‘Had he ever been violent with you?’ Byrd said, leaning forward, placing his palms on the desk.
She shook her head. ‘No.’
‘When was the last time you saw him?’
She narrowed her eyes in thought. ‘About six months ago. I passed him in the street. He saw me but looked the other way as if he was ashamed of what he’d become. We stopped seeing each other two years ago.’
‘Does he have any family living in Darlington?’
‘Not that I know of,’ she said. ‘He has a sister that lives somewhere down south and a brother who lives in the Midlands. He didn’t see much of them.’
‘Do you still have his mobile number?’
‘Unfortunately not, I deleted it. Sorry.’ She genuinely looked apologetic.
‘What number on Victoria Embankment did he live?’
She told them. Byrd took out his phone and made a note.
‘Is there anything else?’
‘Not at the moment. Have you got a card in case anything else comes to mind?’
Byrd leaned to the left, pulled a card from his right pocket, and handed it to her.
‘Thank you.’
She rose to her feet, and Tanzy walked her to the reception, then she left. Back in the office, they mentioned to Fuller that they were going out. They stepped out into the sun and made their way over to Tanzy’s Golf.
19
Wednesday Afternoon
Victoria Embankment
Less than two minutes later they knocked on the door that Samantha Verity had said belonged to Mackenzie Dilton. They waited a minute then knocked again when no one answered. Taking a step back they looked in the window to the right, then leaned back, trying to see into the windows upstairs. There was no movement or sudden twitching of curtains.
To the house on their left, a door opened and a man in his seventies stepped out with a thick coat, ready for winter, with a walking stick that looked older than he did.
He froze as if he was playing musical statues and looked at them through large, jam-jar glasses. ‘Can I help you?’
Byrd smiled. ‘We’re looking for Mr Dilton. Do you know if he’s in?’
‘Oh, wack-job willy?’
Byrd frowned. ‘Who?’
‘It’s not his real name. It’s a nickname we have for him – my wife and me. He was a strange one.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘He didn’t speak much. Spent a lot of his time inside playing on his computer. His bedroom must have backed on to our room’—he pointed upwards towards his bedroom in case the detectives weren’t sure where that would be—‘and he used to keep us up most of the night. We complained on several occasions but it didn’t make a difference. He carried on as he wanted.’
The elderly man gingerly made his way to the black, iron gate, and slowly pulled it towards him, then stepped down carefully onto the path. He lifted his free hand up to his face to shield it from the blinding sun.
‘Can you tell us any information about him – where does he work?’
‘He worked from home I think. Something to do with that stupid computer of his.’
‘Did he have many friends? Or a girlfriend maybe?’
‘From what we saw of him, I don’t think so. He hardly came out of the house. Only for shopping, because every time he came back, he had bags in his hand. And, he wasn’t the type to stop to say hello. To be honest, I don’t think he was all there.’ He raised a finger to his temple and made small circles with it.
The detectives nodded, waiting for more.
‘Oh, there was a woman who used to visit him,’ the man said. ‘Only came a handful of times while he was there. Could have been a girlfriend, although I can’t be sure.’
Tanzy raised the notepad, ready to write something. ‘Did she have a name?’
The old man told them he didn’t know it but she had blonde hair and wore glasses, which Tanzy quickly jotted down.
‘So, if he’s out, what time does he usually return home? We can pop back later,’ Byrd said.
The old man smiled. ‘You’ll be waiting a while. He hasn’t lived here for six months. The place is empty now.’
Byrd sighed heavily. ‘Great. Does a landlord own it?’
The man shrugged. ‘How am I supposed to know? Anyway, I need to go. She’ll be wondering where the meat is. She’s cooking dinner later. I’m not missing it. And I can’t be arsed with the earache.’
‘Appreciate your help, sir,’ Byrd said, with a forced smile.
The elderly man and his stick headed along Victoria Embankment towards town. Wherever he was going, judging by his pace, it would take him a while.
