Something Evil Comes Page 4

  ‘I’m guessing that wasn’t a happy visit,’ she said.

  Watts pushed his hand through his hair. ‘A hint about the weapon used on Matthew Flynn might help.’

  ‘I can only try and lighten your mood on that.’ She walked to the board and looked up at the depiction of the destroyed neck. ‘In my years as a pathologist I’ve seen countless neck injuries inflicted by knife, razor, ligature, gun, you name it. I don’t recall seeing anything remotely like this.’ She pointed at various places. ‘See how the flesh is torn, here, here and here? If you look closely, there’s a similarity in their positioning on each side. I don’t think they were caused by individual strikes. I think whatever inflicted them was something with cutting edges on both of its sides.’ She saw confusion. ‘I know. It’s hard to visualise what kind of weapon would do that. One possibility is that it was home-made.’ Getting more frowns she came to the table. ‘If it isn’t something the killer put together himself, the nearest I’ve come up with is a Swiss army knife.’ She pointed at the sketch. ‘Imagine such a knife with all of its various tools extended and you’ll get some idea of what I’m saying.’

  Corrigan was the first to speak. ‘A complex weapon like that would be real risky to whoever wielded it.’

  ‘Exactly what I’m thinking. I’ll be testing Matthew Flynn’s clothes for blood which isn’t his.’ She headed for the door then turned. ‘With the chief on the rampage, what can I say, except good luck? Soon as I have anything else, I’ll let you know.’ The door closed on her.

  ‘You free later on, Corrigan?’ asked Watts.

  UCU did not have a monopoly on Corrigan’s time. The main reason for his being in the UK was his role as headquarters’ armed response trainer. Getting a nod he reached for the phone. ‘I’ll contact the Flynn family. Let ’em know we need to see them sometime this evening. We don’t want them finding out from tomorrow morning’s telly or radio what happened to their missing son.’

  Hanson pulled on her coat, her eyes still on the sketch on the screen, trying to decide what it might be saying about this killing. She looked at the gross mutilation, focusing on the specific lacerations pointed out by Chong. Without any indication yet as to motive, what she was seeing suggested massive anger. Malice, even. The concealment of the body indicated that whoever did it was capable of planning. This didn’t look to be somebody committing mindless violence for its own sake. She went closer. So, what had twenty-year-old Matthew Flynn done to arouse this degree of rampant viciousness in another person sufficient to provoke such rage and loss of control? Planning. Loss of control. It made little sense. She needed the ‘why’. Another question sidled into her head. One she should have asked sooner. She looked at her two colleagues. ‘I need to get back to work and do some catching up. A question before I go: Why were his remains left inside St Bartholomew’s crypt?’ She didn’t get a response. She hadn’t really expected one.

  Hanson came onto her drive, parked behind Charlie’s dark saloon and pulled at her seatbelt, all that she had seen and heard today in relation to the case still vivid inside her head. A small line formed between her brows. Matthew Flynn’s body might have lain in that sarcophagus, surrounded by cold stone and secrecy for decades, but for the actions of two inefficient, would-be thieves. She glanced at the dashboard clock. She was an hour later than she’d planned. She’d left the house in early-morning darkness. Now it was six thirty and dark again. She got that familiar surge of filial guilt. Charlie isn’t your babysitter. Beyond tired, she got out of the car, collected her belongings from the boot, hurried towards the house and let herself in. ‘I’m home!’

  Dropping her bag and briefcase on the hall chest she caught a muffled greeting drifting downstairs. The day’s post in her hand she headed for the kitchen, breathing in an inviting aroma. Charlie had insisted on preparing some meals: ‘I eat so I should cook.’ Finding dinner underway when she came home was still a welcome novelty. She crossed the large, square kitchen to the tall, sixty-plus man stirring a saucepan on the range. She gave his arm a gentle squeeze. It felt frail still. ‘Hope you’re not overdoing it, Charlie.’

  He smiled down at her. ‘That would be difficult. This is practically all I’ve done today beyond a sedate walk to the High Street.’

  ‘Which is as it should be, according to the doctor.’ She resolutely closed down her thinking on his recently expressed intention to return to his own home soon. She glanced at the table set for one. ‘You and Maisie have eaten?’

