Nothing remarkable, nothing out of the ordinary and therein lay the problem.
Pulling off his surgical gloves, he dropped them into the flip-top bin.
Sixty-four was by no means old; however, it was still old enough to have accumulated a heap of medical problems.
The heart that lay in the metal dish was a relatively healthy one; Molder had examined it thoroughly and could find no real reason why it should have failed. In many respects people were like cars, one minute they were running along just fine and then bang the engine would blow. However, once you stripped down the component parts the signs were there, pipes got clogged and moving parts seized through wear and tear.
He reached into his pocket and snapped on another pair of gloves, if there was one thing he hated, it was writing the term 'cause of death unknown' on the certificate.
As far as he was concerned, it pointed to an inadequacy in the individual who was carrying out the post mortem, in this particular case, him.
He leaned in close, his nose inches from the grey face, his eyes scanning the dead man's features. When he came to the neck he stopped, the marks were very faint, a pale-blue bruising. He turned the head to the left and pushed his glasses up from the end of his nose, more marks.
Molder heaved the body over, the bruises on the back of the neck appeared more pronounced a slightly darker shade of blue.
Snapping off his gloves he headed to the phone in his office, time to inform the authorities that Mr Thomas Kitts, aged sixty-four, had been murdered.
33
He watched as they made their way towards the tower, tracking them with the field glasses. Being the height of summer, the trees and banks of bushes offered plenty of cover. The man who came into view was the same one who had been at the old house, the one who had raised the alarm. Although he was sure he had never laid eyes on the old man in the flat cap before. He smiled as he watched them climbing the stone steps, the girl trotting ahead, her breasts bouncing as she ran. And old father time tramping on like some badly dressed scarecrow brought to life. The Marlborough man looked fucked, his face flushed with the exertion of climbing a few steps, it was pathetic.
He was lying in a thicket of laurel bushes perfectly concealed, the black dog at his side panting quietly. This was bizarre, he never considered fate had a hand in anything, after all, if you planned well enough then chance didn't enter the equation did it? Yet he had to admit to being more than a little surprised when he spotted the trio walking through the forest.
The old man took off his flat cap and scratched at his scalp, a moment later he began to make his way up the hill, brushing his way through the tall ferns. Just for a second the man felt his pulse quicken then old father time stopped and turned pointing towards the boarded-up windows. A couple of minutes later the three of them began to move away back down the hillside. He watched as they vanished into the rapidly fading light, waiting a full two minutes before rising to his feet. Firstly, they had turned up at the old house and now here at the tower. He lit a cigarette, of course there was no way they could know what was hanging from the rafters, yet he couldn't shake a feeling of unease. He blew a smoke ring and allowed himself a tight smile. Perhaps he was looking at this the wrong way. Maybe it would have been better if he'd left the door open; the sight would have given the girl nightmares for the rest of her life, much better than any hardnosed copper finding the boy. In a way, he had been surprised that the woods had been so quiet; he thought the police would have been out in force by now searching the area but of course being seen wouldn't have been a problem, after all what was more natural than a man walking his dog. This theory worked well when the sun was up, people would nod and say hello as they passed and then you were forgotten. Anonymity could be found in the ordinary, everyday things. However, as the last of the light bled away and the shadows deepened you had to be careful. The dark changed people's perceptions, it made them look at things more closely; your average dog walker could suddenly morph into someone dark and sinister.
Closing his eyes as he felt in his pocket, he rubbed the tiny square metal plate between his fingers, feeling the edges, the flat surface where the letters were inscribed.
When the truth came out the Radfields would be ruined, the family name would be connected to murder and mutilation for eternity. Gone would be the days when people spoke about them in reverential tones. All their lies and filth would be dragged out into the light, stripped bare for all to see. Maybe fate was playing a part after all. Perhaps it was time for another victim; he smiled in the gloom as the dream unfolded before him.
34
I must be in the wrong job Lasser thought. The house was impressive, a barn conversion with a low, thatched roof and a window that stretched the full length of the building.
He just hoped Fossey knew what he was doing.
After explaining about Michael attacking his mother, Fossey had suggested the boy come home with him for a while.
'Are you sure that's wise?' Lasser had asked.
Fossey shrugged. 'Like you say, arresting him isn't an option and if you simply let him go then he'll go looking for those other kids.'
'Well, you're welcome to ask him but I don't fancy your chances.'
Fossey had wandered over to the car; Lasser lit another smoke, so much for cutting down.
A seagull landed on the car park and began pecking at an ice-cream wrapper squashed flat into the tarmac. By the time he'd smoked the cigarette, the seagull had departed with the wrapper clasped in its beak. Lasser heard the sound of a car door closing.
'Right, do you want to follow us?' Fossey asked.
Lasser turned; Michael was back in the car, face stern, eyes front as if set on some distant horizon.
'Er yeah, yeah no problem.'
Now Lasser looked around at the garden, an undulating lawn swept around the front of the house with mature bushes and trees dotted here and there. Landscaped, Lasser thought as he headed over to the Range Rover.
