by M K Farrar
He put the file aside and picked up Jacob Tater’s. Another young man who’d had a fight with his other half and then vanished, only to turn up murdered. Jacob’s girlfriend at the time had an alibi, but Luke’s wife had been alone. They still had very little on Matthew Gordon except for what his father had told them, plus his criminal record and the small pieces of information his DCs had pulled up.
He tapped his pen against his lips. The only thing he could think of was that each man had fought with someone close or had been estranged from a family member, but how would that have got them killed and by the same person?
Ryan checked to see who was the SIO on Jacob Tater’s case. He recognised the name. DCI Norton was now retired, but Ryan remembered working with him during his early days as a detective constable. He doubted Norton would remember him.
A quick search online brought up DCI Norton’s most recent address. He still lived in Bristol, in the expensive Clifton area. Maybe Norton would remember something about the case that hadn’t been in the file.
Mallory was busy with something else, so Ryan decided to drive there alone.
Twenty minutes later, he pulled up outside Norton’s most recent address. The house was set back from the road, with a small courtyard garden outside the sash bay window. Ryan locked the car and trotted up the path to the red front door and rang the bell.
It took a moment, but the door opened, and Ryan instantly recognised the retired DCI, though he had a little less hair and a few more pounds since Ryan had last seen him.
“I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but my name is Ryan Chase. I’m a DI with Bristol’s Major Crimes Investigation Team. You probably don’t remember me, but we did work together briefly before you retired.”
Norton squinted at him. “Hmm, you look vaguely familiar. What can I do for you?”
“I wanted to ask you some questions about an old case. Do you have a few minutes you can spare?”
He sniffed. “I suppose so. It isn’t like my days are filled with much excitement lately.” He stepped back to allow Ryan in.
A woman with grey hair cropped into a bob was baking something in the kitchen, and she leaned out to see who was at the door.
“This is my wife, Linda,” Norton said. “Linda, this is DI Chase. He’s just come to ask some questions about an old case.”
“Would you like some tea?” she offered. “I just took some scones out of the oven, too, if you’re hungry.”
“They smell delicious,” Ryan said with a smile, “but I just ate. Tea would be great, though, if it’s not too much trouble.”
“No trouble at all. Not often we have handsome young men coming into the house.”
Ryan grinned. It wasn’t often he was referred to as young, either, and he appreciated the flirtatious glint in Linda’s eye, even if she was old enough to be his mother.
Norton seemed to have picked up on it as well, rolling his eyes and ushering Ryan into the living room. If he was bothered, he didn’t say anything. Perhaps he was used to his wife’s ways, maybe he even appreciated it—helped to keep a spark in the marriage.
“Take a seat.”
“Thanks.” Ryan sank down onto the sofa. He leaned down to pull the old case file from his bag and slid it onto the coffee table. “The case I wanted to talk to you about is from ten years ago. The victim was nineteen-year-old Jacob Tater. He went out for the weekend with his girlfriend and friends, and vanished from the club they were at after an argument with the girlfriend. His body was later discovered with the hands and head sawn off, but the missing parts were never discovered. Do you remember it?”
Norton nodded and reached for the file. “Yes, I remember. It was a long time ago, though. Can you give me a minute to bring myself up to speed?”
“Of course.”
Norton flicked through the file. His wife entered with an old-fashioned teapot and some biscuits on a plate and set them down in front of Ryan.
“I know you said you weren’t hungry, but I thought I’d bring them in just in case.”
“Thank you, Mrs Norton.”
She smoothed back her hair. “Oh, it’s Linda, please. Mrs Norton makes me feel like an old lady.”
“In which case, you must call me Ryan.” He turned on the charm, flashing her a wide smile.
Twin blooms of colour rose to her cheeks, and she poured the tea. “I’ll leave you two in peace,” she said. “It was nice to meet you, Ryan.”
“You, too, Linda.”
She left the room, and Norton placed the folder back on the table. “Yes, I remember this one. It was very frustrating. We got CCTV footage of the victim leaving the club, but then it was just like he disappeared.”
“He left on his own?”
“Yes. There were a few people hanging around outside who we weren’t able to track down, despite running media campaigns to get them to come forward. If the same thing were to happen today, we’d probably be able to track him better because we not only have greater CCTV coverage, almost everyone is on social media and we could have got a hit that way, but ten years ago it wasn’t as widely used.”
“What was your opinion on the girlfriend, Gemma Turner?”
“I thought she was telling the truth. Yes, they had a fight, but it didn’t seem to me to be enough of a motive for her to want him dead. He was mixed up in drugs and other petty crime, and we came to the conclusion that it was more likely that he’d pissed off the wrong person or owed someone money than anything else.”
Ryan nodded. “She seemed genuine to me as well. It had been ten years, but she was still upset at the way things had gone with Jacob. She was heartbroken that the last time they’d spoken had been during a fight.”
Norton’s brow furrowed, his lips pinching together. “I don’t think there’s anything we missed, DI Chase, if that’s why you’re here. We did our jobs right back then.”
“I wasn’t trying to imply that you hadn’t—that’s not why I’m here. New evidence has come to light. Have you heard about the body parts that were found in the river?”
