‘Let’s hope we don’t.’
Henry had been taken away to the police station for questioning. He hadn’t yet been charged but it was beginning to look as though that was only a matter of time. Meanwhile, it wouldn’t harm to let him sweat in a cell for a while. His son was at home when they arrived. He looked stressed.
‘Are you in charge here?’ he demanded in a thin high voice, ‘because whoever I speak to just says they’re following orders and there’s nothing they can do. But someone must be in charge. Is it you?’
Ian nodded and the young man stepped forward, shaking with pent- up fury.
‘Well, perhaps you can tell me what’s going on. As soon as I got home they were here. They must have been waiting for me. I opened the door and all these policemen rushed in. They’re running around all over the place. This can’t be legal. I’d like you all to leave right now or I’ll – I’ll call a lawyer and have you thrown out. This isn’t a police state, you know. You can’t just march in here and behave like you own the place. Just take all your policemen and get out of our house. And let my father come home. He’s done nothing wrong,’ he concluded petulantly.
Calmly Ian explained that they had a warrant to search the house. Without disclosing any details he said that another body had been found. The young man flicked his fringe back off his face and stared at Ian, wide-eyed and listening intently, as he explained that a second woman had been murdered and they had reason to suspect she too might be connected to Henry. Mark’s eyes shone with unshed tears and he shook his head in disbelief. For a few seconds he appeared too upset to speak. Ian felt sorry for him. The young man had just lost his mother and now his father was being accused of murder.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘we’re just doing our job. Best let us get on with it.’
Mark nodded and asked what they were expecting to find.
‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, sir.’
Leaving the distraught young man in the living room with a constable, Ian put on protective clothing before going upstairs. The search team had been instructed to hunt for a knife with a blade bent out of shape, bloodstained clothing, and a ball of green garden twine. Ian wasn’t so clear about what he was looking for. He just wanted to take a look around and get the feel of the house, and its residents. First he went into a large square main bedroom furnished with two single beds, fitted wardrobes, an iron fireplace that was probably decorative rather than functional, and a wide bay window that looked out over the back garden. The curtains and carpet were grey, the cupboards and bed covers white. He noted the absence of a mirror, or any pictures. It was a cold room. He could have been standing in a hospital ward, it was so impersonal. He thought of his own bedroom, decorated in lilac and white, with patterned duvet cover on the double bed, and his discarded clothes strewn around the room despite all Bev’s protests.
‘It’s not a bloody show house,’ he would complain when she nagged him about being untidy.
The fitted wardrobe was half empty and contained only men’s clothes, apart from one section where a woman’s winter coat hung from the rail.
A uniformed officer was looking in the cabinet in the en suite bathroom. He looked round when Ian entered, and shook his head.
‘Nothing here,’ he said.
He nodded at two shelves, the top one containing shaving accoutrements, toothpaste and athletes foot powder, the bottom one hand cream and various pots of moisturising lotions, female deodorant and a bottle of Vitamin C tablets. There were two toothbrush mugs on the sink, two tubes of toothpaste, and two sets of towels were neatly folded on a wide window ledge, one white, the other blue.
‘We’ll send this away, anyway,’ the SOCO said, picking up the container of powder. ‘Just in case it’s not what it says on the label.’
Ian grunted in agreement but they both knew it wasn’t likely to be of much interest since they were investigating a stabbing and a strangling.
The second bedroom on the first floor clearly belonged to Martha’s son. An officer was sifting through the wardrobe, checking in jacket and trouser pockets, and beneath piles of vests and pants. He too glanced up at Ian and shook his head. Beside the bed there was a photograph of Martha, smiling complacently into the camera. Mark had probably taken the photograph himself. Ian wondered if he always slept with her picture at his bedside, or if he had put it there after she was killed. He had clearly been close to his mother. There were no pictures of her in her own room, the one she shared with Henry. The second bathroom was large and clean. There was no one in there when Ian peered inside, but it would doubtless be scrutinised during the course of the search.
There were three more large bedrooms on that floor, two of which were empty, and another four rooms in the converted loft. The last room Ian looked at on the first floor was decorated in pale pink and white. A single bed stood against one wall. On a small chest beside it were a lamp and a bible. A grey night gown was folded on the pillow. Ian gazed around the room where the dead woman had evidently slept. There was an air of tranquillity in that room that was lacking in the rest of the house. He wondered if she had been at peace in there, alone with her Bible. The room had not yet been searched. He was about to leave for the station to question Henry, but decided to spend a few minutes in Martha’s room first. He wanted to try and picture what her life must have been like, sleeping apart from her husband. He opened the drawers of the bedside chest and searched through them. At the back of the bottom drawer was a small black leather jewellery box. He took it out and opened it. A small silver cross lay inside. Carefully he lifted out the lining of the box and found a key carefully concealed in the folds of silky fabric. If Henry had considered this a good hiding place, he had miscalculated. Ian slipped the key in his pocket.