Byrd turned back to Tanzy. ‘Well, that’s great. Back to square one.’
Tanzy was going to reply but his phone rang in his pocket. He plucked it out to answer. ‘Hello?’
‘Boss, it’s Amy.’
‘What’s happening?’
‘I found the trainer the man who called himself Roger Carlton was wearing at Napier Street.’
‘That was quick.’
‘It’s an Adidas Samba trainer.’
Tanzy closed his eyes, knowing they were sold in hundreds of shops from here to London. ‘Okay. We’ll be heading back soon. We’ll catch up then.’ He put his phone away and headed towards the Golf. Byrd followed.
‘So,’ Byrd said, putting on his seatbelt, ‘we have four missing women, a house fire that has killed four people, a missing man who is very likely the man responsible for it, and an address which he doesn’t live at.’
‘You're missing the Adidas Samba trainers?’
‘Oh yeah, the trainer that could have been bought in any shop in any town in the whole country.’
‘We’ll check with HM Land Registry, see who the house belongs to.’
Byrd nodded toward Tanzy. ‘Good shout.’
‘Other than that, the investigation is thriving…’ Tanzy turned on the engine and edged out, made his way towards Victoria Road. ‘How’s Claire, you spoken to her?’
‘Yeah, she’s okay. Just shook up a little. I popped home to see her on my dinner and made sure all the doors were locked and nothing else had been taken. I might have forgotten to lock it last night, but I can't remember going out. Not even to empty the bin.'
'Hadn't there been some break-ins around your street?'
'A couple. I've knocked on most doors, asking if people had seen anything. Whoever is doing it, is a ghost. I'm going to buy more locks today, put them on when I get home. The last thing we need is her worrying and not feeling safe. Won't do the baby any good at all.’
20
Wednesday Evening
Darlington
Although it was summer, the large room was cold and dark. There wasn't a single speck of light from anywhere, not even from the small, one-way window on one of the walls. If there had been, they'd see the fading sun offering the last of its falling light, as another day had come to an end.
The floor was cold and hard. One of them had mentioned it felt like concrete to touch, but the others weren’t sure.
On the floor, along one of the walls, there were several bed covers laid out for them, which they'd spent the majority of their days sitting on in silence, mentioning the odd word now and again. The covers weren’t thick but it kept them off the cold floor.
In the first few days, after waking up and realising they were without their phones or any possessions, they investigated the room. They’d learned many things. The room was square-shaped. The walls were made from concrete. In the centre of the room, there was a plastic bag with items inside. The scary thing was they couldn’t see a thing, didn’t know what the items were. From feel and smell, they assumed it was food. Packets of crisps, drinks, and chocolate bars. When hunger got hold of them, they had little choice but to tuck in. Item by item, the bag became lighter, so they rationed their supplies, unsure how long they’d be there for. There were still a few drinks inside and other wrapped goodies and decided to only eat
when they were starving.
When they first woke up, they all panicked. It took them a while to finally calm each other down, realise the situation they were in. One of them recalled their last memory. They had been dropped off by the taxi after leaving town and were waiting for Ronny, one of Lisa’s friends, to pick them up to go to the house party afterward. They were all wasted, could barely stand up, but they recalled getting into the small van, but after that their memories are blank. They woke up here.
They were tired and bored. Almost to the point of giving up. They’d screamed and kicked and punched the walls out of frustration but it was pointless. Each day, they woke up and did it again, but their cries for help were absorbed by the cold, dark, damp, unforgiving room.
‘I can’t feel my feet,’ Lisa said.
‘Me neither,’ said Sarah.
‘You awake?’ Lisa asked the other one.
‘Yeah, I’m here,’ Lorraine replied weakly, shuffling a little to get comfortable.
