by Carol Wyer
As a PC in the south of England, Matt had once before come across a suicide victim who had killed himself with carbon monoxide using the hose method of attaching one end to his car exhaust, the other through the car window. Matt would never forget the sight. The capillaries in the young man’s face had burst, his eyeballs had popped and his tongue had swollen to twice its normal size. He shuddered at the memory. At least Alan Worth did not look like that.
The driver’s door to the Bentley was open wide. Matt donned plastic gloves, bent in and turned off the engine. Whoever had tried to kill Alan by carbon monoxide poisoning had not done their research. It was largely older cars that emitted sufficient amounts of the odourless gas that could kill quickly. This car had a catalytic converter and produced lower amounts of carbon monoxide than many other vehicles. That, combined with the fact that Alan’s garage was not airtight, had probably saved his life. Matt couldn’t work out how long the man had been in the garage. It was just after nine thirty now. He couldn’t have been in there all night or he’d have been dead.
The paramedics were on their way, sirens blaring. Matt was about to vacate the garage when his eye caught a flash of white under the car. He knelt down, lifted the piece of paper by one corner and read it. His pulse quickened. He had to call Robyn immediately.
Forty-Three
He stood in the shower for the longest time, water cascading over his shoulders, easing the tension in them. He wanted to look his best for her. There were hardly any obstacles between her and him now. Soon they’d be together forever.
He’d waited hours for the scumbag to get in from a night out. Hours and hours in the cold, getting angrier and angrier until he could barely think straight. The drumming in his head had been so overwhelming he almost hadn’t been able to carry out his plan. He smiled at the memory of Alan Worth’s terrified face. He’d disposed of her husband, the dirty rotten lowlife who had benefited from her death. If he had been her husband, he would have fought the owners of Bromley Hall. He would have gone to court and ruined the Bishtons once and for all. Her death had been glossed over – a mere accident – and no one had accepted the consequences. He knew all about consequences; he’d paid his dues for his own misdemeanours.
His mind flipped a couple of decades and he was once again the boy under the bridge where he lived, having run away from his latest set of foster parents…
The large bloke with the neck tattoo gave him a sharp kick. He curled into a tighter ball.
‘You fucking shit. What’ya done with my gear?’
He forced back the tears that threatened to spill from his eyes. The fresh pain in his groin made him want to scream out, but he knew better than to show a bully any sign of weakness. He braved it out.
‘I haven’t got it. I never touched your gear.’
The ugly brute bent over him, showering him with spittle and bad breath. ‘You lying, cheating, fucking…’ He kicked him hard again and again in his chest, his legs and his head. Each blow from the heavy boots dented another part of his body. He imagined he was now full of holes and dents. He saw the fury in the man’s eyes – the eyes of a user desperate for a fix. His mate watched with half-closed eyes, barely interested in the attack.
He heard something unintelligible, after which he received an almighty kick to his kidneys that wiped out all other pain. The bloke wanted him to beg for mercy. He wouldn’t. His life was so shit, so what if it ended here, under the bridge? No one would miss him. There would be no one to cry at his funeral or miss him. He hadn’t heard from Stacey in weeks. She’d probably chosen to forget she had a brother.
He didn’t fight back or kick or curse. He lay on the ground, accepting every kick and punch. He would soon be dead. He raised a mangled face. ‘Go ahead. Kill me. It won’t bring back your gear.’
The man stopped in his tracks. ‘You did take it. I knew it.’
He spat out gobs of blood. His entire body screamed in agony. He had never suffered pain like it. He managed to speak through bruised and bloody lips. ‘Nah, I didn’t. Your mate Raz took it. I saw him.’
The man pulled back. ‘This true?’
Raz shook his head. ‘Nah, bro, I wouldn’t do nuffin’ like that. Kid’s a born liar. He’s got your gear, that’s a fact.’
‘I’m just a kid. I don’t do drugs. You’re asking the wrong person. Ask someone who uses. Now if you’re going to kill me, get on with it.’
