Secrets of the Dead: A serial killer thriller that will have you hooked (Detective Robyn Carter crime thriller series Book 2)

by Carol Wyer

  Twenty-One

  Mitz took the call from journalist Amy Walters.

  ‘I wondered if you could give out any details about the murder of Linda Upton?’ she said smoothly. ‘DI Carter was seen at the scene of the crime, which begs the question, is it linked to the murder of the barman in Lichfield, Rory Wallis, four days ago?’

  Mitz growled ‘No comment’ and slammed the phone down. ‘How did she get through?’ he asked Anna.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Nosy Walters, the journalist for the Lichfield Times.’

  ‘Talk to reception ’bout it. They’re not supposed to redirect journalists’ calls to us. She must have blagged her way through. You’d better warn the guv. She won’t be pleased.’

  Mitz strode past her desk and leant against the door jamb, a cup of coffee in his hand. His brow was furrowed in concentration. It had been a long few days and the briefing earlier had been disappointing. They had not come any closer to establishing a link between Rory Wallis and Linda Upton, nor had they any leads on who might have committed the heinous acts.

  The office was empty apart from Mitz and Anna, who was reading through statements relating to the Linda Upton case. Heaving a deep sigh she said, ‘I can’t believe that nobody spotted a stranger in the area. It’s a village, and I thought people in small villages always knew what was going on. They’re usually tight communities, aren’t they?’

  ‘Times have changed. Villages like Kings Bromley are now filled with people who used to live in cities like Birmingham. Some don’t even know who their neighbour is. Gone are the days when they all used to hang out at the village hall for community events and knew the moment there was a birth or death.’

  ‘It’s almost unbelievable. We have two murders and no one saw a thing. They didn’t notice a strange car. That can’t be possible. I always spot if someone parks in our “owners only” car park.’

  ‘That’s because you’re an observant police officer,’ replied Mitz with a grin.

  Anna ignored his comment, lost in thought for the moment. ‘There must have been people walking their dogs, or coming back from school having dropped off their kids, or driving by or catching a bus…’ She stopped mid-sentence. ‘Buses,’ she repeated, slowly. ‘I need a bus timetable.’ She leapt across to the computer and bent over it, typing furiously. Mitz joined her. She pulled up the bus routes and read through them.

  ‘There aren’t many services through the village. There’s a bus to Burton-upon-Trent at seven forty-five in the morning, another at midday and two in the afternoon. There are buses going to Lichfield at seven ten, another at ten fifteen, and two much later in the day. What if our perp arrived or left on a bus, and was seen at the bus stop in the village? How far away from Linda’s house is the bus stop?’

  ‘It’s near the crossroads on the A513 and her house is in the other direction, off the A515. It’s not far. It’s about five minutes from her road.’

  ‘I know it sounds crazy, but we ought to take a look at it and maybe even speak to the bus depot. Many of the passengers on these local routes are regulars. There could be a chance a driver recognised a new face.’

  Mitz patted her on the shoulder, a warm gesture. ‘Good work. I wouldn’t have thought of that. Fancy going to check it out?’

  Anna scraped back her chair. ‘You bet.’

  Robyn was with Mulholland in her office. Shearer had been gracious for once and had handed over his findings from Linda Upton’s house without hesitation. ‘Good luck,’ he had said. ‘Not that you’ll need it. You’ll find whoever is doing this.’ She reserved judgement. Shearer was not normally this accommodating, nor was he one to mellow with age.

  It was too warm in the office. She was feeling uncomfortable and wanted to get back to work, not hang around. She hated wasting time, and every minute in front of Mulholland was a wasted one. She’d rather be with her officers.

  Mulholland crossed her legs and tapped the Rory Wallis file with her finger. ‘Not much progress then, DI Carter?’

