card from her bag.

  It was bright red with a picture of a glamourous woman on it. She watched him with a smirk on her face.

  “I see no point in flowering it up. I supply escorts for bored businessmen. You know the type, away from home, needing a dinner partner or a little company.”

  Well, that sounded a bit dodgy, but she wasn’t the least embarrassed to talk about her work to a complete stranger. He gave her a quizzical look. Should he tell her he was police in case she said something out of turn? Calladine was curious. Many so-called escort agencies were nothing but a cover for something more dubious. Was that her game? He decided to leave it. She was open and honest and he liked that. Funny that. How you could be drawn to certain people without having to know anything about them. She was nice-looking too. She had black hair falling just below her chin, cut into a swingy bob shape with a full fringe. She wore bright red lipstick. Red, it seemed, was her colour. Her curvy figure was wrapped in a deep red and black dress that clung and there were red sling-back high heels on her feet.

  He held out his hand. “Tom Calladine. And this is Sam.”

  “Shelley Mortimer, but friends call me Shez,” she replied, taking his hand and squeezing lightly. “Fancy a drink?”

  “Not over there if you don’t mind.”

  “God no. I was thinking about that dive in the town down there: the Wheatsheaf.”

  That was more like it. He nodded at her.

  “In that case let’s go get hammered, Tom Calladine.”

  Chapter 11

  Thursday

  Rocco knocked on Enid Mason’s door. No answer. Despite their conversation the day before, Rocco wanted to clarify a couple of points.

  “They’ve gone off somewhere, mate,” a voice called from along the deck.

  “What do you mean?”

  “This morning. Suitcases and all. They got a taxi and left.”

  “Did you see which taxi firm?”

  “Staples, at the end of the estate.”

  Hopefully they’d have a record. Rocco started down the stairs. The place was quiet. Even the square was empty. The shooting had rattled folk and who could blame them? But he couldn’t understand why Enid and Ricky would do a runner like this. What was it they were afraid of? Rocco went over yesterday’s conversation with Enid. Something he’d asked must have spooked her.

  Staples Taxis was a father and son business. Rocco walked into the office and showed his badge to the young man behind the counter.

  “One of your drivers picked up a fare from Heron House this morning — Enid Mason and her nephew. I need to know where they were going.”

  “You’re in luck. I know them and that was me.” He flicked through a notebook. “I took them to the coach station in Manchester, Chorlton Street.”

  “You don’t know where they were going?”

  “No. Neither of them said more than a couple of words for the entire journey. Weird if you ask me. They had luggage. I presumed they were going away on holiday. But they couldn’t even raise a smile.”

  Back outside, Rocco rang the nick and spoke to Imogen. “Enid Mason has done a runner and taken Ricky with her. I’m coming back to the nick now. In the meantime would you check with the coach company and see if you can find out where they’ve gone?”

  Rocco couldn’t think of anything in the conversation yesterday that would have caused this reaction. Enid had answered his questions openly. But the fact they’d left had to be down to him, and that was annoying.

  * * *

  “They got a coach to Cardiff,” Imogen told Rocco as he walked through the office door.

  “Why would they run? Who do they know in Cardiff?” Calladine was sitting at his desk going over statements again and nursing a sore head. Shez Mortimer couldn’t half knock it back. Vodka, he’d soon learned, was her tipple of choice. They’d spent a good couple of hours in the Wheatsheaf, along with Sam. Not what he’d intended when he left home but a great night nonetheless. He liked her. He vaguely recalled that they’d planned to meet again, although he couldn’t for the life of him remember what they’d arranged. Still, he had her card. “They didn’t mention having anything planned. Or did I miss it, Rocco?”

  Rocco shook his head.

  “
The body will be released soon and there’s a funeral to organise.” Calladine paused tapping a pencil against his teeth. “They’re scared. They’re running from something or someone.”

  “Costello?” Imogen suggested. “I’ll find out who they’ve got down there — if anyone.”

  “If they’re running from Costello, what’s the link? Why?” He got up and walked to the incident board. “Did you get anywhere with Emily’s past?”

  “Not really but they did know each other. Beyond that, I can’t find anything.”

  “It’s not enough.”

  The office phone rang. It was Julian.

