Something Evil Comes Page 17

  Her two colleagues leant forward to look at it. ‘Good work, doc.’

  ‘It’s yet more proof of a connection between Matthew and Callum Foley. They appear to have been friends but beyond that we don’t know. Foley’s mother isn’t able to provide any reliable information but she says he’s in big trouble and Corrigan’s search didn’t turn up any official indication that he’s still participating in the usual aspects of life. I think Callum Foley is probably dead. We need to start searching for his body.’

  Watts shook his head. ‘You know our situation, doc. We’ve got no starting point for a search and no money for guesswork.’

  ‘I know, but I’ve thought of a way.’ She grinned at Jake, ‘And we can take as a starting point the location in which Matthew Flynn was found.’

  Watts shook his head. ‘I hear what you’re saying but if he is somewhere there, it’s a big area of open land. The chief won’t sanction it.’

  ‘What if it’s a different kind of search? Light on personnel and with a little flair and ingenuity.’ She looked encouragingly at Petrie. ‘OK, Jake. Pitch to them what you have and how it could help us.’

  Jake looked at Watts and Corrigan, his face animated. ‘Geoscience has a lot to offer criminal investigations such as yours, particularly in the location of illicit burials. What I’m talking about isn’t merely theoretical. My team has already developed several techniques: remote sensing, electrical resistivity, ground-penetrating radar. What I’m offering is the latest technique using them all.’ Hanson glanced around the table. Corrigan looked to be already in.

  Watts’s face told a different story. ‘“Team” sounds expensive,’ he said. ‘We’ve got no finances.’

  ‘I’m offering my assistance gratis.’

  ‘Show them, Jake,’ prompted Hanson.

  ‘As Kate said, what I have doesn’t require a lot of manpower.’ He delved into the crammed satchel and brought out a large black and white photograph. He held it up to them. ‘This is Oscar.’ Watts’s brows merged and lowered. ‘It’s my prototype and I’ll provide it and my expertise free for any search you want.’

  ‘Hot dog,’ murmured Corrigan, his eyes on the photograph. ‘A drone.’

  Watts peered at it. ‘I’ve read about these things. They’re the future for all kinds of stuff, right?’

  Jake nodded. ‘They’re already here but Oscar’s the first for the kind of work I’m interested in.’

  ‘How many body searches have you used it on?’ asked Corrigan.

  Petrie looked him in the eye. ‘None involving human remains but we’ve had success with pig carcasses. Like I said, this is a prototype.’ He looked around the table. ‘But, it’s all you need, plus me and my computer software to interpret its findings.’ He grinned. ‘We’re quick and we’re zero cost. If Oscar comes up with a result I get a research paper out of it.’

  ‘What do you think?’ asked Hanson. She watched the exchange of looks between Watts and Corrigan.

  ‘We say yes but it’s urgent,’ said Watts.

  Jake lifted his satchel. ‘Brilliant. Come up with a specific date and let me know.’

  Music with a repetitive beat was filtering down from the first floor. Maisie and Chelsey were upstairs eating Chinese food. Hanson checked the table beneath which a hopeful Mugger was crouched, awaiting windfalls.

  ‘Fork?’ she asked Watts. He nodded. ‘Ta. Chopsticks and me don’t get on.’ Fetching one, she joined her colleagues and Charlie at the table. They ate in relative silence for a couple of minutes, broken by Charlie.

  ‘How’s the case?’

  ‘Looks like it’s starting to move,’ said Corrigan. ‘We can link Matthew Flynn to a similar-age teen named Callum Foley via money Flynn had hidden on his person when he died. About five years back, both these young guys received support in relation to drug offences. That support was provided by St Bartholomew’s Church. We know what happened to Flynn: he ended up interred in the church crypt and nobody would have been the wiser for years, except for a break-in.’

  ‘Sounds like progress,’ said Charlie. ‘How about the other boy, this – Foley?’

  ‘We don’t know where he is. We’ve checked the usual sources and come up empty. Thanks to Kate, we know he visited his mother and left money hidden at her house. That’s the other link to Flynn.’

  ‘Sounds complex.’

