by Sam Christer
‘Gas canister by the looks of it,’ says a young SOCO, a spotty-faced lad with spiky hair. ‘From the blast pattern, it seems like it blew under the cooking ring.’
Jimmy moves around them and scans the rest of the burned-out vehicle. ‘So no sign of the girl?’ he calls over his shoulder. ‘You sure bits of her aren’t in here?’
Lisa Hamilton cranes her neck upwards from her crouch. ‘You seriously suggesting I might have missed a whole woman?’
He feels stupid. ‘Of course not. It’s just that we’re all going crazy trying to find her.’
The pathologist continues scowling. ‘This isn’t about any missing woman. Right now my concern is this man, here. And I’m trying to afford him the dignity and respect he deserves by properly investigating his death.’
Jimmy gets the message and backs off. Other SOCOs are hard at work bagging and tagging whatever can be picked or scraped from the floor and walls. He sees a stack of paper bags containing a broken tumbler, burned saucepan, an empty vodka bottle and blackened cutlery and crockery.
A female SOCO appears at his shoulder with a plastic evidence bag. ‘We discovered a driving licence and hire documents in the glove compartment. They’re smoke-damaged but intact.’
Jimmy holds the bag up to a light so he can read through the covering. The writing is just about legible. ‘Edward Jacob Timberland.’ As he says it, he feels a wave of sadness. Putting a name to the body always alters things. He calls towards the pathologist. ‘Prof, I’m going to go back to the station. When will your report be ready?’
She doesn’t break from her examination. ‘After breakfast. I’ll mail through an outline and be available mid-morning if you want me to run through it in person.’
‘Thanks.’ He’d like that. A nice chat over coffee. Who knows what might come up. Jimmy raises a hand as he leaves. ‘Goodnight everyone.’
There are muffled replies as he heads out of the barn.
‘Good morning,’ shouts the professor playfully. ‘Get your facts right, detective, it’s already morning.’
66
Gideon can feel his heart thump as he slides the old VHS tape into the player.
The woman who comes on screen is barely recognisable as the mother he loved. He expected to see the beauty from the video in Venice. Laughing. Vivacious. Full of life. But it’s not to be.
She sits in a sick bed, resting against a plump white mountain of pillows and from the angle of the camera it looks like she’s filming herself. The skeleton-thin face, the prematurely white frizzy hair and bloodshot gaze are cameos of pain.
Marie Chase is close to death as she smiles at her son through the TV monitor and through the ages. ‘Giddy, my darling. I’m going to miss you so much. I’m hoping that you will have a long and very happy life and know what a joy it is to be a parent. Once you were born, my life felt complete. I never wanted for anything more than you, me and your father to be happy together.’ She fights back her emotions. ‘Darling, that’s not to be. I don’t have much time now, but there’s something I have to tell you so I leave you this message for when you’re older, old enough to see me in this state and not be frightened.’
Gideon has to wipe tears from his face. He realises for the first time that he’d never been allowed to see his mother in her final days, in the period when she wasted away so painfully. Marie Chase is crying too as she reaches out to her only child. ‘Giddy, no one but you has ever or will ever see this recording. Not your father. Not anyone. Just you. I have something I must tell you personally and your father respects that. He is a good man and he loves you more than you know. I hope you look after each other when I’m gone.’ She reaches to the bedside cabinet and raises a glass of water to her parched lips, then forces another brave smile.
Gideon smiles back. He misses her. More than he has ever admitted to himself.
Marie Chase completes her message from beyond the grave, her final words to the son she never saw grow up. Then she tells him what she always told him at night as she switched his bedside light off and kissed his head: ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of, sweetheart. I love you and will always be there for you.’
The tape turns into a snowstorm of grey fuzz and spins noisily into rewind. Gideon is left gazing at the blank screen, his mind still fizzing from the shock of the secret that she just shared with him.
67
It’s three a.m. when Jimmy Dockery turns up at Megan Baker’s desk clutching a chipped mug full of steaming coffee. ‘You got a minute, boss?’
‘Sure.’ She waves to a seat. ‘What’s on your mind?’