  “Wayne Davey was killed with a single stab wound to the heart. The killer knew his stuff. The blade was long, thin and very sharp. I’d say your killer has had practice.”

  “Thanks, Julian. Anything on forensics?”

  “Yes. Roxy tells me the lipstick used to touch up Emily’s make-up isn’t available in the UK. Apparently it’s French. Also we found a number of hairs on her clothing.”

  “That’s useful. DNA?”

  “Possibly. A number of them have the root intact. But it’s the length and colour that might be of significance until we get the DNA results back. Long. I’d say chin length. Darker and longer than Emily Blackwell’s. Does that help?”

  “It could. I’ll give it some thought. Thanks again, Julian.”

  He left the office and knocked on Birch’s door.

  “Professor Batho has added a little interest to the mix.”

  “Sit down.” She gestured to the chair opposite her.

  “Hair was found on Emily’s clothing — not hers. I’m presuming it came from whoever laid her out. Expensive, French lipstick was used to touch up her make-up. Her hair was combed, that sort of thing. And there are prints on her shoes. It will all be very useful when we bring someone in.”

  “You have someone in mind?”

  “Tanya Mallon has chin-length dark hair. She is also the type of woman I can imagine shopping in Paris for her clothes and make-up. But that isn’t evidence.”

  Birch nodded.

  “Nonetheless, I want to bring her in and speak to her officially.”

  “What reason would you give her?”

  “All this started the day she arrived. She was on the Hobfield when Davey was shot. We only have her word that she didn’t see anything.”

  “Given her relationship with Costello we should run it past DCI King.”

  “She’ll object,” Calladine said at once.

  “Let’s ask her.” Birch lifted the phone and suggested she join them.

  “Don’t jump down her throat,” Birch advised. “See what she has to say. If DCI King does object, then she’d better have a damn good reason.”

  “Found Archer yet?” asked Eliza King as soon as she entered the office.

  She looked drawn, as if she hadn’t slept all night. That’d teach her to stay at the Wheatsheaf. He had tried to warn her.

  “Forensics on Emily Blackwell’s clothing is in,” Calladine told her. “Hair and expensive make-up. I’m thinking it could add up to Tanya Mallon. She’s one of Costello’s PAs or a lady friend — take your pick.”

  “But you don’t know for sure?”

  “No. But there is no one else. She was on the Hobfield within minutes of the shooting and she had an interest in Clough Cottage. Plus it’s only a matter of time before the forensics are in. If Mrs Mallon is innocent, she shouldn’t object to doing a DNA test or giving us her fingerprints.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “Bring her in. Interview her officially about her whereabouts Tuesday morning. If forensics does get a match she won’t be able to charm her way out of that one.”

  Eliza King ran a hand through her hair wearily. Today it was hanging loose around her face, making her look younger than ever. Calladine couldn’t believe they were expecting serious input from a person who looked like some wild teenager.

  “I’m not keen on the idea.”

  “Why not?”

  “She’s close to Costello.”

  “Oh, above-the-law Costello,” he jibed. “We’re telling you this out of courtesy, DCI King.” He inhaled deeply and waited for the argument to start, but she surprised them.

  “Okay. Do what you want.”

  “Are you okay, DCI King?” Birch asked. “Only you seem a little . . . preoccupied today. Has something happened? Anything we can do to help?”

  Calladine fully expected a resounding no, and for Birch to be put firmly in her place. But he was wrong.

  “I’ve had a bad night,” she admitted. “That’s two on the bounce. That pub I’m staying in is a nightmare. You were right,” she said, turning to Calladine.

  Calladine hadn’t expected that. Lack of sleep had taken the edge off that hot temper. He suddenly felt sorry for her. The woman was struggling. That hard exterior could well be a front. Their work was difficult, as he knew well. She’d obviously worked hard to get where she was. But at what cost, and how much longer could she keep up the pace?

  “Do you want to be present at the interview?” Calladine asked.

  “No. I’ve got some problems of my own to sort. For a start I’ve got to find somewhere else to stay.”

  “Right then, ma’am. I’ll go and find the woman before she disappears.”

  Eliza King followed him out.