A furrow appeared between the bloke’s eyes, followed by a chuckle from his plump lips. ‘You got big balls, little bro, talking to me like that.’
‘They are a bit swollen,’ he replied, grasping his tender groin area with one hand. He spat out more blood. The mood had changed. He was no longer getting kicked. He was going to be let go. He sat upright. Every part of him hurt. His ribs were probably broken. His dragged himself onto his knees and reached forward to push himself up. That was when he felt the smash against the back of his head. For a second he thought his head had been hit clean off. That was before the stars and the agonising, shooting pains. His eyes filled, and tears mingled with blood trickled down his chin and onto his filthy jeans.
‘And that’s for lying about my bro. He didn’t never take none of my stuff. We know you did. You tried to sell it to Big H. but he called me and told me ’bout it. You got one chance now to stay alive. Go get my gear back.’
He hadn’t tried to get the drugs back. He had run. He had run as far away from that bridge as he could, with every fibre and muscle in his shattered body screaming as he ran. He had stumbled and crawled and cried as he tried to make his escape on the towpath, until he couldn’t bear it any more. He had collapsed. The next time he woke up he was in hospital, his foster parents by his bedside. He knew they wouldn’t want him to live with them for much longer and he hadn’t got any energy to care about that.
He rubbed his neck absent-mindedly. The incident had left more than a mark on his memory. He now suffered from incurable occipital neuralgia as the result of the injury. Over the years he had numerous treatments to help rid him of the incapacitating headaches. None had helped. One neurologist injected his neck with steroids and numbing agents, which were so painful he almost passed out. The injections were supposed to block the nerves in the neck and stop the headaches, but the pain returned a few months later and he couldn’t bear any repeat injections. He had tried to live with the pain, but when it materialised, it wiped out every thought, every action and every hope. At times it was so bad he wanted to cut off his head, and many a time he had considered ending it all. That was before Harriet.
His thoughts turned once more to Harriet and Alan, the weak, lily-livered husband who had been too quick to accept money in recompense for losing his wife. He had claimed he wanted justice, then sold out for a mere one and a half million. He had accepted the paltry sum they offered almost with thanks. No amount of money was large enough to compensate for Harriet’s death. The man should have taken them to the cleaners and then made sure their business was razed to the ground so an accident like this could never happen again. All those responsible should now be in jail, he raged.
Alan Worth had found out, to his cost, that money doesn’t bring happiness. He smiled at the memory of stuffing money into his victim’s mouth. Alan owed his wife, big time, and now he had paid that debt. He hoped the man had thought about that as he drew his last breath.
He dry-swallowed a couple of pills, then blew a kiss to his wall where she watched over him. He reflected, with sadness, that money did not bring happiness, nor did it bring back those you love.
Forty-Four
‘I’m sorry, Mr Dawson, it’s for your own safety.’ Following the incident with Alan Worth, she had managed to convince Mulholland that Scott needed protection.
‘How many more officers are you going to require?’ Mulholland had sounded decidedly annoyed on the phone. ‘I don’t have a problem with this as long as you are convinced you have grounds for believing your man is in danger. I have to get it cleared with Jackson
and I want a persuasive argument for extracting officers from duties to babysit members of the public.’
Superintendent Jackson was a corpulent man with raised blood pressure and a temper when riled.
‘I only need one for now. We’re trying to contact Lord Bishton to advise him to change his travel plans. It would be better if he stays away for the time being and doesn’t attend the hunt ball. If he insists on showing up, I might require more.’
It was clear from her tone that Mulholland was not happy, but she agreed to the request and ended the call.
Scott was still in shock. He sat on the desk in his office, palms resting on his thighs. ‘I can’t just leave. If I take any time off, I’ll put my job at risk. I have responsibilities here.’ He paused, taking in the reality of the situation. ‘What about my family – Alex and George? Aren’t they in danger too? They should be taken somewhere safe.’
