Grave Decisions

by Claire Highton-Stevenson

  “What the fuck?” He looked annoyed as he put the headphones around his neck, not that she cared. The tinny noise of the band he was listening to floated into the air.

  Holding up her warrant card, she smiled sarcastically at him. “DI Whitton, I’d like to see your CCTV for the last two hours.”

  He fiddled with his iPod and switched off the music. “You’ll be lucky…it hasn’t worked for months. The owner is supposed to get it fixed but like, why bother. Look at it in here.” His eyes cased the area just like hers had done when she first arrived. “Nobody comes in here for trouble, they’re all too busy with the latest game or checking out the sites they can’t at home.” He chuckled; she didn’t.

  “About an hour ago, did you notice a tall, well-built man come in?”

  He shrugged. “Get a lot of them.”

  “This one would be older, fifties maybe.”

  His mouth lifted on one side as he thought about it. “There was this one guy, looked like a plumber.”

  “Blue overalls?”

  “Yeah, bit odd I suppose, we don’t tend to get workmen in here that often.”

  “Did you see his face?”

  He scrunched up his cheek again. “Not really, I don’t pay much attention you know. They hand over their money and I free up a screen. He had sunglasses on and a cap, wasn’t much to see.” He seemed to consider things for a moment. “His hair was grey, here.” He fingered his own hair around his ear.

  She felt the rush of excitement start to flood her nervous system. “Which booth did he use?” Her eyes swept the area once more as he pointed to one right at the front of the store. “Has anyone else used it since?”

  “No. Look, what is this about?”

  “I’m going to need you to close up,” she said, grabbing her phone and calling the crime scene techs.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  The following morning, Whitton all but frog-marched Saint down to the internet café. It was closed now, the street quiet. There was a welcome chill in the air as the sun was yet to warm up.

  “So, I was thinking,” Dale said as he tried to keep up.

  “Don’t do that, Dale, you might damage something.” She smirked at him over her shoulder and slowed her pace.

  “Funny,” he snarked back. “But seriously, why send you an email, why taunt you? He hasn’t ever done that before, has he?”

  “Not that we know of.” She stopped marching and looked up and around. “Did you tell Jeff to wait around?”

  “Yep, he is all set and already onto the council for access to the street cams.”

  “Good. My gut says we won’t get much from them. Look how the overhang covers anyone walking beneath it.” The buildings had been built in the 50s, shop fronts with flats and offices above. The entire length of the building had a flat-roofed overhang that allowed shoppers to peruse windows without the weather bothering them.

  Saint exhaled. “So why are we here?”

  She spun around and smiled at him. “Because…” Her head moved and twisted to the left, towards a phone repair store that sold used handsets, phone covers, and chargers. “See that flashing red light back there?” They both peered into the shop opposite at the CCTV camera trained on the front window and door. “The owner is coming in early to open up and give us the tape.”

  “Sometimes, I just wanna kiss you.” Dale grinned. “Instead, I’ll go get us coffee while we wait.”

  She waited by the window, a lonely figure in a desolate street. The strains of Beethoven began ringing out loudly from her pocket.

  “Hello.” She smiled into the handset.

  “Morning, I missed you. I woke up and you were gone already,” Rachel whined casually.

  “Yeah, had an early start. I didn’t want to wake you though, you looked…” She checked over her shoulder for Dale. Seeing the coast was clear, she continued. “If I woke you up, I might not have gone to work,” she finally admitted with a chuckle.

  “Ah, I see, that’s a shame then. Because that’s my favourite way to wake up,” Rachel purred, and Whitton felt herself shiver with arousal. “I’m going to have to take care of this…need, all by myself, Detective.” She spoke slowly and confidently, knowing full well the effect she was having on her detective.

  “I tell you what, you hold off for now and I will make it worth your while tonight.”

  “Promises, promises, Sophie. Don’t keep me waiting too long. I’m not sure I’ll be able to hold off if you’re late.”