  ‘I hope that’s OK. She was hungry and she’s been given an assignment by one of her maths professors which she has to submit tomorrow so I decided to feed us both at around five thirty. I didn’t know if you might be going out.’ The last few words were an oblique reference to an evening she’d had a few nights previously, a date with someone uncomplicated but too boring to even contemplate a no-strings relationship with. She shook her head, peering into the full pan. ‘Mmm … that looks hearty.’

  ‘Beef stew with root vegetables.’

  She looked up at him. ‘Did Maisie eat some? She isn’t crazy about vegetables.’

  ‘Two helpings.’ Seeing her facial expression, he laughed. ‘Less to do with my cooking than an expressed aim to be taller: five-eight is the goal, apparently. Or not five-three, whichever way you look at it.’

  Hanson rolled her eyes. ‘Not that again. She’s almost as tall as me now and I’ve told her that either of those heights is genetically unlikely. Why this rush to be different from our parents? Or more accurately, me.’ She caught his quick headshake and grinned. ‘That was rhetorical. I’ll just go up and see how she is.’

  ‘She’s fine, she’s busy and she’ll be down now that she knows you’re home. Sit.’ He filled a deep plate, carried it to the table and pointed at it. ‘Eat.’

  Hanson was five minutes into her dinner when Maisie’s feet sounded on the stairs. She came into the kitchen, hair unruly, wearing bear-claw novelty slippers and a sweater Hanson recognised as hers. She dropped onto a chair next to Hanson, a large notebook in her hand.

  ‘Hi, have a good day?’ asked Hanson, searching Maisie’s face for shadows of whatever had been bothering her and getting nothing. She glanced at the notebook. ‘Grandpa says you’ve got an assignment.’

  Maisie looked up. ‘Yeah. I wanted you to look at it.’

  Heart sinking, Hanson watched the open notebook arrive next to her on the table, both pages a mass of hieroglyphics. No slouch at maths herself, Hanson knew that Maisie’s ability was already way beyond hers. ‘It looks complicated,’ she said, aware of Charlie making himself scarce on the other side of the kitchen.

  ‘It’s just problem-solving,’ answered Maisie with a shrug. ‘But you’re missing the point, Mom. Just … look at it.’

  Hanson looked. Most of the symbols conveyed little to her. Relieved, she spotted numbers separated by a symbol she did understand. She pointed. ‘Aha. That’s about probability distribution.’

  Maisie gave her a patient look. ‘I know that, but don’t you see how beautiful it is?’ She picked up the book, gazed at the pages then back to Hanson. ‘I just remembered something.’ Hanson caught a glance from Charlie, guessing that what Maisie had to say wasn’t about maths. ‘Daddy rang.’

  ‘He did?’ Hanson was back on familiar but not necessarily welcome territory.

  ‘He said can you ring him. He wouldn’t say anything else so I reckon he’s got something he wants to say that you won’t like.’

  Hanson sighed. ‘Thanks for that.’

  ‘How about I put this in the microwave,’ said Charlie, taking Hanson’s plate as she stood and headed for the door, Maisie’s voice following her. ‘Tell him I’m bringing my certificate to show him on Saturday!’

  In her study at the front of the house, the door firmly closed Hanson sat at her desk and tapped her contact list, running through a number of possible scenarios prompting her ex-husband’s call. Or rather, one scenario with variations: he wouldn’t be able to have Maisie to stay on Saturd
ay.

  He picked up after two rings. ‘Hi, Kate! Thanks for calling back. I really appreciate it. How’s it going? Everything OK with you?’ Hanson pictured Kevin’s broad face and stocky build as the conciliatory words flowed into her ear. Conciliatory: stock-in-trade for a lawyer. She rubbed her eyes. Cut the cynicism. Give him a chance.

  ‘Now that you ask, I’m concerned that Maisie might be struggling socially at the university.’

  ‘Give her time to settle. She’s only been doing three days since October. She’ll adjust. She’s a smart kid.’ She waited out the pause, picking up the drop in his voice. ‘Listen, Kate. Things are a bit tricky for me right now. I’m really overstretched. I’m being pulled in all directions.’ Here we go. Again.