‘I’m sure management would be understanding.’
‘No, you don’t understand. I’m in line now for a permanent promotion as manager. It’ll make a huge difference to my life if I get the job – no more insecurity and more money. I can’t race off, no matter the reason.’
‘In that case, we’ll ensure there’ll be a police officer outside your door 24/7. You’ll be safe. However, you might feel happier if your wife and son were to leave home for the time being. It’ll be less of a concern for you. How about an impromptu visit to relatives?’
Scott scrubbed at his chin, eyes roaming the office. ‘I’ll call Alex. Even if she agrees to this, I can’t go home.’
‘There’ll be an officer watching at all times. Nothing will happen.’
His eyes settled on Robyn’s and she could see the deep anxiety in them. ‘I can’t go home because I’ve been thrown out. We had a tremendous row yesterday and Alex wants a divorce. I tried to reason with her but she’s having none of it. So, you see, I need this job. I’ll soon have no house and no family. I’m going to have to start my life all over again.’
She thought he was about to cry, but instead he made a snuffling sound and sat up even straighter. ‘I’d planned on staying here until I could sort out more permanent arrangements. There are a few vacant rooms.’
He lost control of his emotions and dropped his head into his hands, anguish visible in all his features, brow furrowed and eyes dampening. ‘It’s a bloody mess,’ he mumbled.
‘At the moment, your safety is our prime concern, Mr Dawson. Which room will you be staying in?’
‘Twelve. It’s on the top floor.’
‘Anna, will you be okay to stay outside that room? Maybe Mr Dawson could organise a comfortable chair for you.’
‘Sure, no problem.’
Scott shuffled off the desk. ‘I’ll sort out a chair.’ He wandered out in a daze, leaving behind the three officers.
‘Thanks, Anna.’
‘Not a problem. I left my dog with my mum for a few days. I figured this case would involve long hours. Dog’s delighted. He gets spoilt rotten there.’
Robyn turned to her colleagues. ‘I’m concerned the killer’s working really quickly – almost a murder a day. I’ve never known anything like it. We are rapidly running out of time. If I’m right about Miles, there’s only one more invoice to be called in. So far he’s murdered Rory, Linda, Jakub and tried to murder Alan. At £250,000 per invoice, he has almost reached the target of a million and a half that Alan Worth got in compensation, so we can assume he’s almost at the end of his killing spree and I am at a loss as to how to catch him.’ She hated the feeling that she was losing the match. The killer had been way ahead of them all the time.
Mitz had been quietly staring at a paper cup of coffee. Eventually he spoke up. ‘I don’t want to rain on your parade, boss, but what if Miles was not one of his targets?’
She levelled her gaze at him. ‘Then I hope I’ve chosen the right two people to protect. I’m waiting to see if and when Lord Bishton turns up. I’ve left messages for him to call the station. So far there’s been nothing. He’s probably already on his way here.’ She rang again. ‘Answerphone,’ she said, glancing at her phone and noticing there were several missed calls.
With a sigh she dialled the answering service, only to pull a face at the first message. David had received a call from journalist Amy Walters who had heard a rumour that Robyn and her team were searching for a serial killer. She was requesting an interview or a quote for the newspaper. The second was from the journalist herself asking for an interview. She deleted the call and listened to the third. It was Ross. She scribbled down his message and pushed the pad across to Mitz.
‘Ross has found this message on a pay-as-you-go phone found in Miles’s possessions. It’s from someone he calls “JJ”. The sender’s phone is also a pay-as-you-go but is turned off. What do you make of the messages?’
Mitz read, ‘“Ten minutes. That’s all I ask. You know where to find me. Meet me there. Okay.” So perhaps Mr Ashbrook had a lover who arranged to meet him prior to his death. Smacks of desperation, like when an affair has been ended. “That’s all I ask.” That sounds like a plea. “You know where to meet me.” They obviously had a special location they use for their clandestine meetings.’
