Alan Jennings hung up the telephone and dialed another number - Arnold’s mobile number. It rang for a while and then stopped. Arnold didn’t appear to have an answering service.
“Where is he?” Alan said to his brother Brian. “What does he think he’s playing at? We’ve got a load of work to catch up on after the balls up last week.”
“Maybe he’s sick,” Brian suggested.
“Arnold doesn’t get sick, he’s a robot. Besides, he’d phone in if he was sick.”
“What are we going to do then?”
“We can’t just wait for him to turn up, we’ve got fifteen trucks to get out this morning. We’ll have to handle it ourselves like we used to in the old days.”
“Damn it,” Brian said. “Do you realise how much work that involves?”
“It can’t be helped,” Alan said.
“He’d better have a good excuse, or he’s in for a right bollocking when he gets back.”
By half past two that afternoon, the Jennings brothers were not the only ones who were concerned about Arnold’s whereabouts. Ted Turner, the barman from the Fox Inn had known Arnold for five years. At two on the dot, everyday from Monday to Friday, Arnold had walked through the door of the pub. He always ordered a pint of best bitter and made his way to the table in the corner. Ted could set his watch by him.
“Where’s Arnold?” Vernon Simmons asked Ted.
Vernon was the landlord at the Fox Inn.
“He hasn’t been in for a while,” Ted said. “The snow probably kept him at home but it’s all melted now. I was sure he’s show his face today. I wonder where he is.”
“This is very strange,” Vernon said. “I’ve never met such a creature of habit before.”
“Maybe he’s found himself another local,” Ted suggested.
“Never. People like Arnold never change. They hate change. Go and check on him. You know where he lives don’t you?”
“Of course I do, across the road from the bakery. What about the bar?”
“I’m sure I can manage for twenty minutes or so. Go and see if he’s alright. He might have had a fall or something.”
“He’s only forty, its old people who fall over and can’t get up.”
“Just check on him. It’ll take you half an hour at the most.”
Ted reached the bakery and crossed the road to Arnold’s house. The curtains were open upstairs and downstairs and nothing appeared to be amiss.
Maybe he had to work overtime, Ted thought, that’s what it is. He had to work overtime to catch up on the lost business caused by the snow.
He knocked on the door and waited.
This is ridiculous, he thought, any minute now Arnold will park his car outside and wonder why I’m bothering him just because he didn’t show up at the pub.
Ted knocked again. He could hear no noise from inside the house. He was about to walk away when he realised that Vernon would probably only send him back to check if Arnold had not hurt himself inside the house.
“This isn’t part of my job,” he said to himself.
He tried the door handle. The door was unlocked.
Maybe he’s sick, he thought, he’s asleep in bed. He won’t thank me for waking him up.
There was a strange smell inside the house - a sharp, acrid smell. It seemed to be coming from the kitchen. It smelled like burnt coffee. Ted went inside and closed the door behind him. He went through to the kitchen and discovered the source of the strange odour. The coffee percolator next to the microwave had been left on, the water had boiled dry and the coffee beans had burned to a crisp. Ted switched the machine off.
“Arnold,” he shouted.
He realised that his voice was trembling. An uneasy feeling swept through him. Arnold Mather wasn’t the kind of person who would let a coffee percolator burn dry.
“Arnold,” Ted shouted again.
He checked the living room. It was spotlessly clean. Arnold was nowhere to be seen.
Ted climbed the stairs.
“Arnold,” he shouted.
He felt like an intruder. He was invading another man’s territory. He checked the bathroom and the spare room. There was no sign of Arnold. The door to the bedroom at the front of the house was closed. Ted turned the handle and went inside. The curtains were open and the room was incredibly warm. A foul smell had filled the room. It smelled like an animal had died in there. Arnold Mather was lying on the bed under the covers. He was lying on his side facing an old sideboard.
“Arnold,” Ted said. “It’s Ted. From The Fox Inn. I just came to see if you’re alright.”
The figure in the bed didn’t stir.
“Arnold,” Ted moved closer.
He noticed a crumpled up handkerchief on the sideboard. He turned Arnold’s head towards him and screamed. He’d never screamed before. Arnold Mather’s face was a bluish black colour and there was a gaping hole in his throat.
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
Baldwin took the call ten minutes later. Ted Turner had raced down the stairs and made it to the Fox Inn in less than two minutes. It had taken a while for Vernon Simmons to figure out what Ted was babbling about. It was Vernon who made the call.
“Could you say that again please,” Baldwin said.
“There’s a dead body,” Vernon said. “Arnold Mather. He’s dead.”
“Where are you calling from?”
“The Fox Inn.”
“There’s a dead body at the pub?”
“No,” Vernon said. “Around the corner on Gibb Street. Opposite the bakery. Number eighteen. One of my barmen found the body.”
