Retribution

by Jay Nadal

  The cordon was well established by the time he’d arrived. Having signed in with the scene guard, WPC Willits, and put on a paper forensic suit, he headed over to the white tent that was positioned by the front door of the property.

  Matt Allen, the crime scene manager, packed away his notepad when he saw Scott approaching. “Morning, Scott. We’ve got another one for you, same MO from the looks of it,” he said, holding up two clear plastic evidence bags.

  Even from a few feet away, Scott could make out a white feather in one and a small piece of white paper in the other. He grimaced and sighed as he leant in further for a closer inspection. “Strangled?”

  “Yep, looks like it…how did you guess?”

  Scott didn’t reply, offering a shrug instead as he crossed his arms in frustration and glanced around the plot. “The pathologist here yet?”

  Matt looked at Scott, a small knowing smile curling up the edges of his lips. “You should know, mate…”

  Scott stared at the floor for a moment unsure of a response. “I don’t get your drift?”

  “Mate, you and the path are the worst kept secret in the station…everyone knows you two are an item.” He laughed.

  “Erm, really?” he asked shaking his head. “So much for keeping it quiet.”

  “No chance, mate…you’re front-page news, and I have to say that a few of our female colleagues are a tad upset that you’re off the market,” he added.

  “That’s all I need…more gossip.”

  He turned towards the tent keen to change the subject as he peeked in. He knew Matt would push him for the gory details of his relationship if he’d discussed it any further. Another crime scene officer was crouching down taking close-up photos of the victim’s neck. He had been turned onto his back for closer examination.

  “He’s got ligature marks around his neck, but no other signs of assault or bruising,” Matt added over Scott’s shoulder. “We did find some plastic tape still wrapped around his neck. We’ll get that analysed to see if we can get anything from it.”

  Scott spun around. “Seriously?” He hadn’t been expecting that. They’d not found evidence on the last victim, so either the killer was getting sloppy or…wasn’t bothered about it being found. “Okay, Matt. Keep me informed.”

  Scott made his way towards the cordon tape where Abby and Raj were talking to neighbours and bystanders who’d stopped to watch the macabre scene. Cara had turned up moments earlier, and was already making her way to the tent. They’d travelled in separate cars and staggered their journeys to avoid the awkward moment of them both arriving in one car. The intention behind that master plan had clearly backfired on them.

  “What do we know about the victim?”

  “Guv, residents have confirmed that an Alex Winterbottom lived here. The car over there…” he said stopping in mid-sentence to wave off to the side of the house, “is registered in the same name, and the contents of the wallet found on the deceased match up too.”

  Scott ingested the information as he glanced around at the surrounding properties in the hope that someone had CCTV set up on the front of their house, but his optimism was short-lived. It didn’t call for such measures around here he figured. Nevertheless, he saw the familiar yellow sticker of the neighbourhood watch scheme in all the windows and made a mental note to get Raj to contact the coordinator to build up a picture of the area.

  His thoughts were interrupted as Abby continued with a review of her notes that stopped him dead in his tracks.

  “What was that?” he asked quickly.

  “He’s an ex-teacher… Edmunston-Hunt boarding school…neighbours said he’d been retired a few years now due to ill health.”

  “Anyone see or hear anything last night?”

  “Nope, a neighbour who lives a few doors down in The Meadows walked past about nine-thirty p.m. last night after walking the dog, and swears that he looked in the direction of Winterbottom’s house and saw nothing out of the ordinary.”

  Scott’s phone vibrated in his pocket. Pulling it out, he saw Mike’s number flash up on the screen.

  “Yes, Mike…” Scott listened intently, throwing in the odd “hhm,” “yes,” and “okay,” before hanging up. “Abby can you take over here? Liaise with the pathologist when she’s out. I need to head over to Edmunston-Hunt. Mike’s just had a call from your creepy caretaker. He’s found something and alerted the station.”