He sits, looking exceptionally tired. ‘This lad that died in the Camper.’
‘Timberland.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Don’t worry. I’m not going to ask you to talk to the parents. The Met can do it. They made contact after we pulled their son’s Amex bills.’
‘It’s not that.’
‘What, then?’
He blows out a long breath and takes a steadying sip of coffee. ‘The fire scene was a mess. Parts missing from the body, probably blown off, skin melted. And his head was just a big black ball. It was all wrong.’
She understands. He’s badly shaken and doesn’t want to talk to male colleagues about how it’s affected him. ‘Do you want me to fix for you to see the psychiatrist?’
He looks aghast.
‘Jimmy, when I was training, I saw a guy hit by a train. A suicide. I couldn’t sleep for days. Eventually, I found talking to a shrink really helped me.’
‘Thanks, but I didn’t mean that. I meant the scene was wrong. Wrong for what was supposed to have gone on.’
She’s intrigued. ‘How so?’
He suddenly wonders if he’s going to make a fool of himself. ‘You’ll see the prof’s report in a few hours so maybe it’s worth waiting until then.’
‘No, go on, Jim. If you’ve got a theory, a gut feeling, I want to hear it.’
‘All right.’ He rests his elbows on her desk. ‘Location, location, location. Right?’
She looks confused.
‘That’s what estate agents say is the single most important thing.’
She nods, still not sure where he’s going.
He tries to explain. ‘So you’ve got a Campervan, a rugged little home from home. You can go anywhere in it. It’ll survive whatever the elements throw at it. But you choose to park up inside a barn. A building so far off the beaten track, I bet most locals don’t even know it’s there.’
She gets his drift. ‘Strange, I grant you. A barn isn’t the right location for a Camper.’
He relaxes a little. ‘That’s the first thing, okay. So this Timberland guy was a posh nob. A rich guy. Son of a lord, right?’
‘Right.’
‘So if a guy like that hires a vintage Camper to take his new girlfriend out, what else might he bring along for the trip?’
She thinks about it. ‘Soft drinks for the journey. Maybe snacks, probably food. I imagine champagne, maybe a bottle of rosé or a chilled white, some decent glasses.’ She gets into her stride. ‘Picnic blankets, hamper, sunglasses, maybe a surprise present for her.’
Jimmy smiles. ‘Fine. I didn’t get as far as you did but look at the list of stuff forensics identified.’ He slides a piece of newly printed A4 across her desk and watches as she reads it. ‘What you’ll see on there,’ he adds, ‘is a dented can with burned bits of beans inside, fragments of silver tin foil – probably from a chocolate bar – two empty vodka bottles and some staple foodstuffs like bread and butter. Nothing you wouldn’t expect. He probably bought some of it, but most of it is likely to have been freebies from the gift hamper that comes with the rental.’ He jabs a finger at the bottom of the sheet. ‘The little fridge in there protected what was inside from the blast. So here we have some fancy ice cream and a full bottle of Bollinger champagne.’
‘What are you getting at?’
‘The vodka. Two bottles. To have got through that but not opened the cham
pagne that’s hard-core drinking. Surely if you buy the Bolly, that’s what you’re going to open first?’
Megan jumps to her own conclusion. ‘It’s hard to start a fire with champagne, but not with vodka. You think the spirits were used as an accelerant?’
He shrugs. ‘I’m not even sure you can set fire to champagne, can you?’
‘I don’t know. She looks off into the distance, remembers another world, her wedding when she last drank champagne. I’m not going to waste any trying to find out though.’ She thinks about his hunch. ‘You’re right, the vodka bottles and the champagne don’t make sense. Nor does parking a van inside a barn. And the fact that the girl is still missing makes me even more suspicious.’
Jimmy swings a chair alongside Megan’s desk. ‘Do you think maybe the two of them had a fight over something and she cracked him one, a bit harder than she meant, then panicked?’
Megan shakes her head. ‘Not her. Remember who she is. The daughter of the Vice President wouldn’t behave like a halfwit and try to torch the scene, she’d have called Daddy for help.’