Twenty minutes later, two police cars, Smith’s Ford Sierra and Thompson’s new Mercedes were parked outside Arnold Mather’s house. Webber and Brownhill arrived minutes later in Brownhill’s old Citroen. Webber got out of the car and walked over to Smith.
“What’s going on?” He said.
“Dead body,” Smith said. “Apparently.”
“Apparently?”
“The barman from the Fox Inn found him,” Smith said. “Arnold Mather.”
“The barman?’
“The dead guy. It seems he had his throat cut open. We haven’t had a look inside yet.”
“Good,” Webber said. “For once I may actually have the luxury of a virgin crime scene.”
“Apart from what the barman left in there,” Smith said.
Webber ignored him and walked towards the house.
“You’re not allowed in there,” an officer in uniform said. “Possible crime scene. You could contaminate any evidence we might find.”
It was PC Jarvis.
“Get out of my way,” Webber was in no mood for an argument.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” Jarvis stood right in front of Webber. “Nobody’s allowed inside. Now move along please and let us do our work.”
“Jarvis,” a loud voice was heard behind them.
It was Brownhill.
“Let Webber through,” she said.
“Who’s he?”
“Grant Webber,” Brownhill said. “Head of forensics and definitely not somebody you want to be on the wrong side of and in case you haven’t forgotten, I am a detective inspector. Address me appropriately.”
“Sorry Ma’am,” Jarvis stood aside and let Webber enter the house. “But you can’t be too careful can you? He could have been some wacko who just wanted to look at the stiff. How was I to know who he was?’
Brownhill was about to say something but she knew it would be a waste of time with PC Jarvis.
“Jarvis,” she said. “You can go now. We’ll take it from here.”
“Who’s going to guard the door?”
“Get back to what you were doing before.”
DS Thompson got out of the car and walked up to Smith.
“Do you still work for the police?” Smith said. “That must be some cold you’ve got.”
“I feel terrible, I’ve never felt so sick in my life before.”
“Have you seen
a doctor?”
“I don’t trust doctors,” Thompson said. “They’re just glorified drug dispensers. They fob you off with a bunch of pills and hope for the best. What happened here?”
“The barman from the pub round the corner found a dead body in there,” Smith pointed to the house. “Arnold Mather. Webber is up there now. He doesn’t like to be disturbed.”
“Where’s Whitton?”
“How should I know?” Smith said rather too quickly. “I’m not her keeper.”
“So, it’s finally happened.”
“What?”
“The inevitable,” Thompson said. “I might be getting on a bit but I’m not senile yet. I’ve seen the signs before. It’ll only end badly you know.”
“I’m going to have a look inside.”
Webber was placing a white handkerchief inside a plastic evidence bag when Smith entered the room. He didn’t say a word. After all the years he had worked with Smith, Smith’s presence was to be expected by now.
“Not a pretty sight,” Webber pointed to the body in the bed.
“Why’s it so hot in here?”
“That’s going to cause a few problems. The central heating was turned right up. That, together with the fact that he was wrapped in a winter duvet is going to cause havoc with the time of death.”
“Shit,” Smith looked closely at the dead man in the bed. His face was bloated and greyish blue. The wound in his throat already had maggots wriggling around inside it.
“Amazing isn’t it?” Webber said. “A fly can find a dead body from a mile away. Nature’s clean up service at its finest.”
“Thanks, Webber, I know you’re not one to speculate…”
“This time I think I can be pretty certain, the answers to your questions are yes and yes.”
“Yes and yes?”
“Yes, I do believe the wound in the man’s neck was caused by the same knife that was used on Christopher Riley,” Webber said. “And yes, I have a strong suspicion that chloroform was also used. You’ve got your wish at last.”
“My wish?”
“Bryony and I do talk occasionally,” Webber said. “It’s not all physical.”
Smith cringed at the thought.
“She said you almost wished for another body,” Webber elaborated. “To give you more to go on. Well. Your wish has been granted.”
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
LUZHANY, UKRAINE
Sunday 1 September 1991
Ivor and Zlata were buried two days later in a small plot next to the river. The whole village turned up for the funeral. After a short but very emotional service, the villagers headed towards the village square to share in a farewell toast. Selene stayed behind and stared at the fresh graves.
“This is all my fault,” she said to Luka. “They died because they were protecting me. It’s all my fault. I should never have come here. I have to go. More people will die if I stay here.”
“Ivor and Zlata did what any one of us would have done. I would have done the same. I’ll protect you now.”
“No,” Selene turned and ran off in the direction of the river.
Luka chased after her. He had to run as fast as he could just to keep up.
Luka caught up to Selene by a copse of trees further downstream. She was sitting with her head in her hands. She was shaking uncontrollably.
“Selene,” Luka put his hand on her shoulder. “It’s alright.”
Selene looked up at him. Her eyes seemed different - there was a fire there that Luka had never seen before. It scared him; he would never forget that look in her eyes.
“It’s going to be alright,” he looked away.
“I have to go. Nobody is safe while I’m here.”
