Devil in the Detail Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Also by A.J. Cross

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Acknowledgements

  Also by A.J. Cross

  The Dr Kate Hanson mysteries

  GONE IN SECONDS

  ART OF DECEPTION

  A LITTLE DEATH *

  SOMETHING EVIL COMES *

  COLD, COLD HEART *

  The Will Traynor forensic mysteries

  DARK TRUTHS *

  * available from Severn House

  DEVIL IN THE DETAIL

  A.J. Cross

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First world edition published in Great Britain and the USA in 2021

  by Severn House, an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd,

  14 High Street, Edinburgh EH1 1TE.

  Trade paperback edition first published in Great Britain and the USA in 2022

  by Severn House, an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd.

  This eBook edition first published in 2021 by Severn House,

  an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd.

  severnhouse.com

  Copyright © A.J. Cross, 2021

  All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. The right of A.J. Cross to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-9037-5 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-768-2 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0506-3 (e-book)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.

  This eBook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland

  ONE

  Friday 30 November. 4.30 p.m.

  Lugging her stuffed briefcase, the blonde woman emerged from her office building and headed across the darkened car park, head lowered against misting rain. Raising her key fob, she hurried across pooled tarmac to the grey Mercedes. Recalling that the boot was filled with boxes of books her mother had asked her to drop off at a charity shop, she diverted to the passenger door, opened it, dumped the heavy briefcase on the seat and paused, unsure now whether to go back inside to check her desk. Norm, her boss, was still there. If he saw her, he would probably give her something else to do. Or, worse, invite her for an after-work drink. She went quickly around the car, got inside. Wiping rain from her face with gloved hands, she backed out of her space and headed across the half-empty car park to the exit.

  A sudden gap in traffic along the dual carriageway towards her, a flash of headlights, a quick handwave and she joined the steady flow of vehicles heading for the traffic island, where she became part of the downward surge past the mosque on the right. Continuing steadily on to the large intersection some way ahead, she saw the lights change to red, slowed and came to a stop. Tired, irritated by the incessant whup-whup of the windscreen wipers, she flicked them off and glanced at the bulging designer briefcase on the passenger seat. If she didn’t have all she needed, next week was shaping up to be a total dis—

  The passenger window exploded. Glass fragments, rain and wind struck her face, her hair. Two gloved hands appeared. One grasped the briefcase, the other holding something black, metallic. On autopilot, she reached for the briefcase, recoiled at an agonizing blow to her left hand. Someone was shouting at her through the window. The lights changed to green. A car hooted somewhere behind her. Those in front were already crossing the interchange. Getting into gear on the second attempt and releasing the handbrake, she drove, wind and rain hitting her face and a sensation of something oozing inside her glove each time she moved the steering wheel.

  Reaching her house, she got out of the car, walked to her front door, unlocked it, went inside and stood. The silence was deafening. Letting her coat fall from her shoulders, she brushed rain from her face with her gloved hands, picked up the house phone, stared at the numbers on the keypad and looked up at her reflection in the mirror, a swathe of something dark across her face. The three numbers came to her. Feeling more oozing as she removed the glove from her right hand, she tapped the numbers. Her call was picked up.

  ‘I-I want to report an-an attack. On my car. I’m bleeding.’

  TWO

  Monday 3 December. 6.30 p.m.

  Detective Inspector Bernard Watts had on his listening face. Behind it, he was wondering why it was that every time he was inside this office, the tone of the man behind the desk conveyed that he, Watts, was personally responsible for whatever crime or misdemeanour was under discussion. He flexed his shoulders, shifted on his chair. He hadn’t yet spoken so it was hardly a discussion. Brophy, elevated to superintendent, now a fixture at headquarters, was staring at him.

  ‘Six attacks on stationary cars. All in November. All in the same area and zero investigative progress on any of them.’

  Brophy’s lips compressed. His eyes fixed on Watts’ face. ‘I know what you’re thinking.’

  Watts started a slow count. Brophy’s mind-reading tendencies made him more wearing than usual.

  ‘You’re thinking I should be saying this to officers local to that inner-city area.’ He reached for several very slim files. ‘Think again. As of ten minutes ago, all six are ours, specifically yours, and the chief constable wants a quick resolution.’ He jabbed the files. ‘This kind of street crime flourishes in Birmingham and I can tell you why. This city has a big problem.’

  As far as Watts was concerned, Birmingham didn’t any more than any other big city, but Brophy was now on a roll. ‘I’ll tell you exactly what that problem is: years of urban planning, which has made it the city of the car. How did they do it? Buildings pulled down. A snake’s nest of new roads laid. Pedestrians pushed underground. All of it intend
ed to accommodate massive volumes of traffic entering and leaving the city.’ Brophy took a breath. ‘Which these days is mostly at a standstill, creating exactly the conditions for this type of crime, and don’t get me started on Spaghetti Junction. An abomination is what that is.’