  Hanson had been following the exchange. ‘Father Delaney who is in charge at St Bartholomew’s knew about Matthew Flynn’s murder but he didn’t tell us about his church’s role in supporting Flynn around his drug use. He claims he didn’t know.’

  Charlie looked up at her. ‘If he didn’t, somebody else must. I’d be interested in whoever was directly involved in running that support group.’

  ‘We’ve spoken to him,’ said Corrigan. ‘He admitted that both Flynn and Foley attended the group but that he hadn’t mentioned it before because he didn’t remember them.’ Corrigan looked at Hanson. ‘Watts and I think Father Delaney needs another visit and we’ll be speaking to Richard Burns, his other deacon.’

  Hanson nodded, debating with herself whether it was time to tell them what she’d seen at the choir rehearsal. She looked up to find Watts’s eyes on her.

  ‘Got something on your mind, doc?’

  She had to tell them. They needed to know. ‘Yes, I have. I saw something at the church. But I don’t want a possibly harmless gesture to become an issue.’

  ‘Tell us about it,’ said Watts.

  Hanson described her visit to Church House, being told by the housekeeper that Delaney was at choir practice and going to the church. ‘I stood inside listening to the choir. As the practice finished Delaney called one of the boys to him to give him some music and advice and … he placed his hand on the boy’s head.’

  ‘That it?’ asked Watts, staring at her.

  She nodded. ‘In itself it’s nothing, I know but … his action had an impact on me. I found it a bit disturbing.’

  ‘Did Delaney know you were there?’ asked Corrigan.

  ‘I’m not sure. Possibly.’

  Watts looked doubtful. ‘If he knew you were watching him and he was up to no good, he wouldn’t have put a hand on this kid, surely?’

  She didn’t want to get into this. It was one more uncertainty in a case already riddled with them but she had to tell them what she knew from cases she’d worked on in the past. That it was not unknown for those with a sexual interest in children to inappropriately touch them whilst under supervision.

  Charlie looked shocked when he heard this. ‘What? Why?’

  ‘Because they’re sexually deviant. Because they consider themselves cleverer than everyone else. Because they get a kick out of showing their true selves to experts and other professionals in situations where there’s natural, close, playful contact between adults and their children. Delaney didn’t appear surprised when he saw me but I don’t know if he knew I was there. Maybe I overreacted to an innocent gesture but if that’s what it was I would have expected Delaney to be more astute, more aware of his behaviour, more cautious.’ She stood and began gathering plates. Picking up the sound of Watts’s phone, she and Corrigan carried plates across the kitchen to where Charlie was stacking the dishwasher.

  ‘When was this? Yeah. Yeah. Where is it?’ He met their eyes. ‘Right. Ten minutes.’ He cut the call. ‘That was headquarters. There’s been an incident at a care home. One deceased. They’re treating it as a suicide.’

  Hanson stared at him, hardly aware of Charlie taking plates from her hands. How many care homes are there in this city? ‘Why are they informing UCU about a suicide?’

  ‘Because the dead man was a member of St Bartholomew’s. Alfred Best.’ He stood, jostling the table, upending a small sea salt grinder. She watched him reach for a few granules and throw them over his left shoulder. ‘One way to blind the devil, doc.’

  Directly ahead, intermittent blue lights were reflecting off wet tarmac. Three patrol cars with Battenburg markings and hi-visibil
ity chevrons were parked, plus a low black station wagon with tinted windows, all facing a modern four-storey building.

  They got out of Watts’s vehicle and walked the building’s wide driveway. Hanson felt disconnected. This was where Alfred was coming this afternoon. She looked upwards at rows of large, modern, sash windows. Somewhere inside was his wife. The reason he was here at all.

  ‘Must cost a ransom to keep somebody here,’ said Watts, raising a hand to Gus Stirling, one of the ‘upstairs’ officers emerging from inside and walking steadily towards them.

  ‘Sad business,’ said Gus, his voice low. ‘The chief told us of the deceased’s connection to St Bartholomew’s so I thought you should know. He’s at the rear of the building.’