He sees her point. ‘And I guess it doesn’t explain the vodka bottles, either.’
‘Quite. What I’m wondering though, is why she wasn’t in the Camper with him.’
‘They had a row and she stormed off?’
‘Doesn’t work for me. If she’d have done that, she’d have called home. This isn’t a girl who’s going to catch a train back to London.’
They sit in silence, both cycling the same thoughts. Jake Timberland is dead because someone killed him. Caitlyn Lock is missing because someone took her. Find Caitlyn and you catch the killer. Hopefully, before he kills again.
68
Serpens and Musca drive separately to Octans’ place. They shower while Volans puts their clothes and shoes in two separate sacks, ready to be incinerated later that morning. They put on the fresh clothing and footwear that’s been laid out for them.
Plates of cold pizza and cans of chilled beer mark their places at the card table. None of them speak about what has happened. They play poker, gin rummy and crib until streaks of daylight seep through the dusty window of the backroom. Four old mates on a boys’ late night out.
Grabb hasn’t touched a bite, though he’s drinking like a Viking. Disposing of the body has cemented his guilt about the killing. He only cracked the lad with a small rock, no bigger than the palm of his hand. It shouldn’t have killed him. The kid must have had some skull defect or something wrong with his brain.
But Serpens can’t escape it. He’s a killer and it doesn’t sit easy. If he gets caught, it will be the end of his parents. They’re in their eighties, barely mobile, living in sheltered accommodation. They stuck by him when he went to prison. His mother thinks he’s stayed out of trouble since then. Gone straight. Grown up. Become someone they are proud of.
‘Do you want another card or are you going to stick?’
Serpens looks at Musca and throws his hand in. ‘I have to go and get some rest.’ He turns to the other two men. ‘Thanks for this, for the food and everything.’
Musca gets up, follows him to the door. ‘You okay to drive? Do you want me to take you home?’
He shakes his head. ‘I’m fine.’
Something has broken between them. Musca feels it. ‘Why don’t you come back and stay with me for the rest of the day? It might help you.’
‘I’m fine, I told you.’ There’s tension in his voice.
They briefly lock eyes, then Serpens opens the front door and walks out into the cool light of dawn.
Musca follows. ‘Hang on.’
Serpens is past hanging on. He zaps open his Warrior.
Musca halts him with a firm hand on his shoulder. ‘Wait a minute, we really need to—’
The punch Serpens throws is fast. It’s one that’s been in his mind for three months. Borne out of frustration, nurtured by resentment, unleashed with anger. It hits Musca smack in the mouth, sends him staggering backwards and falling on the pavement.
By the time Musca puts a hand to his lips and sees the blood, the Warrior has already spun rubber and gassed exhaust down the street.
Octans and Volans stand in the doorway looking worried. The noise, the altercation. The scene may well have been witnessed. But they’re nowhere near as worried as Musca. He knows Serpens is going to be a problem. A big problem.
69
Chief Constable Alan Hunt likes his desk tidy. A tidy desk is a tidy mind. Always end the day with it clear, no business unsettled. John Rowlands, who is sat opposite him, would say it’s because he came up the modern way. Masters degree in law. Fast-tracked through the ranks. Chairman of the Association of Chief Police Officers. Home Office golden boy with political nous and a financial expertise at stretching budgets.
Sat next to the Chief Super and across from Hunt is the crumpled shape of Deputy Chief Constable Greg Dockery. It’s six a.m. and there is only one piece of outstanding business ruining the otherwise clear slab of beech between the three men: a large blow-up of Caitlyn Lock.
Hunt’s small and tidy hands touch the photo. ‘So where is she, John? Why haven’t we heard anything from whoever has her?’
Rowlands scratches grey stubble peppering his chin. ‘I expect the kidnappers to make contact later today. They seem to be professional. Happy enough to kill the boyfriend to take her. Now they have her, I’m sure they’ll issue a ransom demand.’
‘I agree,’ says Dockery. ‘I would take the silence to mean they’ve been busy. Probably monitoring the situation. Watching how we react to her disappearance. They may well have moved the girl by another vehicle to a safe location.’