  Brophy wasn’t entirely wrong. Back in the sixties and seventies the car was king here. Knowing that Brophy wasn’t about to come up with a solution to the problem he’d just outlined, a picture formed in Watts’ head: Brophy, red-faced, vest-clad, single-handedly digging up a major dual carriageway, planting bulbs …

  ‘You appear to be taking this very casually, but I can tell you, the chief constable isn’t and neither am I.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  Brophy gave the files a push. ‘These are your starting point. They follow a pattern.’

  ‘They usually do and this type of carjacking is the least violent. More your grab-it-and-run style.’

  ‘Really? Well, there’s something I don’t regard as “usual”. The latest victim in this series says she saw a gun.’ That single detail got Watts’ full attention. ‘Each vehicle attacked while stationary at traffic lights, passenger windows smashed, belongings pulled through and away. Targets all lone females, except for one.’

  ‘That’s how carjackers generally work within high-volume traffic,’ said Watts. Except that in his experience a gun had never featured in this type of offence.

  Brophy sent him a sharp look. ‘I don’t hold with that kind of laissez-faire attitude. I want quick progress.’

  Watts averted his gaze from Brophy’s index finger jabbing the files yet again.

  ‘Have Jones and Kumar work the investigation with you.’

  Watts was on his feet. ‘I’ll get started. What about Judd?’

  ‘What about her? She’s still on her training course at Tally Ho. Back on Wednesday.’

  ‘Judd’s familiar with inner-city car crime which could make her an asset.’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  ‘She did a good job on the murder inquiry last summer,’ prompted Watts.

  Brophy glared across at him. ‘What I remember is her breaking rules, going off on her own and getting herself knocked unconscious.’ He pointed again. ‘If I do assign her, you’ll need to get a grip where she’s concerned. Keep her in place.’

  ‘Will do, sir.’ He reached for the files.

  Outside the office, following some deep breathing, he headed to the squad room and went inside. With a glance at the clock, he asked the two officers still there, ‘What time are you off duty?’

  Jones and Kumar exchanged glances. Jones answered. ‘Ten minutes ago, Sarge.’

  ‘Best get started, then.’

  They came to the table, took seats, their eyes on the files Watts had placed there. ‘You’ve heard about the spate of carjackings around the Bristol Road interchange?’

  They nodded.

  ‘Good, because they’ve been taken off the local lads, dropped in Brophy’s lap and he wants them sorted, as of yesterday. Six in all, starting in early November, the last one on Friday, the thirtieth. All occurred in fading light in the late afternoon. If either of you can tell me why people have valuables in full view inside their vehicles while driving, I’d be interested to hear it.’

  ‘Could have been worse, Sarge.’ Kumar looked from him to Jones. ‘Remember that one in the Lifford area? They weren’t bothered about nicking stuff from inside the car. They were after the Beemer and beat the paste out of the driver to get it. Left him sprawled on the road outside his house and drove off in it.’

  Watts opened the files, slid them across. ‘These are more your inner-city “smash-n-grab” type.’ He looked up at them. ‘Except for one detail. The last witness says her attacker had a gun.’

  ‘Blimey,’ said Jones. ‘From what you’d said, I was thinking that some low-life chancer was hanging around with a rock in his pocket, waiting for the traffic to slow, and took his chances.’ With a glance at the two smooth young faces, Watts stood and hooked a finger. They followed him to a large wall map next to the whiteboard.

  ‘Location says this was no chancer. See this?’ He pointed. ‘The Bristol Road interchange.’ He ran his thick index finger upwards. ‘It’s fed by traffic going up this dual carriageway here, where a lot of it turns right.’ He looked at both of them. ‘And what’s at the top of that carriageway?’

  ‘A massive island,’ said Kumar.

  ‘Exactly. This wasn’t any low life just “hanging around”. He had a confederate there, watching the traffic as it moved around that island and heading down that dual carriageway to the lights.’

  Jones eyed the map, then Watts. ‘And the confederate is on his phone to his mate, telling him that nice wheels are on their way, woman driver, belongings on seat. Smooth.’

  Watts was back at the table, reading a printed overview of the cases. ‘Items stolen: handbags, laptops, a briefcase and the toolkit from a single male driver. Either of you care to bet he had long hair?’ He opened the topmost file. ‘The victim of the Friday the thirtieth incident described her attacker as young and athletic.’ They stood either side of him, reading.