  ‘Sounds painful. What do you want, Kevin?’

  His tone underwent an abrupt change. ‘Why do you always assume …?’

  ‘It’s not assumption. It’s called learning from experience.’

  A long sigh drifted into her ear. ‘OK, OK. I need a favour. It’s about this weekend.’

  ‘You want to change Maisie’s contact arrangement.’

  ‘Exactly,’ he said, sounding relieved.

  She sank back in her chair. ‘Maisie is looking forward to it. She’s bringing the certificate she won at the Stats Olympiad to show you.’ She listened to his exasperated sigh.

  ‘That’s right, Kate. Pile it on! Do what you do best. Make me feel bad.’

  She ignored the words. ‘What’s the reason this time?’

  ‘Stella’s moving out.’ Hanson sat up, taking a few seconds to absorb the news. Stella was the current in a long line of girlfriends Kevin had had in the decade or so they’d been divorced. In addition to those she’d discovered he’d had during the time they were married. She’d come to like Stella, a mature young woman who handled Kevin well. Maybe too mature? Kevin could wear pretty thin for anyone with maturity and awareness. Unlike me, back then. Hanson shook her head. In the years following their divorce she’d learned to tolerate how he chose to live his life. He wasn’t about to change. Which did not mean that Maisie had to bear the fallout.

  ‘Sorry to hear it but why would that affect your weekend with Maisie?’ She waited as he searched for a tack to change to, listened as he softened his voice and selected ‘Poor me’.

  ‘Look, allow me some slack, here. I’ve got a big case on at work and, well, I’m upset about Stella. I really thought she was the one. That I wouldn’t be on my own any more. That we were going somewhere. I’m finding this whole situation very difficult.’

  Barely registering the flow of words, the possibility now crossed Hanson’s mind that Stella might still be at the apartment during the coming weekend. She did not want Maisie going into a negative atmosphere. ‘OK. We’ll leave it for this weekend but I’ll get Maisie to call you. You can give her an explanation. Make it honest, please, as well as age-appropriate.’

  ‘What do you think I am, Kate?’

  She shook her head. ‘Like I said, I’ll get Maisie to call you.’ She stared down at her phone. Her ex-husband could not be faulted on the basis of consistency. With him, there was always a let-down.

  FIVE

  Watts drove, details of the next day’s weather drifting from the radio: ‘So, listeners in London, Manchester, Edinburgh you might be lucky enough to enjoy some sun tomorrow. And now …’ He flicked it off.

  ‘Hear that, Corrigan? We’re not allowed weather in the Midlands in case we get to enjoy it, just the occasional shower of frogs.’ He glanced across at his colleague in profile. ‘Nice at home, was it?’

  Corrigan nodded. ‘It was the fall. Sure was beautiful.’

  Watts navigated his way off Spaghetti Junction. ‘Family all right?’

  ‘Yep. Took my daughter out for dinner to celebrate her twenty-second birthday and my sister just had her third baby.’ He looked out of the window. ‘Cute little critter.’

  They continued on to Sutton in silence. Watts wondered if Corrigan was homesick. He rejected the idea. Yes, he had a big family in Boston and yes, he missed them but he’d put down roots here. Bought a house. He gave the quiet American a swift sideways glance, wondering if he was missing Rupe? Corrigan had taken on the dog following a case they’d had a year or two back. That dog had become his shadow but Corrigan, being a bit on the soft side about some things, had decided during recent months that it wasn’t right to leave it on its own while he worked long hours at headquarters. He’d given Rupe to a keen neighbour who already walked him when Corrigan was working. Following that, he’d given Watts regular updates about his visits and Rupe’s progress. Watts smiled to himself, shook his head. No. Whatever was up with Corrigan, it wasn’t homesickness. He’d sensed that something had happened when the Unsolved Crime Unit last worked together earlier in the year. He didn’t know what the something was because Corrigan was tight-lipped on personal stuff, but Watts had an idea it involved Hanson. Around three years back, she’d had a relationship with an officer who once worked at headquarters. It had ended before she joined UCU. For all he knew, she could be seeing somebody else. He thought about his own situation. He had his own house to go back to whenever he finished work which now felt like part of his DNA after so many years and which more than filled his time, but … He swore to himself as the car in front slowed without warning and made a leisurely left-hand turn. He drove on, thinking about the news he and Corrigan had to deliver to a family about its youngest son. At least they weren’t going in cold. Matthew Flynn had been missing for a year. The worst situation was when a front door was opened by a mother or father who had no idea that a son or daughter was never coming home. Part of the job. Which didn’t make it any easier.