Michael was standing at the front of the car looking at the house with a bemused look on his face.
'This is some house you've got here.' Lasser said.
'It's too big for someone living alone,' Fossey said. 'But I like the countryside,' he explained.
'You won the lottery or something?' Michael asked.
Fossey smiled. 'Come on let's get a drink.'
Inside, the house was a strange mixture of old, new, oak beams, and rough stone walls contrasting with the bachelor furniture, all black leather and gleaming chrome. Under normal circumstances, Lasser would have thought 'drug dealer,' you couldn't afford a place like this unless you were up to something dodgy.
Fossey led them through to the kitchen, the small terrier heading straight for the water bowl.
'I'm afraid it'll have to be Coke, is that OK?' Fossey asked pulling open the fridge.
Michael nodded, his eyes flitting everywhere, probably taking an inventory, so he could come back and nick it all, Lasser thought.
Then his phone began to ring, checking the number he grimaced and headed for the door.
'Won't be a minute,' he went outside, the phone clasped to his ear. 'What do you want, Meadows, I'm busy?'
'DCI Simms would like a word with you, Lasser.'
Inwardly Lasser groaned. 'I'm on my way back to the station, I…'
'I'll put you through now.' Meadows's voice sounded curt as if he knew Lasser was in for a roasting and was relishing the prospect.
'What do you mean…?'
The phone clicked and for a moment Lasser thought the line had gone dead and then Simms's voice filled his ear, light and friendly. Lasser cringed; in his experience when a senior officer was 'light and friendly' it normally meant they were getting ready to stick the knife in.
'Now then, Sergeant Lasser, where are you?'
'I was just on my way back to the station, sir,' he lied.
'And what have you done with Michael Jones?'
Shit!
'You see PC Harp
er informed me that you took the boy into custody for attacking his own mother.'
Lasser scrubbed a hand through his short hair. 'Well, that's not exactly true, sir.'
'So, you didn't arrest the boy?' The voice was still pleasant, but Lasser wasn't fooled.
'No, sir, I thought under the circumstances it would be better not to inflame the situation.'
A pause on the line, Lasser looked out into the garden, keeping his lips locked together…
'You were concerned he might go and pay Kyle Connelly and his cronies a visit, is that it?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Well, you can forget about that for the time being, we've got the three of them in custody.'
'Right.'
'Look, I can understand why you wanted to get the boy away from there, after what Harper told me the mother seems a bit unstable.'
'You could say that, sir.'
'But leaving an inexperienced PC behind to clean up the mess wasn't exactly your finest hour was it?' The DCI's voice had altered slightly; a small inflection of disapproval had crept in.
'No, sir, I realise that.'
Lasser heard a scrunching noise down the phone as if Simms was in the process of screwing up his contract and dropping it into the bin.
'Forget about that for the moment. I've just had Molder on from the path lab.'
Lasser frowned, what did Doctor Death want with Simms? 'I see…'
'Thomas Kitts, suspected heart attack victim.'
'Yes.'
'Well, apparently it wasn't a heart attack; the unfortunate Mr Kitts was suffocated.'
'What!' Lasser watched as a magpie flew past, a dark omen if you believed in that sort of thing.
'I want you to get back up to the woods and liaise with Hopkins; we need to know if there is any connection between the Jones boy and Thomas Kitts.'
'I'm on my way.'
'Right, I'll send some more uniforms up to help with the search and keep the press at bay. It's bad enough now, but if they get wind that there's a double murderer on the loose then the buggers will have a field day.'
'Understood, sir.'
'And one more thing, Sergeant, keep me informed, I don't expect to hear information second-hand, is that understood?'
'Loud and clear.'
The line went dead; Lasser heaved a sigh of relief and then thought about Kitts. Well, at least he wasn't to blame for that; it had taken the pathologist the best part of a day to find out that the old guy had been snuffed out. Slipping the phone back into his pocket he quickly made his way into the house. Michael was sitting at the kitchen table sipping his drink, Fossey was emptying a can of dog food into a metal bowl.
'I've got to go,' he said. 'Will you be OK, Michael?'
He received the briefest of nods in response.
'Don't worry, he's going to help me fix my laptop aren't you, Michael?'
'I'll have a look at it, but I've told you I'm no expert.'
Fossey dropped the spoon into the sink and crossed the room, following Lasser outside.
'It was my boss on the blower; they've taken three kids into custody,' he kept his voice low, his eyes fixed on the back door. The last thing he wanted was for Michael to get wind of the news.
'Do you know who they are?' Fossey asked.
'Oh yes, until a few months ago they were all friends of Michael.'
'I see.'
'Listen if I don't go I'm going to get my arse chewed,' he smiled apologetically.
'No problem.'
'I'll ring later,' he climbed into the car, a couple of seconds later he was heading down the drive, wheels spinning on gravel.
35
Twelve months ago, she would have found the whole thing thrilling, not the murder of course, only seriously weird people got a thrill from that kind of thing. Nevertheless, the TV and radio reporters parked on the lane in their high-tech vans would have had her dashing for her grandad's binoculars.