  Kumar shook his head. ‘If it’s the same attacker for all six, he’s a right cheeky bastard. That’s not a bad description: tall, dark clothing, a hoodie and a padded jacket.’

  Watts shrugged. ‘Everybody looks tall if you’re sitting in your car, shocked out of your bloody wits, covered in glass, watching your property disappear, and that description could fit any number of young inner-city types. He got phones, cash, credit cards and God knows what else from the handbags and the briefcase.’ He pulled the files together. ‘All six drivers felt safe, secure inside their vehicles. Now, they know different.’ They watched as he headed for the door.

  ‘Judd will be part of the investigation.’

  ‘When’s she back, Sarge?’

  Watts glanced back at Jones. ‘That a professional or a personal inquiry?’

  He shrugged, grinned. ‘A bit of both?’

  ‘Wednesday. We start these cases tomorrow, nine a.m.’

  10.50 p.m.

  Alone in his office in a small pool of light, Watts was absorbing the details from the six files. It needed doing and there was nothing and nobody to get home to, except the cat. He made quick, neat notes, seeing the varying gaps between the attacks. The desk phone rang. He reached for it.

  ‘DI Watts.’

  ‘Message from emergency services, Sarge. Call received by them at ten thirty-five p.m. An attack on a vehicle in the inner-city area. Two occupants. One of them phoned it in – name, Molly Lawrence. She couldn’t identify their location but they traced it via her mobile phone. Paramedics are on their way.’

  Watts’ head came up. ‘Paramedics?’

  ‘Repeating what I’ve been told. Can you respond?’

  Watts wrote down the details. ‘On my way.’

  He got out his phone, sent a text, then followed it with a call. ‘Jones, pick up Kumar and get yourself to the location I’ve sent you. It sounds like it might be another carjacking. I’ll see you both there. Move it.’

  THREE

  Watts’ phone rang as he left headquarters en route to his vehicle. It was Brophy, music in the background. He sounded stressed. Watts held the phone away from his ear. ‘Yes, I heard. I’m on my way there now.’

  Ending the call, he got into the BMW X3 SAV and gunned it out of the car park. Reaching Five Ways, he joined a queue of vehicles waiting as others surged towards it without let-up. Activating the blue light, he moved between slowed vehicles and around the island, then checked the dash clock. He was making good time, given the volume of traffic. He followed the on-screen route into the inner city, looking for an alternative route. Within minutes, vehicles immediately ahead of him slowed to a crawl. Way ahead, he saw more tail lights flaring. Road works. Single-file traffic. He swore. Within a minute he was barely moving, hemmed in by continuous cones. He killed the blue light. There was nowhere for anybody to
go.

  He inched along for a while, stationary traffic ahead as far as he could see. Then it started to move. He picked up speed as the road widened. Without warning, it narrowed again, then almost immediately split into two. He frowned, peering through the rain now hitting the windscreen, seeing vehicles quickly diverge left and right. Getting no help from the satnav, he made an instant decision to pull to the left. The satnav demanded an immediate right turn. He swore again. ‘You’re more lost than I am!’ Flashing lights in his rear-view mirror were followed by a quick blast of siren.

  ‘You are joking.’

  Another blast of siren. Watts inched forward, vehicles ahead pulling over as the road widened. As soon as he could, he did the same. The ambulance screamed past, its rear lights glowing as it slowed at another diversion sign ahead.

  After several more minutes, which felt like forever, Watts took a sudden left exit and found himself in a dark, deserted and increasingly rundown area. A native of the city for all of his fifty-one years, he recognized nothing he was seeing. The road he was following led him into another, his headlights sliding over holes in tarmac, chunks of broken brick. Ahead of him the ambulance was now parked, its lights flashing over weeds. Forge Street, according to the broken street sign he’d just passed. A relic of old Birmingham’s industry. Civic pride wasn’t stopping him from seeing the area for what it was. Old. Neglected. Hopeless.

  He pulled over and got out into buffeting wind and rain, his eyes narrowing on a car parked a few metres away. A dark-coloured saloon. One rear passenger door open. Two paramedics, each lugging hefty packs, were rushing towards it. He sped to them, got only swift nods at his ID. Whoever was inside that car was the priority.

  Frustrated, he looked around at further urban desolation, ambulance lights illuminating oily water inside potholes, an abandoned petrol station beyond and several commercial buildings on the other side. All empty at this time of night. Probably empty, full stop, if the smashed windows were anything to go by. A sign on one wall read: To Let. Prime light industrial property. Some joker had inserted an ‘i’ between ‘To’ and ‘Let’. He looked back to the scene. Both front doors of the saloon were now open, the paramedics leaning inside.