A Reason to Kill (22 page)

They walked in silence along the promenade and entered the little café. It was filling up fast and most of the customers were fellow officers. Eden found a table close to the window and plonked himself down. ‘I'll have whatever you're having,' he said. ‘You know what gets to me the most?' he added. ‘Course you do, it's eating you up inside just as much as it is me. I mean, look at this lot, and reinforcements on the way too. An incident room, Lord help us. An OIC from Exeter. And all for what? A little bastard who probably deserved what he got.'

‘We can't sanction execution,' Mac said. ‘It's still murder. And we don't know for certain yet that Dowling …'

Eden's hand flapped irritably in Mac's direction. ‘Oh, I know, we don't speak ill of the dead no matter what. But you know what, that's just so much crap. I always thought I'd be sorry to leave the job, but you know something? I'll be glad to go. More than glad. It can't come soon enough.'

Mac queued for coffee, exchanged the odd neutral comment with his new-found colleagues. Carefully, he deposited their drinks on the narrow table.

‘So,' he said. ‘Who did for Mark Dowling?'

Eden shrugged. ‘Not likely to have been young Paul. I doubt he'd have had the time to make it back home even if he'd had the nerve.'

‘George Parker?'

‘Seriously?'

‘No, not seriously. Not with that level of damage done anyway.'

‘The sister? She did try and turn him in.'

Mac nodded. ‘I find it hard to accept,' he said. ‘And the timing would be difficult. The Robinsons reckon she was around all evening. Of course, we have to look at her as a possible, but what's the motive?'

‘He's a threat to her little brother?'

‘A threat she tried to deal with legally. All right, so she withheld information but it's a long stretch from that to murder.'

‘True.'

‘So who else? The list of those with a Mark Dowling problem is likely to be long.'

Mac sipped his coffee thoughtfully. The almond undertones were warming, sweet. Observing Eden's face, he didn't think his colleague shared his enthusiasm. ‘Dislike is one thing, murder quite another, and from the look of the crime scene, whoever killed him wanted to be very sure that he was dead. It's odd,' he went on, ‘but when I was at the first scene, at Mrs Freer's, I was struck by both the frenzy of it and just how personal it was. Mark Dowling, on the other hand … I don't know; it was different. There was not even a hint of other motive. No destruction, no search, no threat. Whoever it was seems to have gone there with the sole purpose of murdering Dowling. That's it. They took their weapon with them to the house and they took it away again after they'd finished.'

‘Which begs the question, why not shoot the bugger and be done with it? And I don't mean having to buy an illegal gun. Half the population round here either has a shot gun or could get access to one.'

‘So, maybe they belong to the half that doesn't. It does speak of a certain confidence though. Dowling might easily have fought back. He wasn't big but he was wiry, strong. I wouldn't have wanted to go up against him.'

‘No, I'd agree,' Eden said. ‘But it also suggests something else. Dowling opened the door, let his killer in. Either he knew them or he didn't see them as any sort of threat. Didn't view anything they were
carrying
as any sort of threat. Which is not such a useful insight as it might have been,' Eden continued. ‘When you think that everyone in this place has at least a passing acquaintance with everybody else.'

Mac chuckled. ‘Long list of suspects then.' He drained his coffee. ‘I suppose we'd better make a start.'

The Crime Scene Investigators had released the main scene by the time Mac and Eden returned. The body had been moved, blood spatter mapped and charted, everything bagged and tagged and taken away to a clean clinical laboratory, ready to be sifted and examined and interpreted.

Mac took in the empty hall, seeing in his mind's eye the body of Mark Dowling as it had been when he arrived. Then he tried to imagine how it had been before the boy's parents got to it.

The towel, he thought. That was a real anomaly. He wondered too how much blood the murderer had carried from the scene. Nothing had been marked on the gravel path, but the rain would have washed so much away and anyway, in Mac's experience, blunt-force trauma – in other words, hitting someone with a heavy, non-sharp object – didn't generally cover the killer in their victim's blood. There was no sudden arterial spurt. Blood would be flicked from the object used, spatter patterns had been marked on the walls and floor, but the killer would not necessarily have been covered in it.