  Whitton grinned. “I love you, see you later.”

  “Likewise, Detective.”

  She put the phone back into her pocket just as Dale returned to hand her a coffee. “Everything all right? You look a bit…flushed.”

  “Yeah, all good,” she replied, sipping the hot liquid. Their attention was grabbed then by a middle-aged man in a turban walking towards them.

  “DI Whitton? We talked on the phone,” he said, pulling a set of keys from his jeans pocket. He found the key he needed and opened the door. A loud beeping started as the alarm kicked in. Whitton and Saint followed him in and waited as he disarmed it. “Bloody noise.” He grinned and turned back to the door. “Do us a favour and lock that. Otherwise I’ll have punters in here before I open.”

  Saint flicked the catch and locked the door.

  “So, you need the tape for the last 24 hours?” he continued, far too chatty and chipper for this early in the morning as far as Whitton was concerned, but she nodded and replied.

  “Yes, if that’s possible.”

  “Sure, you wanna look at it first?”

  Nodding, Whitton moved forward. “That would be great.”

  ~Grave~

  The tiny office out back doubled up as a workshop, canteen, and staff room. There was a small table with a screen on it, surrounded by phone parts and tools. A dirty, empty mug was growing something green inside it, and Mr. Chatterjee moved it quickly out of the way as Saint took the seat in front of the screen.

  “Sorry ‘bout that, I get busy and forget, ya know.”

  “No problem. If you can get the tape then…” Whitton smiled a thin-lipped smile.

  He fiddled with a small machine and held up the SD card. “Bit better than a tape,” he said, slotting it into the space it fit. “So, it’s a pretty simple system. Just hit rewind or fast forward. Then play and stop,” he said, showing them how it worked.

  “Thanks,” Saint replied. “We shouldn’t be too long.” He waited for Chatterjee to get the message that they didn’t need him hanging around.

  With the owner out of the room, Saint hit play and started forwarding the recording. “What time did the email arrive?”

  “Just after seven. So I imagine he arrived a few minutes before and left pretty much right after he sent it.” The world outside sped past the window, occasional browsers stopping to look at something. Now and then the door would open and someone would walk in and speak to the owner. Just an average day in Woodington.

  When the timer reached 18:50, Dale stopped the fast forward and let it play. It was still light out. People were still milling around, walking past on their way home from a day of working or shopping, or heading into town for a few drinks, or a dinner. At 18:58, Whitton’s heart raced as a man in blue overalls stepped into shot. There was something about his gait, the way he held himself, that felt familiar to her, but trying to recognise him behind the disguise was impossible.

  There was nothing else to see until 19:06 on the timer. As he came out, he couldn’t avoid the camera right in front of him. He clearly didn’t know it was there, as he made no attempt to hide his face. Saint hit pause, and a slightly out of focus image appeared. “Something about him looks familiar,” he said, “I feel like I have spoken to him.”

  “Yeah, I feel like that too.” She leaned in over Saint’s shoulder and placed her palm on the screen, covering the eyes and top of his head. “Something about his mouth…play it again.”

  Dale did as he was asked and rewound the segment, let
ting it play at normal speed. “There’s nothing.”

  “Back it up, play it again.” They watched the screen intently. “What’s that? What does he do there?” She pointed at the screen as the man’s hand disappeared from sight.

  “Putting something in his pocket or…pulling something out.” He stood up and left the room. Whitton followed as he ran up to the door, unlocked it and moved with speed out into the street and over towards the internet café. Head bowed, his eyes scoured the floor and then he bent down, reaching into his pocket for a glove.

  “What is it?” Whitton said from behind him.

  When he turned back, he was grinning. “It’s a matchbook, from The Blue Room.”

  The Blue Room was Woodington’s one and only gentleman’s club, a term that most people knew actually meant strip joint.