  She stared at the photograph of PC Louisa Mulholland receiving a medal for bravery. She was twenty years younger in the photograph, petite and almost frail. Little would anyone imagine she would go on to be the chief inspector of a busy station. Mulholland had faced many challenges in her life, including being widowed at an early age, but she continually threw herself into work and was obsessive about results and catching criminals. It dawned on Robyn that there was hardly any difference between them. Work had become their lives and their driving force. It was what made them get up each day and what occupied their thoughts. She understood the tone in Louisa’s voice – it was impatience mingled with hope. She knew Mulholland was counting on the famous gut instinct she was renowned for, although on this occasion the familiar voices that guided her remained silent.

  ‘I’ll admit that, right now, I’m at a loss. I’ve got my officers going back through statements and tracking down anyone who might have been in town the night Rory Wallis was murdered. We’ve spoken to all the off-licences in the vicinity and even the large supermarkets at the top of Green Hill Road to see if anyone recalled a man buying a bottle of Moët & Chandon. We’ve interviewed every possible person who was in Lichfield that night. Similarly, we’ve interviewed all the residents in Linda Upton’s street and along the main road in the hope they spotted a stranger’s vehicle or unusual activity. Anna’s been through mobiles and laptops, from both victims, trying to establish if there was any communication between the pair, and searching for anything that might help us. Matt’s tracing the owners of the vehicles that were in the car park at about the time Rory Wallis was murdered. The television reconstruction we set up at the Happy Pig didn’t herald any useful leads and we wasted manpower chasing up every call we received.’

  Louisa Mulholland shook her head at this news. ‘I’m not sure how much longer I can keep a lid on what’s happening. The press are baying for information, and I don’t want to have to admit the two cases are linked at this stage. Amy Walters from the local paper has called twice today. Each time I told her I was not willing to talk to her, or to any member of the press. People will get very nervous if they believe there’s a serial killer out there. Tell me you have something, anything, so I can throw them a crumb to keep them appeased.’

  The room felt stuffy, even though it was November and cold outside. Robyn suddenly had the urge to get some air. She needed some space. Everything was happening too quickly, and the killer wasn’t giving away anything to help them find him. She felt a prickle on the back of her neck. That was it; the killer was working quickly. There were only three days between murders. This debt he felt people owed was now due, and he wasn’t wasting time in killing those people who owed it. She had to work out what it was that he valued at £250,000 per death. She licked her lips and pressed them together. ‘Give me twenty-four hours and I’ll have something.’

  Mulholland stared hard at her. She picked up the files and passed them over. ‘Twenty-four hours and that’s all. We need to be seen to be on top of this. If you can’t bring me anything, I’m handing the case over to DI Shearer.’

  Back in the office, Robyn slammed the files onto her desk. Her twenty-four hours had begun. She hoped she hadn’t taken on too great a challenge. If so, she would have handed her case and any chance of promotion over to Shearer.

  Twenty-Two

  She ran towards him, her face glowing, arms outstretched. He waited by their bench; the place where they had first sat and chatted. It had been another cold day and he had already walked the dog around Stowe Pool four times in the hope of seeing her. He was beginning to feel a familiar drumming in his temple which heralded one of his headaches. If she didn’t turn up soon, he’d get the red mist. Stacey had been surprised and suspicious when he offered to walk the dog. Ordinarily he couldn’t be bothered with the stupid animal. Stacey cheesed him off with her silly girlie voice and the way she hugged the animal, calling it ‘baby’ all the time. Although she was slightly wary of his motiv
es in taking it out, she let him, grateful for some respite from him.

  He dragged the dog – a white, West Highland terrier – down to the pool, impatient to see her again. The dog trotted eagerly by his side, small pink tongue out. He was ambivalent to the creature but today he needed it to play its part in attracting her attention. He dragged on a cigarette to calm his nerves as he stood by the bench. Alfie the Westie sniffed about the grass and pulled on the lead. He was fascinated by the ducks that waddled near the water’s edge, their green and blue feathers glossy in the morning sunlight. He was banking on Alfie.