Mac made his way up the stairs to Dowling's room. Three white-clad figures were taking it apart. The scent of Mark Dowling still clung to the furnishings.

‘Anything?'

One figure detached itself from a wardrobe and came over to him, collecting a blue box on the way. Mac recognized the dark-haired, blue-eyed woman he'd met at Mrs Freer's autopsy.

‘Hello again.'

‘Miriam Hastings,' she said. ‘Hi. Look.' She set the box down and Mac squatted beside her on the landing. ‘Evidence of drug use, but no drugs as yet. Money. Five hundred and odd change. A rather vicious-looking knife – and this. I remembered the post-mortem report and I think this might well be what you want the most.'

Mac took the evidence bag and peered through the transparent plastic. Square base, heavy, a bust of a smiling man that Mac didn't recognize, though he wore a Tam O'Shanter hat. Mac hefted it gently, feeling the weight. ‘I think this might be it,' he said.

‘It looks like it's been cleaned,' she told him. ‘But if you look at the base, the texture's roughened there and sticky, as though there was felt or something attached and it's been torn off. I'll bet we get something off it.'

Mac nodded. ‘Thanks.'

Karen had half expected Mac to return that morning. From the window above the promenade she had seen the increased activity and noticed the strangers in uniform chatting to the local police. So, they had found him then.

Idly she flicked through the pictures on her phone until she came to the one she had taken the previous evening. Mark stared up at her, his hand reaching, his nose pouring with blood and a look of sheer fury in his eyes.

Karen knew it was stupid keeping this. She'd have to lose it – and not just the picture but the phone as well. Even deleted images could be recovered. Karen knew that.

She analysed her feelings, or rather her lack of them. She still experienced a kind of cold fury when she thought about her father and, towards her mother she felt a sort of passive concern mingled with the knowledge that she despised Carol for the weakness she had exhibited for all those years. She loved George. Quite intently, in fact. George was her kid brother and he had nerve, tenacity. George would grow into a good man and Karen was proud of that. Her urge to protect him was almost inhumanly strong.

She heard her mother stumbling around in the bedroom and she exited the image library on her phone. Carol would have forgotten where they were and probably why too, and Karen knew she had better go to her, make her understand, calm the hysterics and probably administer more of the sedative. Hopefully, she'd manage to get some food down her mother before she collapsed once more into drugged sleep.

Karen sighed, acknowledging that her emotional responses were probably way off kilter. Acknowledging too that she probably wouldn't have it any other way.

G
eorge had slept finally but fitfully, and woke up to find daylight flooding the room, filtered through a decade or so of dirt on the cracked and stained windows.

Paul had rolled on to his side. That his head was now resting on a maths text book wrapped in his scarf was the only clue George had that he'd woken up at all during the night. He was still snoring.

George needed to pee. He crept downstairs and found a toilet beyond what looked like a storeroom. It hadn't been used in a long time and there was no water in the cistern but it still felt more civilized than pissing in a corner somewhere. Now that he was downstairs, he risked a quick reconnaissance of their hideout, slipping outside so he could get the lie of the land. He could make out overgrown runways and the remnants of a wind sock hanging from a post on what he assumed must be the furthest perimeter. The rain had stopped but the grass was soaking underfoot and weeds were industriously repossessing the paving slabs and undermining the tarmac. George took a deep breath of the fresh, cold, rain-drenched air. The sun was breaking through the grey and, absurdly, a sudden feeling of optimism – almost sheer joy – rushed up from the soles of his damp feet and surged through him.

A kestrel hovered, then swooped; George watched as it rose again and took off towards the line of trees that blocked his view of the further horizon.

This was a good place, George decided. A place to visit again once all their problems had been solved. He'd seen a cheap pair of binoculars for sale in the little second-hand shop up in the old town. He still had money left. Maybe he could buy them, come back and watch the kestrel. Once this was all over, he could bring Paul back too …

George sighed, the momentary exuberance draining out of him and back into the sodden grass. Who was he kidding? Once this crisis was over they'd be moving on again. Far away from his dad and from his friends and from all the things that he'd begun to call his own this past couple of years.

