Concrete Evidence (7 page)

              Bowers thought about calling it in but decided not to. He needed to be sure of the details before he made a report. He turned towards the apartments and walked along a stone path to where the ground floor flats were. The numbers went up in twos; Jackie Webb’s being the second door along the path. The front window was bowed, Georgian style with lots of small square panes. Some of the panes were dimpled. His view inside was blocked by heavy curtains that were closed. He tapped his knuckles on the window and listened for movement inside. Nothing.

              Bowers moved to the front door and peered through the bevelled glass. It was a pointless exercise. The image was so distorted that he couldn’t glean any information from it. He had a blurred impression of the hallway and nothing more. His orders were to knock on the door and check out the car parking bays. They had specifically ordered him not to touch the letterbox or try to enter the property. He had heard about the explosion across town and reading between the lines, it was obvious that there was a connection. He rapped on the door with his knuckles and waited. Nothing.

              “Seven, five, five,” he called into his coms. The radio crackled and buzzed.

              “Go ahead, seven, five, five.”

              “No reply at number four Sefton Heights but there is a 3-series BMW parked in the owner’s bay.”

              “Roger that,” the voice replied. “I’ll relay it to the DI. Standby.”

              “Roger,” he said distracted. A black Ford sped into the car park, tyres squealing as it screeched to a halt. The driver, a casually dressed middle aged woman with blond hair opened the door and walked quickly towards him, her face a picture of fear and concern.

              “This is my daughter’s flat,” she said breathlessly. “Jackie Webb is my daughter. I have a key.” She tried to pass by him. “I need to get in to see if she is alright.”

              “I can’t let you in there, Mrs Webb?” Bowers put his arm across her path. “Are you Mrs Webb?”

              “Yes I am.” She snapped. “What do you mean I can’t go in?” she gasped. She pushed against him. “I have to get in there. Jackie may be injured!”

     “Please calm down. Mrs Webb,” Bowers held firm. “Now what makes you think that Jackie is injured?”

She tried to step around him, her face flushed red with frustration. “Move you idiot!” she shouted. “Jayne’s mother called me and someone has been hurt. I have to get in there now!”

Bowers grabbed her by the arms and shook her gently to gain her attention. “Mrs Webb!” he growled. “I cannot let you into that property until we know that it is safe.” He shook her gently again. “Do you understand me?”

Mrs Webb tensed and then seemed to flop into his arms. Bowers had to grab her under the armpits to hold her weight. Her legs had turned to jelly. “Jackie could be hurt,” she whined. “Please!”

“Calm down,” Bowers said soothingly. He walked her backwards away from the front door. “Now what makes you think that she’s been injured?”

“My friend called me,” she sobbed. “Jayne Windsor’s mother. She said that there’s been a murder,” she rambled. “Jackie was with her daughter and I haven’t heard from her this week. I have to get inside.”

“Do you normally hear from her every day,” Bowers asked.

“No,” she stammered. “Not every day but she was with Jayne Windsor. Something terrible has happened.” 

The name meant nothing to officer Bowers. His orders had been specific but had little in the way of details attached. He guided Mrs Webb further from the apartments; reluctantly but she didn’t resist. “Seven, five, five,” he kept one eye on the distraught woman as he spoke.

“Go ahead.”

“I have Mrs Webb here,” he tempered his voice so as not to panic her further. “She has keys to number four Sefton Heights and is keen to go inside to look for her daughter.” He paused. “She seems to think that she might be injured.”

“Negative, seven, five, five,” control replied. “The DI is en route with support vehicles. She specified that no one is to attempt entry under any circumstances. ETA fifteen minutes.”

“Roger that.” Bowers raised his eyebrows and shook his head. “You heard that, Mrs Webb. I’m afraid we’ll have to wait until the detective in charge of the case arrives. I’m sorry but I can’t allow you near the apartment.”