Before he left, he felt around under the bed covers. Stooping to peer beneath the bed, he lifted a rug and was surprised to see the carpet at the side of the bed worn almost threadbare in two small patches just a few inches apart. He hurried back into the main bedroom to call a forensic officer to examine it, and remove a sample for examination. It looked as though a stain had been rubbed away, taking most of the carpet fibre with it.
‘If there’s a trace of her blood there,’ Ian said to Polly, ‘that could be all we need.’
‘It won’t prove he killed her,’ she pointed out. ‘There could be all sorts of reasons why she bled in there.’
Ian shook his head.
‘She was fifty-three. Her medical records will confirm it, but she must have been past her menopause, and there were no signs of any cuts or abrasions on the body –’
‘Apart from the one that killed her,’ Polly added.
There was little that Ian and Polly could do but watch the uniformed team going about their systematic search. It was frustrating, but they couldn’t afford to hang around for long. Searching the whole property could take days, and they needed to get back to the station to question Henry. He couldn’t be held for more than twenty-four hours without charge, and for that they needed evidence of his guilt. Ian hoped it would be enough to tell Henry what was happening at his home. Of course it was possible the murder weapons had been concealed somewhere else. Perhaps the key Ian had found would lead them to the hiding place.
‘Let’s hope they find the evidence soon,’ he said.
‘You think he did it then?’ Polly asked. ‘What made you change your mind?’
‘I’m still not convinced he’s responsible,’ Ian replied. ‘I’m only saying that it would be great to get this case sewn up.’
‘Before any more bodies are discovered,’ Polly added.
40
POLLY COULDN’T HIDE HER excitement when Ian told her about the key he had found.
‘Don’t you see,’ she said, ‘we can’t find a murder weapon, or any traces of blood on Henry Martin’s clothes, or in his wardrobe, and there’s nothing in his bins. If he’s guilty, he must have disposed of the weapon and the clothes he was wearing. They must be somewhere.’ She
held up the small bag containing the key he had found. ‘This could be the key to the place where he’s stashed the evidence. It could be that simple. All we have to do is find out what the key opens.’
‘How are we going to do that?’ Ian asked.
Ian set up a team to go through all of Henry’s bank statements looking for a transaction that could be connected to the purchase of a key. It had a generic number on it so shouldn’t be difficult to trace. At the same time, he instructed a couple of constables to contact every locksmith and hardware store in Kent for a cash sale of a padlock or other key, anything that could be connected to Henry. Finally, he intended to put pressure on the suspect to confess.
‘So he’s a suspect now, is he?’ Polly asked, smiling. ‘You just can’t make up your mind, can you? Typical man!’
‘He’s not a suspect yet, not officially, but we have to keep an open mind.’
‘So keeping an open mind basically means you can change your opinion whenever the mood takes you?’
‘Something like that,’ he grinned.
Once the necessary and lengthy preamble had been completed, the interview commenced. Henry gazed levelly across the table, apparently relaxed, as though Ian was a neighbour who had just invited him in for a chat. Ian stared back, registering the calm expression on the suspect’s face, his hair as neatly combed down as when they had first met. If anything he looked less tired than when Ian had last seen him. Being widowed didn’t seem to trouble him much. After a moment he leaned back in his chair so he could stretch out his legs. He folded his arms and waited, his eyes fixed on Ian’s face. No one spoke. The solicitor cleared his throat. Resigning himself to the fact that Henry wasn’t going to be unnerved by waiting, Ian reached into his jacket pocket. They had already wasted part of the twenty-four hours they could keep him in custody. The clock was ticking.
Doing his best to remain deadpan, Ian lay a small evidence bag on the table. Still pokerfaced, he watched Henry closely as he spoke.
‘We found this.’
Henry looked down at the bag.
‘Is this your key?’ Ian leaned forward, speaking in what he hoped was a menacing voice. With a glance at the solicitor he sat back and lightened his tone. ‘We found it hidden in your house. Was it yours? Or perhaps it belonged to your wife? Come on, Henry, let’s drop the pretence. Did you think we wouldn’t be interested in it because we found it in her room? If it’s yours, it wasn’t a very clever hiding place, was it?’
Henry frowned, perplexed rather than worried.
‘What’s it for?’
‘Oh, we’ll find out soon enough, you can be sure of that,’ Ian told him, ‘so you might as well save us time and help yourself by co-operating. What does the key belong to?’
‘I don’t know what it’s for,’ Henry replied simply. ‘You’re making a mistake. It’s not mine.’
‘What does it open?’ Ian insisted fiercely.
It was frustrating. This wasn’t how Ian had hoped the interview might progress. Henry seemed so calm, and was so convincing. The solicitor stirred.
‘My client has already answered that question. He’s told you the key doesn’t belong to him.’ He turned to Henry. ‘You don’t need to answer that question again.’ He looked back at Ian as he added, ‘The police have no right to hector you.’
Ian looked at the solicitor. Grey-haired, slim and elegant, he looked effete beside his rough-looking client. The solicitor smiled, an easy, debonair smile, no more intimidated by Ian’s aggressive stance than his client, who appeared oblivious to the significance of the key. The solicitor looked pointedly at his watch.