George didn't want to go. He wanted to be left in peace, just left alone. To have a normal life and normal friends and hobbies and … and just stuff. Was that too much to ask?

Wearily he climbed the stairs again and shook Paul awake. He handed him a can of Coke left from the previous day's lunch. He reminded him that this was all they had and not to drink it all. Paul blinked at him sleepily, then opened the can and took a swig before handing it over.

‘We got any food?'

George shrugged. ‘Packet of crisps and a chocolate bar.' He delved in his bag, fishing out the rather crushed packet and the broken bar, divided the chocolate and left Paul with all the crisps. Then he went back to his position by the window.

‘What can you see?'

‘Still two police cars at Dowling's place but there's something happening on the wasteland near the tin huts. People, lots of people.'

Curious, Paul came over and took his place. ‘What they looking for?'

He sat back on his heels and tucked into the broken crisps. George put his eye to the gap in the pane. He'd seen pictures like this on the news. Rows of people, some in uniform, some in overalls, some in ordinary clothes, moving across the open land between the industrial units and the houses. Paul was right: they were searching for something. For a murder weapon? Maybe Mark Dowling had confessed and they were looking for whatever he'd used on the old lady.

‘What'd he use to kill her?' George asked suddenly. Paul stopped chewing and George realized belatedly that his question had not been tactfully phrased. Too late now. ‘Did you see?'

Paul nodded slowly. ‘This kind of statue thing. She had it in her hand when … you know. Mark took it off of her and hit her with it.' His voice was flat. Emotionless. He put the pack of crisps down and moved back away from the window.

‘Well that's good,' George said. ‘You can tell them. Tell them what to look for. Tell them what you seen.'

Paul shook his head, wrapped his arms around raised knees. ‘I ain't telling no one,' he said. ‘I ain't going nowhere.'

George gnawed at his lower lip. He sensed it would do no good to remind Paul that they couldn't stay here indefinitely. That they had one can of Coke and a half-eaten bag of crisps to sustain them and not much hope of gathering further supplies. That their parents would be going frantic. That they'd most likely be grounded for the rest of their lives.

Paul had closed his eyes again, seeking sleep, wanting to shut out the world. George was familiar with this behaviour. He'd seen his mam resort to it often enough in that past life they'd been trying to escape. He knew it brought, at best, only the most temporary relief.

‘Paul,' he began, ‘we should get off home now. Tell your mam and dad. Tell Karen. They'll go with us to the police – and they must have Mark Dowling. We saw them last night. The police, at his house.'

Paul said nothing; he kept his eyes tight closed and his knees up close to his chest. Arms wrapped unnaturally tight as though he was literally holding himself together.

George didn't know what to do. Briefly, he thought of leaving his friend and going for help, but he wasn't sure how Paul would react to what would seem like a betrayal. He'd probably run off again and George wasn't sure how well he'd cope on his own.

No, he'd have to convince Paul to leave too. He turned back to face the window, watching the ant-like beings trekking in their ragged lines and praying that sooner or later the search would come their way.

‘What are we looking for? Tim asked.

‘They didn't say, but they're not expecting any of us to find it anyway.' Rina gestured expansively at the small army of volunteers creeping their way along the main road.

‘Oh? What makes you say that?'

‘Because, my dear, the experts – in their overalls and with their big sticks and their radios – are all searching over there. This is just a community exercise. A way of getting people involved without them getting in the way.'

Tim prodded a clod of earth with the end of the walking stick he had borrowed from Rina. ‘But they use volunteers all the time,' he argued. ‘Someone goes missing, the commun-ity turns out and walks up and down prodding things.'

‘If someone goes missing, yes. But I'm guessing what they're looking for here is a murder weapon. Mark Dowling must have been killed with
something
. They're assuming that the killer threw that something away, probably on the waste ground.'