Mrs Webb huffed and squeezed her hands together, childlike. “This is ridiculous!” she turned and stormed off towards her Ford. Bowers watched her suspiciously. Frightened people could be unpredictable but frightened parents were different again. They would do anything to protect their children even if it meant putting themselves in grave danger. “I’ll be filing a complaint,” she turned and wagged her finger at him. “I’ll sue if anything happens to Jackie.” She looked panicked and confused. She wiped her sweaty palms on her jeans and check shirt and stomped her feet in anger. Bowers felt for her. He had children himself. Teenagers. He spent all day working with the scum of the earth, which made it very difficult not to worry whenever they were out of his sight. Mrs Webb looked around, desperate for the detectives to arrive so that she could try to find her daughter. When her eyes fell on the access road, which led to the rear of the apartments, she jumped into the driver’s seat and slammed the door. Bowers followed her gaze and realised what she intended to do. As she started the engine and the vehicle lurched forward, he swore under his breath and sprinted along the path.

CHAPTER 10

              “W
e can rule out ancient Greek, Hebrew and Sumerian,” DS Watkin said excitedly. If there was anyone geeky enough to enjoy tracing an ancient script and identifying it, he was the man. “I would recognise them at a glance.” The three other officers in his team looked at each other and rolled their eyes skyward. They called him Google as it seemed there was no limit to his knowledge. Or so he claimed. “I could spot them a mile away.”

              “Of course you would,” Gwen said sarcastically. She had worked alongside him for two years and understood his enthusiasm for the task at hand. She often told him that he should have been a forensic investigator. “Why don’t we Google ‘ancient text’ and eliminate them in alphabetical order?” The others nodded in agreement. “Surely it will speed things up.”

              “No need to,” Watkin shrugged as he typed commands onto his keyboard. “Most ancient scripts are Runic in their origins but this is definitely not runic. That in itself negates much of what you’ll find on the net. I’m guessing these are biblical texts carved into the victim.” He mused as he scanned the screen with his tongue between his teeth. His thick lenses and chubby face gave him a schoolboy appearance. “I’ve seen this before and I am certain it is a type of Cyrillic.”

              “Put your tongue back in your mouth,” Gwen teased him. “It makes you look simple.”

              “Using this word here as a template, it matches with Glagolitic!” he sat back and folded his arms proudly, ignoring her jibe. “I knew it. Some schools of thought in the old Eastern Block call it the ‘witches language’ because there are many dark books of spells and the like written in it.”

“Spells?”

Gwen folded her arms and nodded in agreement. “They used it in case the books fell into the wrong hands.” She shrugged. “So that the uneducated couldn’t use the content unwisely.”

“They also use it in case the authorities found them. Practicing witches were burned at the stake.”

“They found a pentagram at the scene didn’t they?”

“Let’s not jump to conclusions just yet.” Google looked at their faces and grinned. They didn’t look as excited by his discovery as they should. “What are you waiting for?” he pointed to their computer screens. “Google Glagolitic and pull up the alphabet. Take a photograph each and get on with translating the script. We can have this done by tonight!” he grinned again.

              Gwen blew air from her cheeks and whistled. “Oh goodie,” she mumbled. “Let’s see what our latest psycho has to say shall we. I’ll take a five pound bet that it’s gobbledygook.”

              “Oh no you’re very wrong,” Watkin said sternly. “Anyone who can learn this script and uses it to this extent, has something very important to say but he wants the reader to work very hard to decipher his words. I’ll take your five pound bet that it’s gobbledygook,” he leaned over the desk and held out his hand. Gwen shook his hand and scoffed. A second later, Google was scribbling letters onto a pad. 

              “It’s probably the lyrics to an Eminem album,” she muttered. She picked up a crime scene image of the victim and immediately felt a pang of guilt for making light of the text. It was after all, carved into her flesh. “Whatever it says,” she looked at the others, “Let’s hope it helps us to find this sick bastard.”

              “Amen,” Google said. His team looked surprised. He smiled and shook his head, “Amen! It’s the first word on her left collarbone. I knew there would be something Biblical!”