  24

  The case played on Scott’s mind as he headed out of Brighton towards Ditchling. Three deaths in under a week. At first his thoughts centred on a problem with the school and the current teaching staff, a disgruntled member of staff perhaps? But most of the staff had been interviewed, background checks had nearly been completed with a few outstanding. Nothing stood out that rang alarm bells, not even a bloody parking ticket.

  He pondered the prospect of a disgruntled parent, but that was highly unlikely. The majority of parents held important positions, had wealth and status. Murder wasn’t on their agenda, would they risk losing all of that? he thought as he tapped his thumb on the wheel in time with a random song on the radio.

  As he made his way down the long access road towards the school, a lone figure stood by the main entrance. As Scott neared, the outline of a man in blue overalls came into focus.

  There’s your creepy caretaker, Abby.

  He was a man with short, dark hair that had no particular shape or outline, but nevertheless was neat and tidy. His face was deadpan. Scott noticed how his lower jaw jutted out further than appeared normal. Bubba’s jaw in the film Forrest Gump sprang to mind as he thought about it. A small mouth, with the edges turned down gave him a forlorn appearance. It was either his natural look or something had upset him big time. Scott thought it was probably the former as he studied the man’s drooping shoulders and loose, limp arms that hung by his sides.

  The man shuffled slowly towards Scott as he got out of the car, his steps small and quick as the oversized overalls hung low between his legs limiting his stride length.

  “Alan Bennett?” Scott asked.

  The man nodded once. His face remained fixed and stoical in a strange way, almost as if he’d had Botox and had lost all sense of facial muscular control.

  “I’m Detective Inspector Baker. You’ve probably seen me around here a few times. I understand you called my team because you’ve found something?”

  “Erm, yes I have.”

  Scott wasn’t sure which part Bennett agreed with, seeing him before or finding something, but nevertheless carried on. “Do you want to lead the way?”

  Bennett looked sullen as he turned without another word, his head a little bowed, and made his way around to the side of the building. Scott followed, his feet raked over the large gravel that skirted around the front of the school, the crunching sound amplified in the stillness that surrounded them. He was led through a smaller side door that took them through to an older part of the school.

  From the look of it, Scott realised it formed the fabric of the original school, and judging from the dusty floors, and musty smell that hit his nostrils, hadn’t been used for many years. A dull light streamed in through the old murky steel Crittall windows.

  Bennett continued to lead them through the winding corridors, barely stopping to check if the detective was still keeping up with him. He stopped outside a room and pointed at a padlock and shackle that had been forcibly prised away from the door. Thin marks were etched in the wood at various angles from a blunt instrument.

  Scott glanced at the door before looking back to Bennett, the lack of information or reason for being here perplexed him. He held his hands out in front of him, searching for an explanation from Bennett.

  “I locked the door myself many years ago, not been in this part of the building for just as long. But I found this last night on my rounds.”

  “Who has access to this part of the school?” Scott enquired, as he leant in to take a closer look.

  “No one, I have the only ke
ys, someone’s broken in…”

  Bennett’s powers of deduction were remarkable.

  “Is the route we took the only means of access to this room?” Scott asked, glancing up and down the abandoned corridor.

  “No,” Bennett replied, scratching his temple slowly. “It can be accessed from an old storeroom in the main building; the lock to the door in the storeroom has been broken, too.”

  “Have you been inside?”

  “Yeah, someone’s been inside…”

  Scott sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Having a conversation with Bennett was painful. He’d much rather pluck his own eyebrows than stand here with a man who appeared to be one stick short of a bundle.

  Bennett opened the large, heavy door. It had dropped over the years and scraped across the floor as it was opened. He looked at Scott stone-faced, telepathically inviting him to take a look inside.

  Scott raised a brow in consternation as he stepped in. The room was dark, however, judging from the footprints that criss-crossed in random directions, recent activity had disturbed the grey matt carpet of dust that had built up over the years.