Norton cocked his head at an angle, fresh interest lighting in his eyes. “How could I not? It’s all over the news. The press are having a field day with their stupid headlines. ‘Up in Arms’ was one I read, saying about how people are upset that they’ve not been allowed to use their precious river while investigations are ongoing.”
Ryan rolled his eyes. “They’ve certainly had plenty of material to work with.”
“What’s the new evidence? Something linking the two crimes?”
“You’ve hit the nail on the head.” Ryan found the correct part of the report and pointed it out to Norton. “There were paint fragments in the remains of the severed limbs, both on the body of Jacob Tater, and on the body parts that were discovered this week.”
He frowned. “Paint fragments?”
“Yes. They were different colours, but considering the limb amputations, the way they were cut, and the paint fragments, we believe we’re looking at the same killer.”
“That makes sense. How recently do you think the other two men were killed?”
“One was most likely a couple of months ago. The other was more recent—a week, at an estimation.”
Norton sat back and folded his arms across his belly. “You need to ask yourself, what has the killer been doing all this time? If they killed ten years ago, and now as recently as a couple of months ago, why the big gap?”
Ryan took a sip of his tea and placed the mug back down on a coaster. “That’s a very good point. Maybe they were away from the area?”
“Have you searched for any cases across the rest of the country that are similar?”
“Yes, but nothing else came up.”
Norton thought for a moment. “What about contacting Interpol? Perhaps the killer was working abroad, and they only just came back.”
“Definitely something to think about, thanks.” Ryan considered what Norton had said about how social media might have played a bigger part if
the case had happened today. “The people you were unable to track down from outside the club, do you think they’d have been of any use to the investigation?”
He shrugged. “Who knows, but they might have been the last people to see Jacob Tater alive.”
Would the technology they had available now be able to help them? Maybe they could use social media to get the word out. Social media had been around ten years ago, but the widespread use of multiple platforms was nothing like it was these days. It was something, at least, a way of possibly finding a new lead that might not only point them to Jacob’s killer, but also the more recent ones. Even if they were able to track the people down, what could he hope for them to remember? It had been ten years ago, and outside a nightclub. Chances were that the witnesses would have been drinking. They might not remember a thing.
It was worth a shot, though. They had the old CCTV footage from outside the club the night Jacob went missing. Maybe now was the time to see what social media could do for them.
“Thank you for your help, and thank you for the tea, Linda,” he called out. “I’d better be going. Too much to do and not enough hands to do it.”
“I know that feeling.” Norton snorted. “I miss it, though. I’d come back, but the missus would probably divorce me.”
“Mine did,” Ryan said with a grin, then instantly felt bad about saying anything about Donna.
“Comes with the job, unfortunately. I was lucky to have a wife who stuck out the unsociable hours and the moody husband, but I don’t think she’d be willing to do it for a second time.”
Ryan chuckled. “Can’t say I blame her. You’ve got a good one there.”
“I do. I’m a lucky fella.”
Norton saw him out. Ryan got back in his car and sent a message to Mallory with instructions to get some decent screenshots of the CCTV footage and send it out to their press department. Maybe if they got a fresh lead from the ten-year-old case, they could finally figure out what was linking the three men.
Chapter Twenty
It was getting late, and another evening alone loomed over Ryan. The conversation he’d had with Nikki Francis was also nagging at him, and he wondered if he was just being a wimp by not offering to take her up on that drink. If Donna could be so strong after everything she’d gone through, what with losing Hayley, and then having that dickhead walk out on her, and now be facing cancer so bravely, the least he could do was ask someone out.
Still sitting in the car, he dialled Nikki Francis’s number. Nerves churned in his stomach. Jesus. He was in his forties and nervous about asking a woman out for a drink. His twenty-year-old self would have ripped the piss out of him. Crazy to think how he’d once been so confident in life. Back then, he wouldn’t have thought twice about walking up to a woman he fancied and asking her out. If she’d said no, he’d have simply turned around and found someone else. But life had beaten him down over the years, and things weren’t so simple anymore.
She answered, and his stomach flipped.
“Nikki speaking.”
“Hi, Nikki, it’s Ryan. Ryan Chase.”
“Ryan, hi. I hope you’re phoning to ask me out for that drink.”
A smile tweaked his cheeks. “Actually, that’s the exact reason I’m phoning. Are you free tonight?”
“I’d have to check my busy schedule...” She paused for a moment. “Oh, look at that. I had a cancellation from one of my many suitors, so I guess I am.”
“Their loss is my gain. Do you know the Pig and Pitcher?”
The pub wasn’t far from the station and was a frequent haunt for police officers. It was probably stupid of him inviting her to a local, where colleagues might well spot them, but he was hoping that by subconsciously making this feel like it had to do with work rather than being something personal, he’d be able to cope better.
“I certainly do.”
“Want to meet there at seven?” he asked.
“Perfect,” she replied. “See you there.”
