by Kate Medina
‘Thank you.’ Jessie smiled, mentally fumbling to re-find her place. ‘So you told the police-dog teams that Lupo’s barking had woken you up.’
‘I was already awake, Dr Flynn. I don’t sleep so well since my husband died. I have a reading chair by the window and I get up and read instead of lying in bed tossing and turning. I open the curtains so that I can see the stars.’ She met Jessie’s gaze with a melancholy smile. ‘Two young policemen are not interested in the loss and heartaches associated with old age, Dr Flynn, and so it just felt easier to say that the dog’s barking had woken me. Does it really matter what I said, dear?’
Jessie wanted to say, Yes, it does matter. She was sure that it mattered, even if she couldn’t yet work out how or why.
‘No, not really. We just need to make sure that all witness statements are accurate so that when we catch him, there are no loopholes for his legal team to squeeze through.’
‘The law is an ass. My darling Derek used to say that. He absolutely hated legalese.’
Jessie nodded. ‘Can you just quickly confirm exactly what happened on the night you saw Lupo?’
Eunice nodded. ‘I woke at just past one, got out of bed, opened the curtains and that’s when I saw Lupo standing on the pavement right outside my cottage, like a magnificent Canadian timber wolf.’
72
Marilyn fetched himself an uninspiring cup of strong black coffee, tossed three sugars into it, and retreated to his office, shutting the door behind him, wishing not for the first time that whoever had fitted out Surrey and Sussex Major Crimes offices had appreciated that senior detectives required locks on their doors. A blind to pull down over the glass spy-panel wouldn’t go amiss, either. He had an overwhelming desire to barricade himself in, pull down that imaginary blind and sleep for a week. Either that or drown in whisky. This clean-living malarkey was barely bearable when life ran smoothly, but nothing hit the spot during times of stress like a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.
Whatever Simon Lewin was concealing – and Marilyn was sure that he was concealing something major, that Jessie Flynn’s ‘personal’ theory was, in fact, correct – he clearly felt silence was worth more to him than any contribution disclosure might make to the hunt for his wife’s murderer. And it was also highly unlikely that he was the elusive taxi driver, Charles, in his small dark hatchback, so Marilyn couldn’t even nail him with illegally plying for hire. Lewin was bloody Teflon.
Marilyn took a few quiet minutes to finish his coffee, knowing that he’d not get many more moments of peace until this case was over, then reached for his mobile. His practised thumb scrolled through the list of recent calls he’d made until he found Chichester’s three main taxi firm numbers, listed one after the other. He pressed the first and his call was answered almost immediately.
‘DI Simmons,’ a rough male voice answered. ‘Back so soon.’
‘I knew that you’d be on to this in a heartbeat, Gary, given how protective you are of your income stream.’
A deep, sonorous laugh. ‘You know me too well, DI Simmons. I was about to call you actually, but you’ve saved me the trouble. I’ve got a make, model and licence plate for you. Black Skoda Scala, LD57 JKF.’
‘Are you sure that’s the one?’
‘Yup. He’s been around for a couple of weeks. One of my guys spotted him and challenged him this morning, told him that he needed a licence from Her Majesty to practise as a taxi driver. He said he’d lost his job a month back and that he was trying to earn money to tide him over until he got a new one. Seemed genuine and he had those cuts on the back of his left hand, like you said. He introduced himself as Charles Morris.’
‘I’ll get my detective constable to pay him a visit to check that his identity is genuine.’
‘And if you could also ask your DC to warn him off doing it again, I’d be most grateful, DI Simmons. I’d hate anyone to think that they can moonlight as a taxi driver on my patch and get away with it. Good luck by the way, catching that looney-tune out there.’
‘Thanks for your help, Gary.’
‘Pleasure. And remember to give us a call when you need a lift somewhere.’ Another deep laugh. ‘I’d hate to see you giving business to those charlatans over at South Coast Cars or Sussex Radio Taxis.’