  An acrid smell hung in the air. Half-burnt tea lights lay scattered around the floor, the window ledge to his left, and on the old, dark oak mantelpiece that framed a small fireplace and hearth. Scott walked over and knelt beside the fireplace, his footsteps muffled by the bed of dust. He picked up a shard of scorched kindling that lay close to the base of the fire. He sniffed one end and immediately noticed the distinct smell of an accelerant, perhaps lighter fuel.

  The remnants of a singed newspaper lay scattered around the hearth. He ran his fingers through several pieces before picking up a small fragment, scalded brown and black around the edges. As he scanned the words left legible, he noticed it was the header of a newspaper…dated two weeks prior.

  Scott rose and turned to continue to look around the darkened room, no doubt used by persons unknown…and recently. Thoughts turned over in his mind, was this connected in some way to his current investigation, or was it some of the pupils using it as some sort of den?

  Then it caught his attention, hanging from a silver hook screwed into the wall by the window. Not wanting to disturb the scene any further he remained fixed to the spot. Hanging loosely was a length of rope, about four feet in length. That in itself could be seen as strange if you had an inquisitive mind, however, what sparked Scott’s curiosity further was the loop that had been tied in the end. As he looked to the opposite wall, there was a similar hook and rope attachment…some sort of improvised bindings, he thought.

  “Mr Bennett, I’m going to organise for some officers to come down here to take a closer look at this room. No one is allowed in, and nothing must be touched…understand?” Scott instructed as he breezed past Bennett, not waiting for a reply.

  Scott left a bewildered Bennett standing at the entrance. His deadpan expression firmly fixed and unfazed.

  Scott stood outside close to the doorway that he and Bennett had gone through. As he paced around, he placed a call to the station to organise for uniformed presence and SOCO. Ordinarily he could perhaps dismiss it, but with three deaths on his watch, and rope being used in at least one of those cases, he needed to cover all bases. With DCI Harvey on his back for a speedy result, and Chief Constable Lennon taking a personal interest in this case, Scott had little margin for error. Every lead, every piece of evidence and every hunch needed to be thoroughly investigated.

  With one ear glued to his phone deep in conversation with Matt Allen, Scott’s attention was distracted by what sounded like a large flock of birds off in the distance. It reminded him of the aviaries he used to visit as a boy in his local park. From his location, the only visible point of reference was a small cottage that sat close to the edge of the forest.

  As far as he could recall, Bennett’s small lodgings were the possible source of the avian cacophony. The dwelling was as small up close as it was from a distance, possibly just a single bedroom and what he’d call a two-up two-down compact des res. A dull white pebble-dashed exterior in need of some TLC was in marked contrast to the chocolate-box cottages offered to teaching staff.

  Scott strolled around the back of the cottage only to discover the source of the noise. A purpose-built aviary with an assortment of birds fluttering from one stand to another. His arrival intensified the volume and intensity of the chirping and cooing. Scott leant on the wire mesh that formed the walls, and this only served to agitate the birds further, as their fluttering wings wafted air in his direction.

  He couldn’t pick out the breeds of the smaller birds, but what spiked his interest was the presence of several white pigeons. He stored that information for later, as he noticed more boundary rope stored neatly by the back door of the cottage as he walked away.

  “Matt, on an entirely different matter, bit of a random question, but can DNA analysis be done on a pigeon feather?”

  Matt groaned on the other end of the line. “I would imagine so but it’s not really my field of expertise. Considering you can do DNA analysis, DNA screening and profiling of animals, and pretty much everything else, I can’t see any reason why you couldn’t. I’d imagine there are specialist companies for that. Any reason you’re asking?”

  “Just something I’m playing around with,” Scott replied, placing a few feathers in a clear evidence bag and hanging up.