  “Yes! Right.” She pushed her hand through her hair and sucked in a calming breath. “Let’s get this all to forensics.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  A partial print and the name of a strip club, that was what they had to go on. It was at least a lot more than they previously had, and for some reason most of the blokes were pretty eager to do the legwork. One by one they sauntered into Whitton’s office and made the case for why they should be the one who visited the Blue Room later that night. It was comical really, and Whitton let them egg each other on about who would get the nod. The banter and laughter were welcomed in the office, which was usually filled with the depths of death and despair at not being able to catch a killer.

  Eventually, she needed to put them all out of their misery. Checking her watch, she saw it was just coming up to five in the afternoon. She had a long day ahead of her tomorrow with Rachel moving in, so she didn’t want a late night tonight.

  “Right, listen up,” she called out into the main office. Voices quieted, except for Bowen, who was on the phone talking in a hushed tone. “Okay, Colleen, you’re finished on that domestic, right?”

  “Yep, all wrapped up and passed onto the CPS.” Colleen smiled at her boss.

  “Great, I want you to come with me now down to the Blue Room.” The room erupted into groans and complaints as O’Leary laughed at them all. “And then,” she said, waiting for quiet again. “Jeff and Andy, I want you to go down later tonight and…” She grinned at them. “Enjoy the show.” Whoops and laughter, along with a few comments that Whitton instantly frowned at, burst forth. “Okay, okay, calm it down, this is work. I want eyes in the room. Make a note of anyone that fits our criteria.”

  “Alright, boss.” Jeff acknowledged the seriousness of it.

  “Right.”

  “Uh, what about me?” Saint piped up as he swiveled his chair around.

  “Oh, I’ll have plenty for you to do when I get back.”

  ~Grave~

  The Blue Room wasn’t blue in colour. It had clearly got its name from the connotations of porn and naked girls. Inside it was all reds and pinks, glitter and sparkly. The walls and chairs were covered in the same material, all soft and plush. O’Leary flashed her badge at the insolent women who opened the door to them, pointing without speaking towards the bar when they asked for the manager.

  “It’s like being inside a giant vagina,” O’Leary whispered.

  Whitton turned slowly. “And you’d know all about that, I suppose.”

  O’Leary’s face reddened, but she grinned. “You’d be surprised what I know.” She winked, and Whitton grinned at the shared communication.

  “I see, well if the one you’ve met was this glittery, I’d get her to a doctor.” She winked back.

  Even in the daylight, it was still dark inside. The lights were on, cleaners and bar staff moving around with no real interest as they got the place ready for another night entertaining a mainly male audience. In front of them as they walked between the tables and podiums stood a blonde man, no more than five and a half feet in stature with a robust frame. His suit had clearly needed to be made to measure.

  “Anders Jacob?” Whitton asked, the J sounding like a Y. His smile was warm and friendly as he turned to see who it was that called his name.

  “Ja, that’s me,” he replied, a slight accent to his voice.

  “DI Whitton, this is DC O’Leary. I wondered if we could have a word?” she asked, looking around at all the prying eyes as workers came to a halt. Police in the building usually wasn’t a good sign.

  He tilted his head and pointed to a table.

  “In private, if you don’t mind?”

  He looked the dark-haired officer up and down through narrowing eyes before seeming to come to a conclusion. “Of course, please follow me.”

  He led them through the bar and out into a hallway that led to some stairs. The décor here wasn’t quite as plush as the other side of the bar. Boxes of crisps stacked up against the wall alongside crates of bottled drinks and a hoover. The office was a boxy little room with a desk and some filing cabinets.

  “So, what can I help you with?” he said as he rounded the desk and sat down gently into the chair. his frame filling the seat and bulging through the sides.

  Whitton pulled a photo of the matchbook from her pocket and held it out to him. “These are yours, right?”

  Studying the photo briefly, he nodded. “Yes, they are. It clearly says the Blue Room on there.”

  “Tell me about them?”