  They followed him into the building’s main entrance, through to the back and out into a spacious courtyard, yellow light from wall-mounted fixtures illuminating what would be flowerbeds in spring, wooden benches and a central water feature surrounded by wet grass and yet more wet, black tarmac. A pale, loose-weave blanket had been dropped over something lying there, parts of it showing dark stains. Hanson stared at it with that same detachment she’d had since they’d been told what had happened.

  ‘We’ve been here a while, waiting to be told how he died,’ said Gus, pointing to a white-suited figure. ‘Dr Chong arrived five minutes before you did.’

  With a terse nod Watts headed for the pathologist, Corrigan and Hanson following. As they reached her, Chong lifted a corner of the blanket and looked up at them. Hanson stared straight ahead at nothing in particular. ‘All I’ve done so far is ID him with the help of the worker in charge of the evening shift here.’ Watts and Corrigan looked down at what was visible. ‘I’ve not met him. Have you, Corrigan?’ Corrigan shook his head.

  Hanson looked down, nodded then away. ‘Alfred Best. I saw him this afternoon,’ she said, barely recognising her own voice.

  Chong pointed upwards at the building. ‘Fourth floor. Five windows in from the left. The one that’s open. He came out of there.’

  ‘What time did it happen?’ asked Corrigan.

  ‘According to a worker who was caring for a resident in the next room but one, she heard a loud bang followed by a cry and checked her watch. It was nine thirty.’

  ‘Want to see his wife’s room?’ asked Gus.

  A spacious lift took them to the fourth floor. There was no need for them to locate the room. Two officers were guarding the doorway. A man and a woman in white, fitted uniforms and soft-soled shoes, were also there, the man leaning against the wall, staring at the floor, the woman quietly crying. They entered the spacious, comfortable room, cold due to the open window, and stood close to the door. Hanson glanced at the wide, hospital-style bed. Empty.

  A SOCO came to them, pointing to the window. ‘We’ve lifted prints off the frame and taken casts of the scuffmarks on the sill but it looks straightforward enough. All the indicators point to suicide. Deceased was eighty-one years old, not a big man, but active. Getting out of that window wouldn’t have presented him with a problem.’

  Hanson was thinking of spring bulbs. What had Alfred said when she saw him last? That they would look lovely in the spring.

  ‘I’d like copies of all the results as soon as you’ve got ’em,’ said Watts. He turned to Gus who was standing close to the door. ‘You’ve talked to the woman in the next but one room? The one who heard the noise?’

  ‘Yeah. She’d gone to draw the curtains in that room which also has a blind to help the resident sleep so she was at the window for some seconds.’ He consulted his notes. ‘According to her, she heard a loud bang or thump which she thinks came from this room. A male colleague with her opened the door and looked out but saw nothing. She reached up to pull down the blind and saw what she described as a dark shape falling to the ground.’

  Hanson’s attention was on the window, its shape, its size, its height from the floor. It wouldn’t have presented Alfred with any problem to push up that window, climb onto the ledge and let gravity take him. She closed her eyes.

  ‘OK,’ said Watts. ‘Put us down for copy statements, Gus.’

  ‘Already done.’ They left the room and took the lift to the ground in silence.

  SEVENTEEN

  Charlie placed a large bowl of oatmeal on the table in front of Maisie. ‘Here you go. I’ll keep you company while you eat.’

  Hanson came into the kitchen, dressed for work. ‘Do as Grandpa says. When you’ve finished I’ll give you a lift into school.’ She checked that her phone was in her bag, conscious of Charlie’s eyes on her. When she’d arrived home in Sunday’s early hours she’d told him about the suicide. About Alfred Best. She’d cried. A quiet day of trying to catch up on her sleep and her university work had followed. And here was another Monday morning bringing tasks she needed to get on with, things she had to do.

  Maisie lifted her spoon and poked the oatmeal. ‘Not hungry.’

  ‘You will be midmorning if you don’t eat it.’ She was thinking about her daughter’s current situation at the university. It had been in her head intermittently during the previous day and night, keeping thoughts of Alfred at bay. She had made a decision. ‘I’ve decided, Maisie. I’m going to change your maths lectures at the university to two days a week, as it was last year.’ She watched her daughter’s eyes widen, saw equal measures of relief and anxiety.

  ‘What about Daddy? He’s really proud of me doing the extra day.’