  Suddenly she appeared from the direction of the cathedral as she always did, and turning right, began to run around the pool. She would not have spotted him yet. She would round the boathouse and pass the playground before she would have him in her sights. Timing was everything. He opened the plastic bag of bread he had prepared earlier and threw the crusts to the ducks. With frantic quacking, they waddled towards the food, pecking and quacking in excitement. Their noise alerted more ducks, who flew and skidded along the water, wings flapping wildly in their haste to join the others feeding. He counted silently. He knew how long it would take her. He had watched her many times. Thirty-five – she would have passed the boathouse now. Forty-four. She’d be running past the playground and be only ten paces from rounding the bend and spotting him. He bent down and unclipped an excited Alfie, who had been tugging at his lead to reach the ducks, and whispered excitedly, ‘Ducks, Alfie. Fetch!’ Alfie raced off yapping and scattered the ducks. There was a cacophony of noise with Alfie, in his element, racing about and ducks quacking. He called out, ‘Alfie, come here!’ The dog ignored him. The ducks were now obstructing the path and she was forced to slow to a halt. He gave her an apologetic smile. ‘I’m so sorry. I don’t know how he got off his lead. He’s normally so good.’ He called the dog again, shaking a bag of dog treats at it. It ceased its game and raced back to him, sitting obediently and holding a paw up to shake hands. It was one of the tricks Stacey had taught him.

  He gave Alfie a treat. The woman smiled at the dog, who held up the other front paw.

  ‘He doesn’t really deserve a treat for chasing ducks,’ he said. ‘He’s so cute, though, I can’t refuse him. Want to see him do naughty dog?’

  ‘Go on.’ Amusement sparkled in her eyes.

  ‘Alfie, you naughty dog.’

  Alfie dropped to the ground, eyebrows waggling, and covered his eyes with his paws. She burst out laughing. ‘Oh, that is adorable.’

  They got talking and she sat on the bench beside him. She told him about the dog she’d owned when she was a girl. He let her give Alfie treats in exchange for tricks. His heart hammered in his chest as he caught a waft of her perfume, a mixture of floral scents. He gazed into her soft grey eyes and had a strong urge to stroke her perfect face with its neat nose and beautiful bow-shaped lips. Never had he wanted someone so much. After a while she moved off, waving as she left him on the bench. He floated back home and for once he didn’t feel the urge to kick Alfie when they got there.

  Now she ran towards him again, her arms open wide, eager to hold him. He reached for her, desperate to envelop her in an embrace. She seemed so alive. He understood why, and why she appeared to be so happy. It was because of him. It was because he was settling the debt at last, a debt that had to be paid in full. Once it was, they would be together again. She was so close he could almost touch her hands. His heart flipped with joy.

  The sound of an ambulance siren woke him with a start and he lay there, numb. It had felt so real. How could it have only been a dream? He refused to believe it was only his imagination; it was a sign from her. She wanted him to continue, and he would. He wouldn’t stop until the debt had been erased.

  His mouth was dry. He trundled to the bathroom and popped two pills. They were becoming less effective these days. He’d need a couple before he could show up at work. His job served a purpose. He didn’t enjoy it. However, it was all part of the big picture. He closed his eyes and thought about her bright smile, how much brighter it would be if he succeeded in pulling in another debt. He hadn’t planned on working through them so quickly, but now he wanted to be with her more than ever. He opened his eyes and saw what his work colleagues saw every day – a grey man, a man to whom no one gave a second glance. Yes, it would be easy to wipe off another part of the debt. Tomorrow was Wednesday. He would do it tomorrow.

  Twenty-Three

  Robyn pounded the street. The cold rush of the air soothed her mind and the rhythmic motion of running helped her collect her thoughts. After leaving Mulholland’s office she pulled on the running kit she always kept in her locker and headed out. A run would be better for her than lunch.