However, twelve months ago she had been just a kid with posters of the Stereophonics plastered on her bedroom wall. Between leaving school and starting college she'd grown up a lot, all the schoolgirl crushes had been deconstructed and filed away as immature nonsense.
Jenna pulled open the bedroom curtain a fraction and looked down to where the vans were parked, she could see big cameras on tripods pointing towards the house and people milling around as if they were waiting for something to happen.
Just like a siege she thought, as she yanked the curtains closed, the realisation she was a prisoner in her own home landed like a heavy stone dropped down a very deep well.
She looked around the room; it was as if she could feel the walls closing in, her world shrinking by the minute. Leaving the bedroom in a huff, she made her way across the landing; halfway down the stairs she stopped, her mother was sitting on the sofa, a worried frown on her face, her dad was pacing up and down, his big hands scrunched into fists.
'It's not bloody on, Susan, the sods came running across the field, they didn't give a toss about the wheat they were trampling down. I mean, why the hell didn't you ring me and let me know what was going on?'
Susan glared up at him. 'I tried ringing, but as usual you would have had the music on too loud.'
'I tell you, if I'd had the shotgun.'
'Oh that would have really helped, wouldn't it? You're as bad as my father – that was his first response; they'd love you to do something like that. I mean, what could be better than having some lunatic farmer waving his gun around?'
Jenna stood on the stairs, her stomach curdling as she watched the scene unfold.
'So, what do you suggest?' he asked.
'We just have to sit tight until…' she stopped as if suddenly at a loss for words.
'Until what, I mean, come on, Susan, this is a working farm. I need to be out there,' he jabbed a finger at the window.
'You think I don't know that?'
'What about the police, will they be able to shift them?'
'I don't see how; it's not like they're trespassing.'
He slumped into his favourite chair, feet splayed, elbows on his knees.
'Look, Dave, we have to just let things run their course. Someone has been murdered on land that we own, I mean, the media are bound to be interested.'
'But the combine is due to turn up the day after tomorrow. If they can't get onto the fields, then they'll simply turn around and go and what happens then? They'll still want paying and we've hired the bloody thing for two weeks, so we have to fork out a fortune and the crops will still be out there rotting in the fields.'
The more Jenna listened the angrier she became; she could feel the tension wafting up the stairs like the scent from a bubbling casserole. Didn't these people, these 'reporters' realise the damage they were causing. Of course they did, they just didn't give a toss, what did they care about a field of rotting crops, what did they care about the money that would be wasted?
'Maybe I should go down to the gate and have a word with them.'
'No way.'
'Why not, I mean, I could just explain that we know as much as they do?'
Her mother shook her head. 'It doesn't work that way, Dave.'
'Look, nobody could be sorrier than me about what's happened, like your dad said, we should have knocked the place down years ago. But we can't turn the clock back,' he stood up. 'But I refuse to simply sit here like some common criminal. I'll be up at five as normal and in that tractor and if one of those idiots wants to get themselves flattened then that's up to them.'
Jenna watched as her dad stormed across the room slamming the kitchen door behind him. Her mum stared into space and then wiped her eyes before standing up and going to the window.
Jenna hesitated for a moment, unsure of what she should do; a few seconds later she retraced her steps heading silently back to her room.
36
Michael grabbed his coat and headed across the room.
'You're going then?' Fossey was standing in the kitchen doorway.
'I don't know where you live, Michael, but it's got to be a good way from here?'
'I'll be all right,' he replied, zipping up the jacket and thrusting his hands into the pockets.
'You didn't manage to fix it then?' Fossey asked nodding towards the computer.
'No sorry, mate, I don't know what's up with it.'
'Never mind I hardly ever use it anyway.'
Michael frowned. 'So, why did you ask me to have a look at it?'
'Oh, come on, Michael, you're not an idiot. I asked you here to give you a chance to calm down. I asked you to fix the computer to give you something to do.' Fossey sighed. 'But obviously it hasn't worked because now all you want to do is get back home and pay your old friends a visit.'
'What do you know about them?' Michael snarled.
'Next to nothing but I know it'll be a wasted journey.'
'What the fuck you on about?'
'Lasser told me your friends have been taken into custody.'
'I fucking knew it!' Michael exploded, he'd had hold of Connelly had the murdering bastard pinned against the wall and he'd let him go with just a bloody nose.
'That doesn't mean they're responsible.' Fossey crossed the room and sat down on the sofa. T scrabbled across on his stomach and flopped into his lap.
'Well, they must have done something otherwise the coppers wouldn't have taken them in would they?'
'So, the police don't make mistakes is that what you're telling me?'
Michael glared across the room, the last of the sunlight streamed in through the massive window throwing oblique shadows onto the polished-oak floor.
'Look, I don't know if these people are responsible or not. What I do know is that if you go back there then you'll just get more frustrated, more angry and after what Lasser told me I can't imagine your mother welcoming you back with open arms…'
Michael took two steps towards Fossey, his hands bunched into fists. 'What the fuck do you know about my mother?'
The Needle House Page 13