  Hanson saw the deep pink bottom lip tremble. She put her arm around the small shoulders. ‘You’ll still be doing two days. Your father is an adult.’ More or less. ‘You don’t need to worry about him. He’ll agree with me that what you feel happy doing, what feels right for you is what matters.’

  Maisie shrugged. ‘I dunno. Most of the students are OK. They call me Brainiac, but I don’t mind. Bernie Watts calls me Brainbox and that’s OK, too. It’s just, after what happened at lectures and in the computer lab … I thought I could handle it but now … I’m not sure I can.’

  Hanson placed her hand under Maisie’s chin, raised the small face to hers. ‘I’ll have a word with Daddy. It’ll be fine.’

  Within ten minutes the oatmeal had disappeared and Maisie was yelling from the front door. ‘Mom. Come on!’

  Hanson grabbed her coat, bag and briefcase. Charlie followed her down the hall and out. ‘Good girl,’ he said quietly.

  She turned to him. ‘Who, me? Or Maisie?’

  ‘Both.’

  After dropping Maisie at her school Hanson drove onto the campus and went straight to her room. Getting her phone out, she selected a contact and checked her watch. He should be in his office by now. ‘Morning, Kevin. We need to talk—’

  ‘Sorry, Kate. Not today.’

  She frowned at the brusqueness. ‘Yes, today. Now.’ She waited out the brief pause, suspecting he’d gone somewhere quiet at his law chambers.

  ‘Right.’ He sighed. ‘I’m due in court in half an hour and then I’m on a train to London. What’s so damned urgent?’

  ‘Our daughter.’ She told him what had happened to Maisie in the computer lab. About the pressure being exerted on her by an undergraduate to give him her work, culminating in Maisie kicking him.

  He laughed. ‘Good for her! You should be pleased she can assert herself.’

  Hanson closed her eyes. ‘That’s not assertiveness and you’re missing the point! I think Maisie was already struggling with the extra day of lectures. Put yourself in her place: she’s with undergrads significantly older than she is, she’s also probably much better at maths than most of them—’

  ‘Atta-girl!’

  ‘And I want the arrangement to go back to what it was last year: two lectures per week.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Kate! A few hard knocks is what life’s about and Maisie needs to know it. You’re overprotective. Except when it comes to your own job, that is.’

  She closed her eyes again. She wouldn’t bite. Wouldn’t ask him what he meant. ‘The incident h
as made Maisie unsure of herself. She needs to get her confidence back. The student in question doesn’t attend her lectures on the other two days so I’m letting you know what’s going to happen.’ She cut the call as Crystal came in carrying post.

  ‘Morning, Kate. Did you see the message on your desk?’ Hanson picked up the pink slip and read it. She was wanted at headquarters. By the chief. Grabbing her coat and bag she headed for the door.

  Julian was in UCU when Hanson arrived. ‘Watts and Corrigan are already up there,’ he said.

  Throwing her coat onto the table she headed down the corridor and upstairs, pausing at the chief’s door to get her breathing under control, knocked and pushed open the door. One glance told her that whatever this was about it was causing a lot of tension. Corrigan’s face was unreadable. Both the chief and Watts looked heated.

  The chief looked up at her. ‘Glad you’re here. Maybe you can explain why you three saw it as part of your remit to attend a suicide scene last night?’

  Playing quick catch-up, Hanson responded. ‘That suicide is somebody with a link to St Bartholomew’s Church which has become a focus of our investigation of the murder of Matthew Flynn and the disappearance of another young—’

  ‘Hear that?’ the chief barked, pointing at her, glowering at her colleagues. ‘That’s exactly what I’m talking about. The inability of the Unsolved Crime Unit, you three, to stick to what you’re told to do.’ He looked from one to the other of them, his jowls mottled. ‘That isn’t the only reason I wanted to see you. This morning I’ve had two complaints about UCU.’ They exchanged quick glances, watched as he picked up a memo pad. ‘The first one was from Father Delaney who was measured in his tone but said that he feels his church is becoming the target of a police witch hunt and that he fears more vandalism in future because of it.’

  Hanson shook her head. ‘That’s ridiculous. We’re conducting a murder investigation which—’