  She ran directly to Victoria Park, a pleasant, award-winning park in the centre of Stafford. She chose the entrance nearest the large aviary, which was filled with many different birds, including peacocks and gloriously coloured budgerigars.

  She ran faster to shake the ache she was beginning to feel in her chest. She often felt that way when a memory of Davies sideswiped her. She focused on the killer. Two hundred and fifty thousand pounds was a very specific amount. Had he lost some sort of lawsuit? Had he suffered an injury and made a claim? If he had, how would that be linked to Rory Wallis and Linda Upton? That needed checking. She made another mental note to add to her growing list. Her mobile buzzed in her pocket and she stopped beside a group of bare-branched trees to take the call. The morning frost had cleared, although under the trees a white carpet twinkled at her as she held the phone to her ear. It was Tricia.

  ‘Sorry, I know I shouldn’t pester you when you’re working. I was hoping for news about Miles. I’ve been going over it and over it and I am more certain than ever that he did not decide to take a sauna that night.’

  Robyn felt guilty that she couldn’t devote more time to Miles Ashbrook, although she’d done the next best thing by asking Ross to look into it.

  ‘I’m not able to look into myself, so I have an undercover detective working on the scene.’ There was no need to tell her it was a private investigator not actually associated with the force. ‘As soon as I hear anything at all, I’ll let you know.’

  Tricia sounded tearful. She sniffed. ‘Thanks. I’m at his mum’s house. We’re sorting out funeral arrangements. There’s a service next Wednesday at his local church. This has brought back so many memories of my brother Mark. Miles’s mum is in bits. She can’t understand why her son went into the sauna any more than I can. I’m going to sit down with her later and go through his personal possessions that were sent from Bromley Hall. She doesn’t want to look at them on her own. I hoped maybe you had found something that would help us gain some closure on Miles. At the moment, we can’t reconcile ourselves with the fact he’s gone.’

  Robyn understood the emotion behind her words. Burying someone was only the beginning. It took so much time to come to terms with the fact that the person was never coming back. Ross would call as soon as he had something. The fact he hadn’t yet didn’t bode well. Tricia might have to let go of her belief that Miles was murdered.

  ‘If there’s anything that is remotely suspicious, we’ll jump on it and I’ll call you. Please send my condolences to Miles’s mother. We will do our utmost.’

  She ended the call and began running again. A mother and a small child were throwing bread for the ducks that swam on the River Sow which ran through the park. She concentrated on the evidence she had. Rory Wallis had been alone in the pub when he had drunk a bottle of champagne and then had his throat cut. Linda Upton had not drunk anything; the toxicology report had been negative on drink and drugs. She had been drowned in her bath, at some point during the morning between 9 a.m. and 12 noon. The slap, slap, slap of her feet on the concrete path as she ran around the park circuit again calmed her mind and she found herself in the zone where this became a puzzle she could work out. She only needed one piece to guide her on her way. A flicker of enlightenment came a few minutes later
, accompanied by a crawling sensation in her scalp, only to be extinguished almost immediately. The killer had removed Linda’s clothes, although not her underwear. Why had he not stripped her completely, or left all her clothes on? Similarly, it was unlikely Wallis would drink a glass of champagne, let alone a bottle. The man was teetotal. This had to be significant. The answer was still beyond her reach. There was a pattern of sorts, if only she could see it and fathom out what it meant.

  Twenty-Four

  The heady perfume from the scented candle and the background soundtrack of a rainforest had almost sent Ross into a heavy slumber, coupled as it was with a deeply relaxing massage. Lorna, the woman currently working the knots from his shoulders had, in his opinion, magic fingers – firm, strong and able to locate every tight muscle, pummelling it into submission until it felt warm and relaxed. Up until now he had almost forgotten why he was at the spa.

  ‘Would you mind turning over?’ she asked quietly.

  He obliged, and now facing upwards, it was easier to talk to her.

  ‘Have you worked here long?’