RYAN WALKED INTO THE low chatter and background music of the pub, casting his gaze around for a familiar blonde head. He didn’t see her, so he headed to the bar. Should he wait until she’d arrived before he bought a drink? He didn’t know her well enough to be able to order for her, yet it felt rude to just buy himself one. Anxiety crawled over his skin like ants. Maybe it was a mistake coming here? He felt as though everyone was staring at him.
The bloke behind the bar approached. “What can I get you?”
Maybe a drink would help. “A bottle of Malbec,” he said, “and two glasses.”
If Nikki didn’t drink red, he could just order her something else. At least this way, it didn’t look as though he’d only thought about himself. But what if she didn’t drink red wine but felt obliged to accept a glass because he’d already paid for it? Shit, he was totally overthinking this, but his mind was already spinning, and she hadn’t even arrived yet.
Ryan put out his hand to get the barman’s attention so he could tell him that he only needed one glass instead of a bottle, but before he got the chance, a small, slim body pressed into his side, and he found himself staring down at a blonde head.
“What are you drinking?” Nikki asked with a smile.
“Actually, I’ve just ordered a bottle of red, but then I wasn’t sure if that was what you drank.”
“Red sounds good to me. I’ll drink anything.”
He laughed. “Well, that’s one less thing to worry about.”
The barman returned with the wine and glasses, and Ryan paid.
“I spot a spare table,” Nikki said, already winding her way between the other pub-goers to reach it.
Ryan followed her, carrying the bottle and glasses. Nikki took a seat on the inside, and Ryan sat opposite. He poured them both a decent-sized glass.
“Cheers,” he said and took a large gulp, hoping it would calm his nerves.
Nikki took a sip of her own wine and appeared to be suppressing a smile. Had she realised how nervous he was?
“I wasn’t expecting you to call,” she said. “You surprised me.”
“I found out my ex-wife has cancer,” he blurted and then instantly wished he could kick himself.
Her eyes widened. “I’m sorry to hear that. Are the two of you still close?”
“Yes...well, no...not really. We’re still in touch, though, obviously.”
“Why did that prompt you to call me?”
He shrugged. “Life being too short, I guess. That sort of thing.”
“Well, you’re not wrong. Our work hands us enough evidence of that. How is the case going? Did you manage to get an ID on the second victim?”
“Yes, and we’ve notified his next of kin. Hopefully, we’ll start to make some headway into finding out who actually did it.”
Nikki took another sip of her wine. “Anyway, enough about work. Tell me about yourself.”
What was there to tell? It wasn’t as though he had a life outside of work. “Well, you already know I’m divorced.”
She smiled. “Me, too. Five years now.”
“Kids?” he asked.
“No. You?”
His stomach lurched. He didn’t want to have this conversation with her. He’d been stupid to think it could really be avoided. Of course, she would ask, just like he’d asked her.
“No,” he said, rather than having to explain.
What if she already knew? What if she’d done her research on him and now it seemed as though he was lying? His anxiety rushed back over him like a bucket of cold water. His breath grew short, and his palms prickled with sweat. He picked up his wine glass and took another big gulp. He didn’t want her to think he was lying, but at the same time he couldn’t bring himself to tell her the truth—not about those terrible days after Hayley had died, or what had happened to her killer when he’d been released from prison.
He wished he hadn’t gone through with this. He never should have called her. He was suddenly filled with an intense desire to remov
e himself from the situation, no matter what the cost.
From out of nowhere, a thought pushed itself into his head. Throw the table over. Go on, do it. The drinks will go all over her. The glasses will smash. Everyone will stare.
Ryan squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, willing the thought to vanish. He wasn’t going to do it. It was just a thought, that was all. But now it was in his head, it was all he could think about. In his mind’s eye, he pictured that exact scenario happening, and how she’d tell everyone he worked with that he was violent and out of control. He wasn’t those things, though; it was his mind playing tricks on him.
What about what happened with Cole Fielding?
Cole was the young man who’d run over his daughter. Cole had only served a handful of years before getting out on good behaviour. Only hours after his release, he’d taken himself to a bridge running over the River Avon and attempted to hang himself. The hanging had gone wrong, however, and he’d fallen into the river. He’d broken his neck on impact, but miraculously—depending on the point of view—he hadn’t drowned. Instead, he’d been washed up on the shore and found in the early hours. Cole might be alive, but he had no life. Paralysed from the neck down, and with limited brain function, he would never regain any quality of life. A note had been found at the bridge beside the rope he’d used to attempt the hanging. It had read he was sorry for what he’d done, but Ryan didn’t believe it for a second.
The police had come to talk to Ryan after Cole had been found, asking for his whereabouts at the time. Ryan had been able to tell them that he’d been home that night, and his neighbour, Mrs Furst, had been able to confirm that for them, as he’d knocked on her door looking for a package he’d ordered when he’d arrived back home after work. But his thoughts had tortured him with images of Cole Fielding dangling off the metal struts of the bridge, with Ryan leaning over, watching the thrashing man, and the torrent of water racing below.
He hadn’t done anything, had he? It wasn’t as though he hadn’t thought about it, repeatedly. Did he have that capacity for violence inside him? Yes, he believed he did. And it frightened him sometimes.
