The Death Collector (25 page)

‘What is it?’ Evans said, and reached out for it.

Sam looked over her shoulder as she took hold of it. ‘Shit,’ he muttered.

It was an identification badge, the logo on the front familiar to everyone in the tent. Greater Manchester Police. Evans wiped away the dirt, and Sam swore again as the photograph and a name were unveiled.

David Jex.

Joe paused in front of the Magistrates’ Court.

It rose high in front of him, red sandstone and dark glass, but for all of its modern glamour Joe knew what was waiting for him. The excuses of defendants, handed over to him so that he could repackage them as something heartfelt and earnest.

Joe was carrying two files. Neither were guilty pleas, so he knew he wouldn’t see out either. Honeywells would close the department and his clients would be left to find alternative representation. One of the young lawyers from Mahones, Damien, approached the court entrance, all ill-fitting cheap suit and nerves. Joe stuck out his arm.

‘Damien, can you look after these for me?’

Damien looked down at the files and then at Joe. It was common for lawyers to ask others to mind a client, a quid pro quo in exchange for a small agency fee, so it was something else that made Damien frown. ‘Are you all right, Joe?’

Joe closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the fast beat of his heart as the thought of going into court overwhelmed him. ‘I’m just fine,’ he said, and started to walk away, sweat prickling his forehead.

‘Joe, what am I doing with them?’

‘Keeping them, if you want,’ Joe said, and he kept on walking. He knew where he was going, but he had to go into the office first.

Gina was walking along the first-floor corridor when Joe walked to his room. He didn’t say anything to her as he passed her. Instead, he closed his door firmly, giving out the message that he wasn’t to be interrupted. Gina ignored that, she had known him too long, and barged straight in.

‘What’s going on?’ she said, her brow furrowed by concern.

Joe was in his chair, looking at his computer screen. He logged straight onto the prison website, to get the phone number. Emergency legal visits were unusual, but Joe was relieved to see that Honeywells was still the firm on the prison’s records. He explained that something had come up unexpectedly, and was told that if he could get there in a couple of hours, they could accommodate a visit.

‘Joe?’ Gina said, her hands on her hips now.

He fished around for some notes Carl had made, given to him by Lorna the day before, and headed for the door. He paused to kiss Gina on the cheek. ‘We’re done here, with this firm. I’m going to do this before I go.’

‘Joe, you can’t do this,’ she shouted after him, but he wasn’t listening. He had a prison slot and he had the address of the young couple who had found Rebecca Scarfield, Aidan’s supposed victim, the details jotted across the top of their witness statements.

They lived in a town in Yorkshire, on the other side of the Pennines but only a few miles from where the body was found. It was a different county, a whole different place, but it was on the way to where Aidan was imprisoned at the high security prison in Wakefield.

Carl gritted his teeth as the pain in his legs grew. He fought the urge to sit down, the back of his legs cramping, his calves tight and desperate for rest. He was thirsty and his stomach groaned. He felt light-headed and it was hard to keep his mouth hydrated; the gag soaked up any saliva he could muster.

Fatigue scared him the most. One quick drift into sleep, even standing, would make that slip-knot tighten and he would die, the last view of his world being the starkness of the cellar and the dead woman on the floor in front of him. He tried to concentrate on something else instead, just to keep his mind alert. He needed some anger or adrenalin, so he thought about how he had ended up here.

The man’s house had been just one more on a list of addresses he’d found at the back of one of his father’s files. Carl had been working his way through the list, trying to work out what his father might have seen. Night after night of hanging around houses, looking for something about the occupant that struck him as off-key, to notice the thing his father had noticed. Then there had been this house, the next on the list.

Something about the man had struck him as being unusual. He had seemed secretive, looking around whenever he got into his car. He was friendly with his neighbours, but it seemed too much, as if he was more interested in getting them to like him than in becoming friends. He was the man who rushed from his car to help the elderly lady with her shopping bags, or laughed overly loudly as he exchanged banter with the postman. A good neighbour, everyone loved him, but Carl had seen him change whenever he thought he was alone. His smile slipped as soon as the postman moved on, and he checked around him whenever he went into the house, as if he didn’t want anyone to see inside.