Marilyn cut off the call. Charles Morris: so the man had told Sophie Whitehead his real name. Not the hallmark of a ruthless serial killer. And neither was continuing to illegally ply for hire, despite having butchered five people. Nevertheless, he fired off a text to DC Cara with the name and number plate, asking him to source Charles Morris’ details off the APNR database and swing by on his way back from East Meon, check that he was, indeed, cast-iron benign.
Tilting back in his chair, he stretched his arms above his head and yawned. Another blind avenue, though at least he hadn’t wasted too long on it. And he didn’t blame Mr Morris for moonlighting as a taxi driver; it was easy money, cash in hand. He just wished the man had stayed the hell off his suspect list.
Now, his only remaining lead was the hair that Burrows had found in the Dalmatian mask Leo Lewin had been wearing. He resisted the urge to glance at his watch. Resisted the urge to snatch up his mobile and call Burrows, ask him to plant his boot firmly up the lab’s backside, tell them to get a bloody move on. Resisted the urge to call Jessie Flynn and ask her whether her Baba Vanga crystal ball had thrown up any killer insights. Instead, he crossed his arms over his chest and closed his eyes to grab a quick forty winks, hoping that his frazzled brain would seize the opportunity of rest to provide him with some startling insights of its own.
73
‘Was it useful?’ Callan asked, starting the engine and pulling away from the kerb outside Eunice Hargreaves’ cottage.
‘I don’t know, to be honest. I just felt that I needed to get Eunice Hargreaves’ story straight.’
‘What are you thinking?’
‘I was wondering why the perpetrator tied Lupo up outside her cottage.’ Jessie gave a wry smile. ‘Apart from the fact that there’s a handy lamp post outside the gate. Something’s niggling, but I can’t pin it down.’
‘It could be no more complex than the lamp post. Most villages aren’t lit.’
‘No, but there are plenty of handy trees.’
Callan smiled. ‘I’ll concede that point, Doctor. But you also told me that Walderton is the closest village to the Fullers’ house.’
‘Not by much. And it’s mainly woods between the Fullers’ house and Walderton, not easy walking, particularly not at night.’
‘But it’s guaranteed cover,’ Callan said. Ever the military man.
‘Is cover really an issue at – what? – midnight, in the middle of the Sussex countryside. You can drive for miles around these country lanes at night and not see anyone.’
She touched her thumb and forefinger to Callan’s satnav, shrinking the map, scrolling left until she found Walderton, left again until the Fullers’ extensive house and grounds were centred in the screen.
‘The Fullers’ house is here.’
Callan took in the map briefly before snapping his gaze back to the road. They were winding through the South Downs area of outstanding natural beauty, hills rising on either side, the thin strip of tarmac curling ahead of them between thick hedges. Jessie expanded the satnav map again, until an area of a couple of kilometres around the Fullers’ house was featured.
‘Walderton is the closest village, about a kilometre away, mainly through woods, as I said. But there’s also Stoughton, Lordington, Adsdean, East Marden, all within two kilometres, and to get to the latter three he’d have been able to cross fields or … Look, for Adsdean and Lordington, he could have moseyed down the drive and walked two kilometres along country lanes, so the going is far easier, particularly in the dark.’
‘He was dressed as a dog.’
‘Sure, but wouldn’t he take the mask off? Shove it in his pocket? And he could have left a coat in the Fullers’ woods, picked it up after the murders and throw
n it over the dog suit. Even if he wasn’t wearing a coat, it could pass as a pale tracksuit.’
‘At a stretch.’
‘Running tights then. A tight running outfit or cycling garb. The murders are meticulously planned and cleverly executed, so we know that he’s organized and clever, and so I doubt he’s going to be walking around the countryside in full regalia, mask and all.’
Callan didn’t answer immediately. They were cresting Harting Hill, a stunning vista of West Sussex and Surrey unfurling beneath them.
‘Doesn’t that go back to psychology though?’ Callan said, changing down to third, the gearbox groaning as it controlled the car’s descent. ‘What dressing up as a dog means to him, and that’s your department, Doctor.’
Jessie sighed. He was right. It did come down to psychology. Talk to me about dogs, lovely boyfriend. Was the murderer dressing up as a dog or did he want to be a dog? She suspected the latter, which would mean that when he was in character he would stay in character until the role – his work – was done. Until the murders, and all the actions associated with them, were complete.
‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘But even if he was dressed as a dog, wearing the full works, what would happen if someone drove past a man dressed as a dog, leading a huge, white Siberian husky, on a dark country lane, at past midnight on Saturday night/Sunday morning? They’d probably just think “Man coming back from a fancy dress party” or, failing that, they might think, “What the actual fuck, total weirdo, can’t wait to tell my mates about this” and keep on driving. They might slow down and gawp, stare in the rear-view mirror as they drove away, but they wouldn’t stop – would they? – in the dark to confront a man dressed as a dog, leading a dog the size of Lupo, to ask him why he’s dressed as a dog? And they wouldn’t recognize him because of the mask. So whichever way you cut it, I don’t think that handy lamp post outside Eunice Hargreaves’ cottage makes as much sense as everyone seems to think it does.’ Tipping her head back against the headrest, Jessie sighed. ‘Sorry, that was a bit of a mad rant.’
‘You’ve had a mad few days.’
She smothered a yawn. She was so utterly exhausted that she felt as if her brain had been doused in a vat of high-strength paracetamol. ‘I told Marilyn that I thought our perp taking Lupo somewhere that he would be found quickly, and alerting the police to the Fullers’ murders by doing so, showed that he has humanity.’
‘Did Marilyn agree with you?’
Jessie gave a wry smile. ‘No. He was of the opinion that our perp is a psychopath, plain and simple.’
‘Are you sure that he’s so wrong about that?’
‘Yes, actually, that’s about the only thing I am sure about.’ She sighed. ‘Because psychopaths have no empathy, for anyone or anything. Lupo could happily survive all night outside in the UK, many nights in fact, but perhaps the perp didn’t know that.’
Callan frowned. ‘Virtually everyone must know what Siberian huskies are bred for, where they come from. The name sort of gives it away.’
‘Right. But that’s just the point, isn’t it?’
‘You’re being opaque, Jessie.’
‘No, you’re being thick, Callan. Lupo could have quite happily survived until morning. If the perp hadn’t cared, he could have tied Lupo up in the woods or left him running free and at some point he would have been found. But instead he tramped a kilometre through woods, in the middle of the night, to Eunice Hargreaves’ cottage.’
‘To a lamp post outside a cottage in the nearest village. We’ve been through this.’
‘I know, I know. Like I said, something’s niggling, but I don’t know exactly what and I can’t think straight.’ Reaching over, Jessie took Callan’s left hand from the steering wheel and pulled it into her lap, entwined her fingers with his. He was used to high-speed driving as a military policeman, could easily navigate this winding B-road at fifty with only one hand. ‘Let’s just forget the stupid investigation for the rest of today. They’re waiting for DNA results on the hair they found in Leo Lewin’s mask, anyway, so the case may be solved by this evening. We’ve got more important things to …’ worry about ‘… think about.’
Tilting her head against the window, she closed her eyes, cradling his strong, safe hand in her lap. Callan was more important than the investigation. More important than anything. She’d pace the reception area at Frimley Park Hospital while he was in his appointment and then they’d drive back into the country and find a nice pub for dinner, a proper locals’ pub, low-ceilinged and dingy, more dogs than people. Then they’d drive back home, collect Lupo from Ahmose’s cottage next door and head to bed and she’d wake up in the morning to find that the case had been solved – or not. Either way, she’d deal with tomorrow, tomorrow.
Woods were flashing past the passenger window when Jessie opened her eyes sometime later. She wasn’t sure if she’d dozed or actually slept, though she did feel stiff and uncomfortable, as if she’d been sitting in this car seat for hours. She would have thought they were closer by now, in Frimley, not still in the countryside. She heard the sudden tick-tock of the indicator as Callan slowed and the seatbelt tightened against her chest.
‘Where are we?’ she asked, sleepily.
‘Here,’ Callan said.
‘Huh? Where?’
‘At the hospital.’
‘What? Oh God, I thought—’ A yawn truncated her sentence.
‘Thought what?’ he asked, pulling into the hospital car park.