  25

  Scott left the room in the hands of SOCO after they’d arrived. With it being a derelict part of the school, it attracted little attention as pupils and school life carried on around them which in itself worried Scott. There was a sense of suspended reality to this place, the school had carried on as normal, teachers delivered classes, pupils appeared unfazed and the atmosphere felt controlled, clinical and sanitised. It certainly wasn’t what Scott had expected, but then again, he wasn’t sure that this was a normal school.

  Collier, the principal, was seated in his red leather wingback chair facing out through a large leaded window over the front of the school. He had his back to Scott but nevertheless heard his footsteps tap across the parquet floor as he strode along the corridor. For a man leading a school engulfed in a series of murder investigations, he seemed unabashed, which should have surprised Scott, but having witnessed the man’s demeanour on several occasions and the general atmosphere around the school and staff, nothing surprised him now.

  “Mr Collier, you and I need a chat,” Scott said firmly as he walked in.

  Collier replied with nothing more than an, “Ahem.”

  Scott placed himself between Collier and the window, his arms crossed, staring intently at the principal. “I’ve just come from the old music room, and it appears that despite it being out of bounds, it’s been used recently. I need answers, Mr Collier, and I need you to start talking now.”

  The harsh, firm tone in Scott’s voice left Collier with little doubt as to the gravity of the situation the school faced. Collier sat with his elbows resting on the armrests, his fingers joined in a steeple that supported his chin. His eyes were firmly fixed in a glaze, a vacant stare that seemed to bore through Scott and out into the gardens beyond. He looked weary, the events of the past week had clearly taken their toll on him. Fatigued and stressed, the past was slowly catching up to him, and he had neither the strength nor energy to fight off the growing tide of suspicion that engulfed the school.

  With a jaded sigh, his shoulders dropped and his eyes slowly rose from over the top rim of his spectacles to meet with Scott’s. Pulling himself up straight and out of the chair he looked at Scott, resignation etched into the creases across his forehead and around his eyes.

  “Walk with me, Inspector?” he asked as he turned and trudged towards the door.

  An eerie silence followed the pair as they made their way back out through reception past Mrs Hilary, who watched open-mouthed unsure as to what was happening. She’d already locked horns with Scott earlier as he’d breezed past her, ignoring her grating voice that echoed in t
he air as he left her behind.

  Stepping out into the sunshine, Scott squinted. The mood didn’t change as they walked slowly around the grounds of the school. Their footsteps were muffled as they trod across the closely cropped lawns.

  “So much has changed since I was a pupil here,” Collier reflected, melancholy tinging his voice. “It was a good school, the best. It’s why I came back here after my military service to begin my teaching career. It was in my blood, you see.

  “It was fair, but well oiled. Discipline was key,” he remarked as he cleared his throat. “We were the future leaders of industry, the future of the British Army…the future ambassadors and attachés of the British government in far-flung countries. This establishment comes with a strong, proud history. More than one hundred years, Inspector, a strong pedigree you see. Did you know that it was set up by a Brigadier General Edmunston of the Queen’s Royal Artillery and The Reverend Christopher Hunt, a chaplain to the forces who held the rank of major?” he said without looking or waiting for an answer from Scott.

  “Then she came along…”

  “Who?”

  “That Harrison woman. That wretched woman…she wanted to modernise the school, make it coed. Many objected…me included. All the traditions we valued and lived by have been replaced by modern-day thinking, the prospect of coed education, whatever’s next? Eh?”

  “Hmm,” Scott replied, mulling over the pontification in a search for relevant clues.

  “The board of governors, well, the majority, agreed with the changes,” he continued through gritted teeth. “She convinced them, batted her bloody eyelids, and had them eating out of her hand. The modernisation programme included knocking down the older parts of the school, including the music room, and replacing it with dance studios, a small theatre, drama room. There was even talk of selling off some of our land to build an elite finishing school for girls, some bloody joint venture with the Roedean crowd.” Collier hung his head low, worry lines creasing his forehead. Sadness and anger ate away at his core, his hands tightly locked behind his back.