  “Have you got anything on Archer and his friends yet?” she asked as they walked back to the incident room.

  “Davey is dead and Garrett and Archer have scarpered. But they’ll turn up. They need the money they get from dealing on the Hobfield, so it’s just a matter of time.”

  She closed her eyes. “This is doing my head in. I’m shattered. That bloody pub, the case — and problems at home. My mind didn’t stop all night.”

  “Look, if you’re really pushed I’ve got a spare room at my house. It’s nothing special. I live in a two up, two down terrace on one of the back streets but despite that, it is quiet.”

  “If you’re serious then yes please. But are you sure? We haven’t got off to the best of starts, have we?”

  He grinned. “I’ve got broad shoulders. I’ll get you a key from my desk and jot down the address.”

  * * *

  “The well’s no good, Annie,” Jack Naden told his wife. “It’s completely clogged up. The engineer reckons there’s been no water in it for years.”

  “This is serious. We can’t do without water, Jack. What does he suggest? What about connecting to mains water?”

  “We’re too far out and too far up. We’ve got to get our supply from Clough spring, but how?”

  “Couldn’t the well be dug out?”

  “He says the track of the stream has changed in the forty years since this place was last lived in. It doesn’t reach the well anymore. Ideally a borehole is what we need. But that means heavy machinery and a pit for a storage tank digging out.”

  “Did he give you a timescale?”

  “It’s not time, Annie, its money we’re short of.”

  “What does your dad say?”

  “He’s having a word with the engineer. It might be possible to take water from my dad’s tank — pipe it down the hill.”

  “It needs sorting, Jack. We can’t get on with anything else until it is.”

  Then Jacob Naden called out. “Son! The engineer reckons it’ll work. We run a pipe straight down that incline there.” He pointed to the hill. “The trough can be dug in a day. A small tank sunk somewhere in the back here, filtered then piped to the house.”

  “Cost?” Annie asked.

  “Not as much as the alternatives, lass. My supply is more than adequate. I’ve told him to go ahead and get the digger up here.”

  “Will we need planning permission or anything?”

  “I’ll have a word,” Jacob reassured her. “We’ll be returning the land back to as it was, so there’ll be nothing to see. The tank will be in your backyard.”

  Annie sighed. “Let’
s hope nothing else happens to jinx this project.”

  * * *

  “I can’t imagine what you think I’ve done, Inspector.” Tanya Mallon sounded faintly amused.

  “It’s just a chat,” Calladine said. “I’d like you to think back to the morning of the auction. What did you do before you went to bid?”

  “It was a morning affair, Inspector, and quite early too.” She thought for a moment. “I imagine I got ready and had breakfast at the hotel.”

  Cool as a cucumber.

  “Did you visit Clough Hill or the cottage that day?”

  “No. I had neither the time nor the inclination.”

  “Are you aware that we found a body on the hill that morning? Emily Blackwell. Does the name mean anything to you?”

  She gasped. “You can’t possibly think that woman’s death has anything to do with me! I can assure you that’s not my style.”

  “No, but fancy lipstick is.”

  “Now I’m intrigued. What’s my lipstick got to do with this?”

  “We have found certain forensic evidence. Currently it is being analysed. Plus we retrieved a good set of fingerprints from Emily’s shoes.”

  Tanya Mallon stood up. Her face was like stone. “I’m here voluntarily?”

  Calladine nodded.

  “Well, I’ve heard enough. I’m leaving.”

  “The evidence we’ve got could just as easily prove that what you’ve told us is correct, Mrs Mallon.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Allow us to take your prints and a DNA swab and you can go on your way.”

  “No!”

  “I can’t see why you’d object.”

  “Well, I do object. You must be desperate if you seriously think I had anything to do with that woman’s death.”

  “Sit down, please. We haven’t finished.”

  She looked around the room. There was a uniformed officer by the door and Rocco was seated beside Calladine.

  “Tell me why you won’t give us a DNA sample or your prints. Are you afraid of what we’ll find?”

  Tanya Mallon fell silent. Her face was unreadable.

  “Okay. I was there,” she said finally. “I was having a last minute look at Clough Cottage and I saw her lying there in a crumpled heap. I went to help her but when I got up close I could see that she was dead.”