‘Are you intending to charge my client, Sergeant? Or are you going to let him go?’
Ian terminated the interview and sent Henry back to the cells, but he knew he couldn’t hold him for much longer.
‘So do you still think it was him now,’ Polly asked, ‘or have you changed your mind again?’
Ian didn’t answer.
The next morning there was finally a positive development when a constable traced the key through the number engraved on it. If it had belonged to a padlock there would have been virtually no hope of tracking down whatever it had been used to secure. But they were in luck. The key belonged to a locker at a self-storage site in Canterbury. Ian broke into a grin on receiving the information. He almost ran along the corridor to Rob’s office to share the news. Catching Ian’s excitement, Rob seemed to bounce up and down on his chair as he spoke. Ian had never seen him so animated. They both knew this could be the break they needed.
‘Well, what are we waiting for?’
Rob sprang to his feet, grabbed his jacket, and they hurried out of the office. As he followed, Ian checked he still had the key in his pocket, safely in its bag. He passed Polly in the corridor. She had heard the news.
‘Do you want me to come with you?’ she asked.
‘Thanks, Polly, but the DI’s coming.’
‘But –’
Without giving her a chance to protest, he walked away.
Superior Self-Storage was located on an industrial estate a mile outside Canterbury. The warehouse was easy to spot, the name printed in huge red and yellow letters above the entrance. They followed the sign to reception where a skinny dark-haired girl sat slumped behind a large desk with a blank expression on her face. She straightened up as they entered and asked if they were existing customers. When Rob told her they weren’t she launched into an account of the different storage spaces on offer, starting with fifteen square feet.
‘All of our units are eight-foot high.’
The inspector interrupted her to explain the reason for their visit. Her bored recitation halted abruptly and her eyes lit up with excitement.
‘The police?’ she said, clapping her hands to her cheeks. ‘Oh my God, don’t tell me someone’s stored a dead body in one of the units?’
She looked disappointed when Rob asked to see a manager. Tapping at her switchboard, she motioned them to take a seat. A few moments later, a shambling bear of a man appeared. He was wearing blue overalls and walked with an ungainly motion, as though his huge frame was too bulky for his legs to carry.
‘What seems to be the problem, officer? I hope there isn’t going to be any trouble. We had a case of stolen goods a couple of years back, but that was straightened out and we were cleared of any involvement. All we do is hire out the units. If customers don’t adhere to the terms and conditions, well, there’s not a great deal we can do to stop people lying to us, is there? I mean, we’re not mind readers.’
Ian interrupted his moaning to show him the key, explaining there was reason to suspect the contents of this unit might contain items that would help them with an investigation. The girl behind the desk was listening. As soon as Ian finished, she jumped up and offered to take them to the relevant unit.
‘We need to rely on your absolute discretion,’ Ian said quietly to the manager who nodded.
Instructing the girl to remain at her post, he led Ian through a maze of white slatted walls punctuated at intervals by bright blue doors. A couple of times Ian’s guide checked the number on the key and once he turned back with a muttered apology.
At last they came to a halt beside a blue door.
‘Here it is,’ the manager announced, ‘fifteen square feet and eight-feet high. What are you expecting to find in there, then? Drugs? Guns?’
‘Nothing as dramatic as that!’
‘What then?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Ian lied.
He hoped his companions wouldn’t notice he was sweating as he put on his gloves and turned the key. Rob sent the manager away while Ian opened the door and switched on the bare light bulb. As he looked inside the large cupboard, his jaw dropped in astonishment. Behind him, he heard his colleague exclaim out loud.
41
A FROWN CREASED HIS white forehead. The corners of his thin lips curled down. A faint sigh whispered through the assembled disciples, and their shoulders drooped. The lea
der was displeased. Ten pairs of eyes gazed accusingly at Warrior who didn’t dare speak, not even to defend himself. Usually uplifting in the presence of the leader, the silence grew painful.
Somewhere in the room a clock was ticking.
He stared into the leader’s huge dark eyes and waited. After what felt like a long time, the leader shifted in his seat. He rose from his chair and crossed the room in long strides until he was standing right in front of his cowed follower. Both were tall, about the same height. For a moment the leader stared calmly into Warrior’s eyes, then he spun round on his heels and faced the disciples.
‘Leave us,’ he said.
The others lowered their heads submissively before they turned and filed out of the room in silence. The last in line closed the door to the meeting room behind them.
Although the leader’s voice was soft, every word could be easily heard in the still room.
‘What is it that troubles you?’
‘I’ve killed another woman.’
He dropped his face in his hands, resisting an impulse to throw himself on the floor at the leader’s feet.
‘What made you do that?’
‘I was afraid,’ Warrior admitted.
‘Tell me about your fear.’ The low voice invited confidence.
‘I killed the prostitute, Della.’
‘Did you distrust her?’
‘I didn’t know what she was going to do. I still don’t know.’
The leader asked him what happened and then closed his eyes for a moment, as he listened to Warrior’s account of the second death.
‘Did you want to kill her?’ he asked in a voice that sounded unexpectedly tender.
Cold Sacrifice Page 17