  His eyes narrowed again at her and he opened the drawer to his left, reached in, and rifled through before he pulled out an exact copy, tossing it on the desk. “We give them out to anyone who wants one.”

  “And they all have this design?” she asked, picking up the one he had thrown.

  “Yes. Well, no, actually we just had a new batch printed, a few minor changes on it, but you wouldn’t notice. That one had a mistake. They used the wrong font.”

  “So how many of these were handed out?”

  He shrugged and laughed. “Not a clue, we ordered 1000, most are in a box for the bin.”

  “I’d like a copy of your membership list,” Whitton said without preamble.

  He laughed. “No, not a chance.”

  Sighing audibly, she glared at him. “Don’t make me get a warrant, or worse, find a reason to come down here and start poking around.”

  “Look, what do you want to know?”

  “I want the names of anyone who could potentially have been given one of these.”

  He thought for a moment before he too sighed and reached for the drawer again. “I can make this a whole lot easier, but on one condition: the information didn’t come from me. I can’t have people thinking their privacy is at odds with our policy.” He held his hands out, palms up. When he received a nod from Whitton, he continued. “Those were handed out on the day they arrived, and again the following night. The minute the problem was pointed out, we stopped giving them away.”

  “Right, and this helps me how?”

  He grinned at her. “Patience. Every member has a membership card, it’s a chip and pin, bit like your bank card, only these register the date and time that they entered and left, what they bought. It helps us work out who our more financially viable customers are, if you see what I mean?”

  Whitton felt the goosebumps hit her spine. “So you can tell me every punter that potentially had one of these?”

  He nodded. “Of course, that’s if they took one. And…” He paused. “If they kept it and didn’t give it away.”

  “How quickly can you get me that list?”

  “I just need to print it off.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  “Anyone who is white, older than 40, darker haired.” Whitton gave the instructions to the team. She split the list of names between them all, so each had 25 or so names to go through the databases with and start to whittle it down to potential men they could talk to. “You all know what we are looking for. if they fit the descriptions, then pull their file and print a photo. I want them all on my desk within the hour. Let’s get this creep.”

  The sound of k
eys being tapped and paper being rifled through was music to Whitton’s ears as she sat down with her own list of names. The Blue Room was a pretty busy place most nights of the week by the look of it, but especially busy over the weekend when these matchbooks had been available. She ran a finger down the list and noted a couple of names she knew. A couple of local politicians, a high-ranking officer, and the head teacher of the local Catholic school. She blew out a breath and tapped in the first name; she didn’t care about their morals, unless they were slaughtering people in their spare time.

  Ryan Cappley. She typed his name in and a face appeared on screen. Blonde, early twenties. She clicked to move on. Artur Grokalski, Bald. too young. From her list, just 8 made the cut and fit the bill; one was the head teacher, Patrick Shaughnessy.

  She glanced up and noticed her colleagues still hard at it. The tiny ping of an email coming in caught her attention and reminded her that she hadn’t checked it for days. When she clicked it open, she didn’t expect to find an entire page of unopened mail.

  There were the usual updates and newsletters she always got. Tristan’s recordings sent through so she had an e-copy as well as the hard-copy he would send by courier. What she wasn’t used to seeing were emails from addresses she didn’t know: fellow officers at different forces. She opened the first and scanned quickly through the detail, printed it off, and quickly opened the next, doing the same, then the next and so on until she had 12 pieces of paper from officers around the country all reporting a grave murder in their area. The earliest was February 1993, and they continued right through till just a year before George Herring had been murdered in Woodington.

  “Dale,” she called out through the open door. When she had his attention, she waved him over. “Get in here.”

  He wandered over like a schoolboy about to get a detention. “I am going as fast as I can…”

  “Oh shut up. Close the door and sit down,” she demanded. He looked relieved that he wasn’t getting a bollocking. “I just went through my email.”

  “That’s what you called me in here for…all secret squirrel.” He grinned, and she glared.