Rowlands taps his watch ominously. ‘The first forty-eight applies to kidnapping more than most.’
Dockery sees the Chief frown. The boss’s fast-tracked ascendancy evidently excluded force jargon. ‘John means the first forty-eight hours, sir. Statistically, our chances of solving a major crime – especially kidnapping or murder – are halved if we don’t catch the offender in the first two days.’
Hunt smiles. ‘I only believe in good statistics, Gregory, you should know that.’ There’s polite laughter around the table, then he adds, ‘After I got your call about the Timberland boy, I rang Sebastian Ingram at the Home Office to update him. They’re putting the SAS on standby and want the Yard to send over a team from its Specialist Crime Directorate.’
Dockery knows better than to doubt the wisdom of such a move. Rowlands is less diplomatic. ‘Sir, this is our inquiry. We are more than capable of handling it. I’ve had direct experience of hostage negotiations.’
The Chief tries to placate him. ‘It’s not about ability, John; it’s about political responsibilities and budgets. We are scratching for funds to keep traffic cars on the road. An investigation like this could bleed us dry for the rest of the financial year.’
Dockery tries to sweeten the pill. ‘We’ll make sure you stay involved. Whoever they dump on us. He’s going to have to work every bit as long and hard as you and your team.’
The desk phone rings. They all know a call this early won’t be good news. Hunt takes it and briefly talks to his secretary before being put through to someone important enough to make him sit up straight and grow tense.
After less than a minute, he replaces the phone on its cradle and coolly passes on his news. ‘Gentlemen, Vice President Lock and his ex-wife have just boarded a private jet in New York and will be with us shortly.’
70
Stripped to the waist and barefoot in black tracksuit bottoms, Draco exercises in the purpose-built gym at his lavish country home. The long, mirrored-walls indulge a near-constant checking of the muscles he’s painstakingly crafted. He looks ten, maybe twenty years younger than his actual fifty. Serpens is on his mind. A man he never liked. One he is sure is true to his star name – the snake.
A few metres away, his burner rings. The call he’s been waiting for. The update. He abandons his sixth mile on the treadmill, guns d
own the music channel on a sixty-inch plasma and answers it. ‘Everything go all right?’
‘Not everything.’ Musca sounds tense. ‘We got the job done as planned but our man has fallen ill.’
Draco understands the code. ‘Anything to seriously concern us?’ He picks a white hand towel off a bench and mops sweat from his face.
‘Possibly, yes.’
Draco drops the towel and reaches for a water bottle. ‘Where is he now?’
‘At home.’
‘Check on him. See if he’s feeling any better.’
Musca rubs his jaw, nursing the spot where Serpens punched him. ‘I’ll wait until lunchtime, let him sleep a little, then I’ll go round and have a chat.’
‘Don’t leave it too long.’ Draco thinks on it a second. ‘Best not to take any unnecessary chances at the moment. If he’s really sick, we need to find a cure. A permanent one.’
71
Gideon is almost too exhausted to leave his bed. His mother’s video message and her goodbye secret were the final straw. Grief, insomnia and emotional turmoil are now all taking their toll. First there had been his father’s revelations – the Sacreds, the Followers, the sacrifices. Then cancer. The CLL that killed his mother. Then her private words to him. Arrows in his heart.
He heads downstairs and triggers a nerve-jangling burst of bells. Still in shock, he turns off the alarm system that he’d forgotten he’d set the night before. Heart still pounding, he makes a mug of dark tea and sits by the kitchen window to watch the last of the sunrise.
Briefly, as golden light comes over the trees and flower beds, he forgets the personal horrors in his life. Then, when the tea is gone and the distraction over, the worries come back. Are his genes ticking time-bombs, primed to explode like his mother’s did? Or did the strange childhood baptism his father performed with water from the stones cure him? He remembers the words in the journals: ‘I will willingly give my own blood, my own life. I only hope it is worthy. Worthy enough to change things. To alter the fate that I know awaits my poor, motherless son. I put my trust in the Sacreds, in the bond I make with them, in the clear blood of mine that I pledge to purify that of my child’s.’