‘I thought we were still in the countryside.’ Stuck. Stuck in Sussex … at the Fullers’ … in Walderton with Eunice Hargreaves. But they were in Frimley, Camberley, at the hospital. D-Day. D-Hour. D-Minute – finally here.
Finding a parking space, Callan cut the engine. ‘Ready?’
Jessie squeezed his hand hard. ‘Are you?’
He pulled a face. ‘As I’ll ever be.’
Raising his hand to her lips she kissed it hard. ‘I love you, Callan.’
‘I love you too, Jessie Flynn.’
74
The sliver of toughened glass in Marilyn’s office door filled with the doughy moon of Tony Burrows’ face. Even from a distance and through the none-too-clean pane, Marilyn could tell that Burrows was ragged, his pale blue eyes sunken and ringed with shadows, the combination of bald pate and six days’ worth of stubble curling now into a beard, making him look as if he’d accidentally put his head on upside down.
‘Come on in,’ Marilyn called out, trying to keep a lid on the eagerness in his tone. The fact that he probably looked like a teenager eyeing up his first date – far too keen for his own good – didn’t escape him, but he was in desperate need of a lifeline, a rubber ring, a ragged piece of driftwood, anything that he could grab onto to save the case, and himself, his beleaguered, battered reputation, from sinking.
Burrows stepped into his office, holding the door open behind him for Sarah Workman, who followed him in. He was wearing a tomato-red jumper atop a marginally darker shade of red corduroy trousers, bagging at the knees, and he looked like a particularly low-end, jobbing Santa Claus.
‘Is your wife away, Burrows?’ Marilyn asked.
Burrows raised an eyebrow in surprise. ‘On a girlfriend’s fiftieth birthday trip to Majorca. Nine menopausal women loose on a small island. God help the locals. How did you know?’
‘I’ve been spending a lot of time with Baba Vanga.’
Marilyn’s gaze moved from Burrows to Workman, lowered to fix on the A4 sheet of printed paper clasped tightly in her hand, though he didn’t have a cat in hell’s of reading it at this distance. His gaze rose again to take in the grave expression on her face, on Burrows’.
‘Don’t tell me that the bastards at the lab are still messing around with the hair from Leo Lewin’s dog mask? I paid them half my annual CSI budget to expedite it.’
Burrows shook his head.
A balloon of air emptied from Marilyn’s lungs with an audible ‘pouf’, the human equivalent of a punctured tyre
, as he pictured his only piece of hard evidence slipping through his fingers, swiftly followed by the case and his blood-sweat-and-tears, hard-earned reputation. ‘We didn’t get a match on NDNAD?’
Another shake. ‘The lab came back with a DNA profile from the hair half an hour ago and we did get a match on the database.’
It took Marilyn a moment to comprehend what he had said.
‘So why the long faces, people?’
Burrows didn’t answer. He looked across to Workman, who lifted her shoulders dispiritedly.
‘For Christ’s sake, spit it out, Sarah,’ Marilyn snapped.
75
One Year Ago
Robbie shook his head. He couldn’t see the boy any more. The boy was gone, swallowed by the waves. Only the little dog was visible, its white legs pumping the waves like pistons, as it fought with utter animal desperation for its life.
Fine?
No, he wasn’t even fine. Not now that he had come here, to this place.
‘What was it like?’ he murmured.
His dad looked confused.
‘Shall we go to the pub and get some dinner?’ Allan said, shivering. ‘It’s freezing out here. Perhaps we shouldn’t have come, but I thought some bracing air would whet our appetites for dinner.’
The wisps of mouse-coloured hair that he combed across his bald pate had caught the wind and were standing on end, waving like the tendrils of seaweed that Robbie could see in his mind’s eye, clinging to the boy’s bones. His dad looked ridiculous. Pale-faced and scared.
Robbie knew scared. He had been scared every day of his life. Just as the boy and his little black and white dog knew scared.
‘What was it like?’ he repeated, louder.
‘Robbie?’
‘What was it like, Dad?’ he shouted. ‘What was it fucking like?’
‘What was what like?’
‘Watching? What was it like watching him die?’
76