So Carl had gone back for another look and he had been arrested. That had made him want to go back again, certain that there was something else to see, and he had ended up in the cellar instead, clammy, cold and hungry. It was dark, the light off, and even though his eyes had adjusted to the gloom, it was still impossible to make much out. There were the lines of shelving and, ahead in the darkness, the grey outline of the woman’s body.

He thought he could hear her, like soft breaths, but he knew it was his mind playing tricks. What would happen to her now? How had he disposed of the others? How many were there? Would he have to witness it, some carve-up with a saw or perhaps wrapped in plastic and taken away?

Carl looked down and blinked away some tears. He readjusted his feet, just to keep the circulation going in his legs. A sob choked up his throat. As much as he resolved to be strong, misery crept up on him and assaulted him in waves. Helplessness, anger, despair, confusion and disbelief swirled around him. What must his mother be thinking? Another one of the men in her life leaving the house and failing to return. She would spend the rest of her life wondering where they had gone and whether they were ever going to come back.

The sob escaped this time. It came out as a pitiful low moan, muffled through the gag, and then short bursts as he broke, tears running down his cheeks, his body quivering in the dark, making the rope scrape against his neck. He closed his eyes, seeking sanctuary in the darkness, for a moment taken away from the gloom of the cellar.

He stopped.

There had been a noise. Just soft but it had seemed loud in the dark. He opened his eyes and looked around. He was no longer alone.

It was there again. Something moving against the floor – a soft shuffle, barely audible but still there. Goosebumps broke out on his skin as fear rippled through him, making him cold.

There was a groan, low and steady. Carl jumped and yelped. It was coming from the floor, from the woman. He stared hard at her grey outline. Then he saw it: her leg moved.

His chest pumped hard as he took in fast breaths through his nostrils. He’d heard about this, bodies moving as they contract, rigor mortis setting in, expelling air that comes out as moans. He couldn’t bear the thought of that in the dark. He closed his eyes again. The hours ahead were filled with added dread now, wondering what changes she would go through as her body began its long transition to dust.

The noise changed and he yelped again. It was louder this time, the groan more audible. He opened his eyes, needing to see, and then he sobbed as she raised herself on one elbow and said in a muffled voice, ‘Where the fuck am I?’

Sam rubbed his face with his hands when he walked along the corridor. It was quiet, with many people still up at the scene, but there was still the chatter of the Incident Room ahead. He wasn’t ready for that yet. He was tired, having had virtually no sleep.

As he got closer, Evans was in the doorway of her room, talking to someone inside. She turned to him and gestured with a tilt of her head that he should go in. She was unsmiling. Sam did as he was told, and then paused when he got in there.

There was a superintendent sitting behind her desk. He was in uniform, with a silver crown on his epaulettes and his hair full and grey. He bore that relaxed air of a man who has done well in his career, but his eyes were cold. He wasn’t there to congratulate anyone.

‘DC Parker,’ he said, the tone of his voice rich and deep. ‘Sit down,’ and he gestured to the chair in front of the desk. ‘I’m Superintendent Metcalfe.’

Evans leaned against her door as Sam took his seat. He crossed his legs nervously. He brushed non-existent lint from his trousers.

‘Sir?’

Metcalfe smiled, but it was quick. ‘You’ve caused us a problem, Sam. Can I call you Sam?’

Sam nodded. ‘A problem? Why?’

‘Because we had that scene finished off yesterday, but it turns out that one of our officers was buried on the same spot, uncovered only when an off-duty detective went for a midnight dig. It makes us like look amateurs, saved by some maverick.’

Sam uncrossed his leg and then back again. ‘That wasn’t my intention, sir.’