It had been three days since they’d heard from Theresa. Lisa had realised that Theresa hadn’t been talking much, so had called her name and received no answer. They’d checked the whole room in the dark, using their searching hands to feel the cold floor and walls but it soon dawned on them that Theresa was not there anymore. Somehow, she’d vanished. None of them can remember when or how – maybe when they were all sleeping? They realised they weren’t getting out and had accepted their fates on the sixth day.
On the opposite wall to where their make-shift beds were, they used the wall and floor area for the toilet. The foul smell, along with the damp brickwork, had worsened as the days went on, but they’d become immune to it. Even their individual bad smells had almost become a comfort to one another. Strange how only last week, they were leading their own lives.
It seemed like a lifetime ago.
‘I need to pee,’ Lisa said, slowly climbing to her feet, using the wall behind to aid her. Because she hadn’t moved, her bones felt like they were brittle, her muscles had almost forgotten how to function. She padded across to the other side with her arms outstretched until she reached the opposite wall, then pulled up her skirt, and the sound of her urinating echoed in the large, empty space.
She returned to Sarah and Lorraine, dropping on the floor near them.
‘We’re not getting out of here, are we?’
Lorraine leaned over, blindly reaching for her hand, and finally found it. ‘I don’t think so,’ she whispered.
Lisa shuffled in and held her friend tight, battling against the cold that wasn’t giving up, and started to cry.
Through the small rectangular window high on the opposite wall where they were crying, two men watched them. The glass was one-way, appearing jet black on the room’s side, not allowing anything in, so the women couldn’t see them or know they were being watched.
‘Which one are they going to pick this week?’ the man on the right said, rubbing his chin, and returned to the chair near the desk. He was thin, wore glasses, had eyes darker than the midnight sky. He placed his hand on the desk, gently tapping the wood near the keyboard with his long fingers.
‘I’ll check the votes,’ the other said, pulling himself closer to the computer and taking hold of the mouse. He was taller and wider. The run-around, the one who did the leg work. The muscle. He clicked on the voting panel to check the scores.
On the screen, there were three pictures. The images had been duplicated from their social media accounts. They needed the players and watchers to see what they were looking at. Under each picture was a percentage, and because they were down to three, their score was split three ways.
‘They seem to like Lisa,’ said Brad, checking the figures. ‘They like watching her cry. Her vote is low. They want to keep watching her.’ Up in the corner of the room was a night vision camera recording twenty-four seven.
Mitch took his focus off the window and glared at Brad and the computer screen. ‘Looks like it’s Lorraine?’
Lorraine’s score was forty-six percent.
Sarah’s was thirty percent.
And Lisa’s was twenty-four percent.
‘Lorraine is up next. Start the gas. Get her prepped for Friday,’ Mitch told him.
Brad nodded and leaned to the left. On the wall, he took hold of the gas valve and turned it on. Soon they’d all be asleep, and he’d go in to get Lorraine.
21
Wednesday Evening
Low Coniscliffe
Claire, tired after she’d finished the ironing and washing up, went straight to the sofa. She picked what she wanted to watch, settled in, and focused on the brand new fifty-inch TV they’d recently bought. Byrd had listened to her moaning about how she couldn’t see it properly from the sofa, telling him they needed something new. Something bigger. Whether that was the case, or whether it was her friend, Mary, who’d told her they’d just bought one, and she felt jealous. Either way, they’d bought a new one.
Byrd, for a change, had decided to join her, sitting down on the other sofa; the one in the bay window. He seldom spent his evenings like this but figured it’d be nice to spend some time with her. He occasionally glanced over, watching her. It melted his heart how she subconsciously rubbed her belly.
Her son. Their Son. Alan.
He felt emotional. The thought of bringing a child into the world and not having his parents crushed him more than words could describe. Not only for the support they’d give him, but for the happiness they’d feel, seeing their first grandchild. It’s a shame they would never feel that love.
It angered him. Not that they’d miss out on his child, but that his sister had been taken twelve years before and hadn’t been given the chance to give them a grandchild either. Poor Anna. She was two years younger than Byrd. All his life he’d protected her. Any issues with boyfriends, she’d gone to Byrd first.