“Then I’ll come with you. I’ll be eighteen soon. I was going to leave soon anyway. We can go to England together. Meet me at this spot just before nightfall and we’ll go together.”
He turned and walked away before Selene had a chance to argue.
Selene stayed by the river for quite some time. She watched it as it flowed slowly over the rocks down through the valley.
This river has been here for hundreds of years, she thought, and it will be here long after I’m gone. Nobody will miss me if I leave, least of all the river.
She stood up and looked around her. The small village of Luzhany was roughly half a mile to the south.
I’ll head north then, she thought, I’ll go as far north as I can. Luka will have to understand - he cannot be found with me.
She considered going back to the village to collect what little belongings she had collected over the short space of time she had been there but quickly changed her mind.
I’m not welcome there any more, she thought.
Besides, she might bump into Luka and he would no doubt try and persuade her to wait for him.
Selene looked up at the sky. The sun was high now. She knew it would peak and then descend behind the mountains far away to the west. She set off north-west and hoped that if she kept the Carpathian Mountains to her left she could somehow make it to central Europe. She didn’t know exactly where she was going but she was determined to keep going at all costs.
Darkness fell and Selene felt exhausted and extremely hungry. She had managed to find water along the way from becks and streams but her stomach was growling. She needed to find food soon. She hadn’t eaten anything since the previous night and then she had been interrupted by Ivor before she could finish.
Ivor, she thought, the friendly priest, and kind old Zlata. They’d shown her nothing but kindness and what had they received in return?
Selene didn’t know how far she had walked or where she was but she knew she would have to sleep soon - she couldn’t carry on much longer. She selected a spot beneath a cluster of elm trees. The stars were showing their faces one by one and Selene knew it wouldn’t rain. She sat down against one of the trees and closed her eyes. Everything was quiet. There was no wind and the trees were still. She drifted off to sleep within minutes.
Selene woke suddenly. A strange noise had jolted her out of a dreamless sleep. The sound was something that shouldn’t be heard out there in the fields. She sat up and looked around. It was starting to get light and the birds were already making their plans for the day. Selene held her breath and listened.
Where had the strange noise come from? She thought.
She heard footsteps - they were getting closer and closer. She looked around but she couldn’t see anything. Then she heard voices. She couldn’t make out the words that were being spoken - the language the people were speaking wasn’t Russian and it was definitely not Romanian. The voices were getting louder and then a man and a woman emerged from the trees. They stopped dead when they spotted Selene.
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
YORK
Monday 24 January 2011
Arnold Mather’s body was taken away in an ambulance just as the sun was setting over the city of York. His body was in such an advanced state of decomposition that Webber had decided it was better to leave it wrapped inside the duvet from the bed. Webber still had the image of Arnold in his mind. Wrapped inside a warm duvet with his throat slashed open. Webber had photographed the body but he knew he’d probably not need the photos.
“What are you mulling over in that depraved mind of yours?” Smith said.
“This is all very strange,” Webber said.
“When is a murder anything else? To us rational folk that is.”
“It looks like the poor bastard was doped up with chloroform first, then he had his throat sliced open.”
“What’s so strange about that? It makes perfect sense to me. Knock the guy out and then slit his throat. No struggle.”
“But why wrap him warmly in a duvet afterwards? It’s freaking me out. It’s almost as if he was tucked in afterwards.”
“Murderers are funny creatures. Logic seems to elude them. Have you found anything useful?”
“Not much,” Webber said. “No sign of a
struggle. Plenty of blood but like the Christopher Riley murder, most of it had been soaked up by the sheets. I’d say he was also killed on the bed.”
“Same killer then?”
“I’m ninety nine percent certain,” Webber said.
“Seventy five percent would have been good enough for me.”
“I’ll know more when the path guys have managed to peel the duvet off him. I wouldn’t like to be them - I’ve got a nasty feeling they’re going to find half of Arnold Mather stuck to the duvet when they do.”
“Thanks Webber, I’ve just lost my appetite for the rest of the week. Did you find any prints?”
“A few. As I said, we’ll know more later. You know the score - we spend half our time waiting around for other people to do their jobs. These two murders have left a nasty taste in my mouth. Two sad, lonely men killed in their beds. It doesn’t make sense.”
“You’re getting soft in your old age,” Smith said. “We live in a sick world. I’m going for a smoke. I need to get the stench of death out of my nostrils.”
He walked towards the door, stopped and turned round.
“The central heating,” he said. “It’s bloody hot in here.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The central heating - it’s expensive to run these days. Nobody leaves it running on full blast the whole time; they use a timer so it’s only on when they’re home.”
“What’s your point?”
“I don’t believe Arnold Mather left his heating on full,” Smith said. “And I suggest you find out where the thermostat and timer are located and dust them for prints.”
Selene: A disturbing DS Jason Smith thriller (A DS Jason Smith Thriller Book 6) Page 10