“Of course you did,” Gwen smiled, hiding the urge to poke him in the eye with her finger.          

        CHAPTER 11

             
P.C.
Bowers sprinted as fast as his expanding waistline and arthritic knees would allow him to. He had been pulled off the frontline years ago and was coasting towards his retirement taking statements for insurance companies following burglaries or car thefts. He hadn’t had a partner for twelve months. Nowadays all he needed was a pen and a notepad. After just a few strides, his breath was coming in rasping bursts. His joints and connective tissues were straining under the unaccustomed pressure.  

              The Webb woman was determined to enter her daughter’s apartment and the chances were that, she would make it to the back door before he did. He heard the engine of her vehicle racing in low gear. It accelerated quickly putting distance between them. It roared out of view behind the apartment block, the tyres screeched as she turned the corner into the rear car park. He heard the gravel crunch beneath the wheels as it skidded to a halt. She was already at the rear of the flat. Bowers reached the end of the front path and turned the corner at full pelt. His feet slipped from beneath him and he hit the floor hard, taking his full weight on his elbows. Gravel ripped his uniform and tore the skin, friction burned his flesh. The impact knocked the wind from his lungs. “I’m too old for this shit,” he moaned.

              Sirens wailed in the distance. He took a moment to compose himself and to get his breath back. The thought of being on the receiving end of a ticking off from his superiors was top of mind. All he had to do was keep an empty apartment secure. He couldn’t be outwitted by an aging housewife. The thought spurred him on. He would be the laughing stock of the station if his orders were thwarted by a middle-aged woman. He pushed himself to his hands and knees like a sprinter in the blocks and then ran towards the rear. As he reached the next corner, he heard the Ford stop, the door opening and then her footsteps on the gravel. He slowed as he turned right, his bruises reminding him of the result of losing his footing again.

His momentum carried him onto the path and straight into a blue wheelie-bin. He tumbled head over heels, his weight knocking the bin sideways, scattering bottles and cans across the car park. He fell, palms splayed and knees grazed onto the concrete. “For fuck’s sake!” he hissed as he scrambled to his feet. He kicked the wheelie-bin in anger and shouted after the woman. “Mrs Webb!” 

The rear gardens were separated by high Waney Lap panels and concrete posts. A series of wooden gates gave access to each ground floor plot. Jackie Webb had secured her gate with a mortice lock that could be opened from either side, offering her visitors the option to enter from the rear providing they had a key. 

              “Mrs Webb,” he shouted breathlessly. She was fumbling with a set of keys, trying to open the gate. She looked up and saw him thundering around the corner towards her. “Mrs Webb!” he called again.

She dropped the keys and scrambled on the floor to pick them up. He was fifty yards from her. She looked panicked as she sorted through the bunch. There were three keys that could fit a mortice. Her fingers trembled as she slipped the first into the lock, twisting it until it grated against metal. She tried twisting it further but it wouldn’t budge. He was forty yards away, his mouth was moving but she couldn’t hear the words. Jackie was inside and she was hurt. She knew that she was in terrible danger, hurt, frightened and alone. Her instincts told her that something terrible had happened. The second key rattled against the lock and then slid in. It turned a quarter then stopped. The policeman was closing the gap quickly. She picked the third one from the bunch and pushed it home, twisting it with sweaty hands, the lock clicked open.

“Mrs Webb!”

Twenty yards. His voice made her actions more urgent. She turned the handle and pushed open the gate, running through it as fast as she could. She slammed it closed, forcing her back against the panels to stop him entering. She scrambled to get the key into the lock. Bowers crashed into the other side of the gate; his weight almost splintered the wood. She locked the mortice as he turned the handle and rattled the gate in its frame. “Mrs Webb, you cannot enter the property!” he crashed into it again with little effect. The gate wouldn’t hold for long. She breathed a sigh of relief and walked quickly towards the back door. The gate rattled again as Bowers put his shoulder against it. “Mrs Webb!” The frame creaked and the wood splintered slightly but it held firm.