He thought back for a few moments, reliving their childhood in his mind, how they used to go out on days with mum and dad; how they’d spend their time in the car arguing about the next song they’d listen to. Then, when she was twenty-seven and he was twenty-nine, he got the phone call.
He remembered as if it was yesterday, standing in the kitchen when his mobile rang. It was Tanzy. Answering it the same way he always did, he felt broken after Tanzy had told him what he’d found. A dead body. His sister, Anna. Multiple stab wounds to her stomach and chest. Byrd took a week off work, roaming the streets, knocking on doors, and became obsessive. It certainly changed Byrd in a couple of ways. He appreciated his life more. Each day he woke, he tried to remember that Anna hadn’t, and that he should be grateful for another day to live. Eventually, a few leads had led him to the man responsible. He’d cornered him in an alley. Just the two of them. The rage inside him wanted to grab the man’s head, smash it off the cobbles on the ground below, but he was determined not to throw his life away. He cuffed him, dragged him to the station, and the man was sentenced to twenty-five years.
He pushed the thoughts from his mind and absorbed what was happening on the screen. Claire was intrigued with Sci-fi – not spaceships and aliens kind of sci-fi, more strange happenings type of sci-fi. They both watched a little boy holding a teddy anxiously walk into a cave in the middle of the night.
‘Do you think he’ll come back?’ she asked, keeping her attention on the screen.
Byrd looked over to her and pondered the question, unsure whether she meant the boy on the screen or the person that broke in and took her laptop.
‘The doors are secure,’ he replied, assuming she meant the latter. ‘Are you sure you haven’t misplaced your laptop?’
She turned her head to him and frowned. ‘I’m not stupid, Max.’
‘I’m not saying you are, but everyone misplaces things,’ he said, his voice even.
‘I’ve looked all over. You have as well. It’s been taken. The back door was open.’ She sighed, then focused back to the TV.
Byrd didn’t reply. Instead, he thought hard about whether
he’d locked the door last night, but then he couldn’t ever remember going out. Not yesterday anyway. Unless it had been left unlocked from the last time it was opened, which had been several days ago.
‘You need the cameras working again,’ she said, matter-of-factly. And she was right. Byrd had a camera fixed above the door, looking down the driveway, but for some reason, it hadn’t been working properly. He’d checked the wiring. To him, it looked okay, not that he knew much about electrics.
‘The house is safe,’ he said finally. ‘No one is getting in.’
22
Thursday Afternoon
Police Station
Byrd and Tanzy were at their desks. They’d already had lunch and spent much of their morning speaking with forensics about the house fire in Napier Street. There’d been nothing new found or no further leads. The most promising lead had been when Samantha Verity had come to the station, telling them she recognised the man on the still shot at the Napier Street property, stating he was wearing a wig and fake moustache, similar to the character he was obsessed with. Roger Carlton. And that his real name was Mackenzie Dilton.
A team had been looking for Mackenzie Dilton. There were seven in the whole country. It wasn’t a very common name at all, which worked better for the police. The issue was that the closest address registered to Mackenzie Dilton was Liverpool. Within Darlington, there was no trace of a Mackenzie Dilton, but it did give the police a real name to work with and a name to give to the public. Last night, when he’d left Tanzy’s house and got home, Byrd had watched the news, where the reporter had updated viewers on the name ‘Mackenzie Dilton’ and if anyone knew him or his whereabouts, to let the police know immediately.
Byrd had personally spoken to the IT firm that Samantha had told them that Mackenzie had worked for. The manager there, a Mr Jonas Black, had told Byrd that Dilton was a quiet man, a man who kept himself to himself. He’d worked there for a few years but handed in his notice around six months ago. Didn’t give a reason. Byrd asked him what address they had for him and it turned out to be the address that Samantha had said, the same address that was empty.
No One's Safe: DI Max Byrd & DI Orion Tanzy book 3 Page 7