Anna opened her eyes in surprise. ‘Could this person have been involved in his murder?’
‘A text message as ambiguous as this one proves nothing. Besides, Miles was alive when he took the sauna at eleven o’clock and these messages were sent at eight ten.’
‘True. Ah, I’m getting ahead of myself.’
‘The message doesn’t say when to meet. It only says, “You know where to meet me.” They could have met later that night.’
‘I wonder who sent it. Miles Ashbrook didn’t leave the premises that night, did he?’
Mitz shook his head. ‘He was in his office all evening. There are various witnesses to that. DI Shearer’s report showed that Miles was seen eating in the canteen at six thirty and went back to his office after that. One of the housekeepers passed his door at about seven forty-five when she went to the laundry before clocking off. His office light was on until after ten. It could be seen from the Hall entrance, and a receptionist spotted it as she left.’
Anna’s dark brows rose and lowered. ‘Then whoever sent the messages might be an employee or a guest.’
‘Or came here and slipped in the back way and met him.’ Mitz shrugged.
Robyn sighed wearily. ‘There’s not enough to go on, is there? All we know is Miles had a lover. If we could track “JJ” down, I’d like to interview him, although we have more important avenues to explore at the moment. Our killer is out there somewhere. Anna, stick by Scott, by the gym, or his office, wherever he is, and when he retires for the night, wait outside his room. I’ll make sure a relief officer comes and takes over at eleven. Let’s get going, Mitz.’
Outside in the car park, Robyn cast a concerned eye over her colleague. ‘When we get back to the station, go home. You look wrecked.’
‘I’m okay. I was up all night. Couldn’t sleep. It’s a mixture of this case and missing Granny Manju. Somehow I feel I have to solve this case for her. Illogical, but there you are.’
‘She’d be proud of you for just doing a great job. We’ll catch him, don’t you worry.’ She unlocked the car and slipped into the driving seat. ‘You read Shearer’s report?’
He beamed. ‘Cover to cover. That man’s thorough. There were lists of people present at the time of his death and details of their movements. He checked Miles’s mobile and laptop too. There was nothing suspicious in any of it. Everything pointed to an accident.’
‘So you still don’t think Miles was murdered?’
‘I think there’s more to the case than we may have first believed, especially as there was a second phone, and I am banking on my boss being right. I want her to be right.’
She beamed at him. ‘That’s exactly what I need – some confidence in my ability.’
Once in the squad car, she rang Ross.
‘I’m at Watford Gap service station. It’s seven o’clock, the place is stuffed full, and I’ve had to park what feels like a town away from the actual service station.’
‘You’re not breaking your diet and chomping on an all-day breakfast, are you?’
‘I wouldn’t dare. I’m on my way to London, to the Hideaway Hotel. The receptionist won’t give out any information over the phone. I’m going to wheedle it out of her with my charm.’
‘And we both know you have bucketloads of that. If you can find out who Miles spent the night with, it’ll mean I won’t have to play guess who “JJ” is. I don’t suppose you can send me the list of staff that were getting fired that you downloaded from the USB?’
‘Sent it earlier. It should be in your inbox.’
‘You’re a real pro. Cheers for that.’
‘Any time.’
‘I’ll call you later. I’m going to get back on the road now.’
She opened the email and read through the list of employees facing the sack. Some of them had already left, including Jakub’s wife. She noticed the porters Charlie and Dan were down for dismissal, along with several of the beauty salon staff, two kitchen porters, one of the receptionists and, surprisingly, gym manager Scott Dawson. It appeared Scott had not yet been told about the decision to make him redundant. Although now he was overall manager, he was less likely to be fired. He still had the appearance of a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders.
She gathered her paperwork together and began by writing the names of staff who might have come into contact with Harriet Worth. She would interview them in the morning. She couldn’t afford any errors. She had to eliminate them all from her enquiries.