‘So why the hell did you do it?’

Sam turned to look back at Evans. She was staying quiet, her arms folded. Seeing where the blame was going to rest, he reckoned.

‘I raised it yesterday, in the squad meeting,’ Sam said. ‘It just seemed that the location of the dead woman was significant.’

‘And what was said when you raised it?’

‘DCI Hunter dismissed it.’

‘So you went against a direct order?’

‘I got it right, sir. That’s why I did it. I knew I was right.’

The superintendent looked up at Evans before he sighed. ‘Between us three, Hunter is a dinosaur, but a damn good copper. However,’ and he frowned, ‘his ego gets in the way sometimes. That didn’t mean you had to go on a frolic of your own.’

Sam coughed nervously. ‘Isn’t it more important that we found the body, not how we found it?’

‘It isn’t just about one case,’ the superintendent said, his tone acquiring an edge. ‘We have to think of how the Force will look. We can’t be seen as some kind of Keystone Kops outfit.’

Evans stepped away from the door. ‘I told Sam he could follow that angle,’ she said.

The superintendent looked up, surprised.

‘He came to me yesterday and said he thought the investigation was too narrow, focusing too much on the husband and not on other possibilities.’

‘So you told him to go get a spade and dig up the moors at sunrise?’ Metcalfe said, leaning back, his eyes wide.

‘No, I didn’t,’ she said. ‘But I did say that I would back him up provided he did everything Hunter asked him as well. I thought that if it came to nothing, then nothing was lost.’

‘Ordered,’ the superintendent said. ‘Hunter doesn’t ask. He orders.’

Evan stayed quiet. She had made her point, and Sam was grateful.

The superintendent twirled in his chair. He looked out of the window for a few seconds before he turned back to face Sam. ‘We need to manage it then,’ he said. ‘You gave him authority and he was acting under direction, pursuing many lines of inquiry. The fact that Sam was alone won’t come out until the trial.’

‘If there is one,’ Evans said. ‘We need to catch the bastard first and, thanks to Sam, we’ve got more chance than we did this time yesterday.’

‘That’s the line, then,’ the superintendent said. ‘Sam was no Lone Ranger. He was acting under orders, waiting until the end of the night, to see if the killer returned to the scene. If it was meant as a display, some kind of marker, the killer would think we’d missed it and might have come back with a spade of his own. It was a bluff, a piece of misdirection. When he didn’t show, we dug ourselves.’

‘It sounds good,’ Evans said.

‘Sam?’

He nodded. ‘I didn’t do it for the glory. I did it because it wasn’t being done right.’

The superintendent nodded, satisfied. ‘It’s hard to be happy, because it’s one of our own on the moors, but well done.’

Sam smiled. ‘Thank you, sir.’

The superintendent got to his feet. He held out his hand to shake. Sam took it. ‘Thank you, Sam. Just remember the line. Bluff and misdirection. It makes us look cunning. I like it.’

The superintendent left the room. Evans closed the door and let out a sigh of relief. ‘That could have gone badly,’ she said. ‘He’s all about image, not results.’

Sam stared at the closed door for a few seconds before he said, ‘How does someone lose their way like that?’

‘Simple. They never had a proper way. It was only ever about the slippery pole. Some people are born to climb, kissing every arse they pass on the way up. Promise me one thing, Sam.’

‘Yes?’

‘Don’t be like him. Or like them.’ And she pointed to the room next door, to the Incident Room. ‘All puffed chests and back slaps.’

Sam smiled. ‘Thank you.’

Before he left the room, Evans said, ‘If this bluff is going to work, you had to be on duty last night, so right now, from this minute, you’re off-duty. We’re not paying you overtime for a lone crusade.’

‘So I have to go home?’

‘I didn’t say that, but you should. You look tired.’

He left the room, grateful for avoiding censure, and leaned against the wall in the corridor. He closed his eyes and exhaled loudly. More important than avoiding disciplinary action, he had been right.