  After several more miles he slowed and turned into a wide drive, tall metal gates open, halting the Range Rover at the top of it. They looked at the house in front of them with its wide frontage, all dormer windows and complex roof levels, its facade subtly illuminated in the darkness. It was as immaculate as the dark blue Bentley parked in front, next to a small red sports car. He guessed the house would set anybody back two million-plus. Which probably wasn’t a problem for Brad and Diana Flynn. ‘Right, Corrigan. They’re expecting us and they’ll be anticipating it’s about Matthew. I’ll confirm the lad’s death and outline what we know, leaving out the detail then ask some general questions. I want you to lead with the mother. We’ll keep it brief.’ They got out of the Range Rover into chill darkness. ‘Let’s get it done.’

  Watts guessed that the tall, mid-forties man who opened the door, shook their hands and invited them inside, was Brad Flynn. They declined his offer of drinks as he showed them into a lounge as big as the whole ground floor of Watts’s place. A woman was sitting there. She said nothing in response to their greetings, just stared up at them. Diana Flynn. Mother. The similarity to Matthew was there in the fine features. Offered seats, Watts chose the sofa, Corrigan a chair close, but not too close, to Diana Flynn. Watts got down to it. ‘Thank you for agreeing to see us.’ The atmosphere inside the room was drum-taut. ‘We have some news about Matthew and—’

  ‘Just tell us,’ said Brad Flynn. His wife had drawn a sharp breath and was looking at them now with a mix of fear and hope, one hand at her mouth. ‘You’ve found him?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Watts, guessing from what he was seeing that Brad Flynn was the realist.

  ‘He’s … all right, isn’t he?’ she asked. Her husband turned away, running a hand over his head. Watts made himself look directly at her. ‘Mrs Flynn, there’s no way to make this easier. I’m really sorry to have to tell you: Matthew is dead …’ She was at the door and out of the room. They listened to her feet on the stairs, heard a door on the upper floor close with quick force. In a silence heavy enough to weigh, they waited for a response from the man in the expensive formal suit standing at the window, looking out at a rear garden which was probably a riot of colour in summer but now had November’s cold hand all over it. He’d made no move to follow his wife and had spoken on
ly to refuse Watts’s offer of the services of a family liaison officer. Leaden seconds ticked on in the thickly carpeted room.

  Flynn turned to them. ‘Where was he?’

  Watts cleared his throat. ‘The Moseley-Kings Heath area.’

  ‘I know it. Where, exactly?’

  ‘Close to a church. St Bartholomew’s.’ Watts decided that other details could wait. ‘Both Lieutenant Corrigan and I are sorry to have to bring you such bad news, Mr Flynn. We’d be grateful if you’d convey that to Mrs Flynn. I’ll contact you soon and arrange to see you again.’

  Flynn shook his head as Watts half-rose. ‘We’ve got the face time now so let’s use it.’

  Face time? Watts waited as Flynn walked to a nearby suede sofa and sat, pale but composed. ‘Whatever you want to ask, do it now. Diana’s been in denial these last twelve months. I warned her. I always knew this wouldn’t end well.’

  ‘We’ll keep it brief. Can you confirm the last time you saw Matthew?’

  ‘The last time he came here for a family dinner, which would have been the Wednesday.’ Watts asked for a date and wrote it down. ‘Was it a special occasion?’

  ‘No. We had the boys round to eat with us once a week, time and work permitting. His mother tried to contact him on the following Tuesday to confirm he was coming for dinner on the Wednesday evening. She couldn’t reach him.’

  ‘Both your sons lived locally back then?’ asked Watts, already knowing what the file had to say but wanting it confirmed.

  ‘Dominic, my eldest had his own place a couple of miles away from here. Still has. Matthew had a flat in Erdington.’