Fire Damage (A Jessie Flynn Investigation, Book 1) (25 page)

Standing, looking down at the glistening pool of scarlet blood at his feet, Marilyn felt a deep fury building inside him. Responsibility had already settled, an elephantine weight on his shoulders and in the pit of his stomach, and now he wanted answers.

Answers and a result. Payback.

Why the hell had he rung Callan’s mobile when Callan hadn’t responded to his shouts? Called him and turned him into a living, breathing target.

He was well aware that killers often came back to the scene of the crime, but he hadn’t expected this one to: not now, at least, in the dark, the air mind-numbingly cold, nothing left to gloat over, Wendy Chubb’s body now gracing one of Dr Ghoshal’s dissecting tables. The killer had wrong-footed him and Callan had paid.

He turned at the sound of a voice. His lead Crime Scene Investigator, Tony Burrows, was standing outside the
Police! Do Not Cross!
tape that Marilyn had had strung up in a thirty-metre circumference around where he’d found Callan. Dragged out of bed, an hour after he’d finally managed to get into it – twenty-five hours after he had first arrived at Wendy Chubb’s crime scene, which he and his team had been scouring for clues, without a break – Burrows’ moon face looked blotchy under the arc lights, his eyes wide and red veined from lack of sleep. Marilyn was gratified to see that he had dressed hastily: his shirt was buttoned in the wrong holes and the cardigan he had pulled over it was stained with various foodstuffs.

‘You’ll be getting a bill for overtime, Marilyn,’ he muttered, as he shrugged into his Tyvek overalls.

‘How about I write off the hundred quid that you owe me and we can call it quits,’ Marilyn said.

Burrows ducked under the tape. ‘The amount of time I’ve put in this past twenty-four hours, that wouldn’t even scratch the minimum wage threshold.’

Marilyn chuckled obligingly, though he still felt nothing but cold anger.

‘You earn more than minimum wage? Clearly I need to have a word with payroll.’

With a silent roll of his eyes, Burrows pulled on pair of latex gloves, snapping the wrist of each over the sleeve of his overalls. ‘What do we have?’

Dawn was finally beginning to lighten the sky above them, which would make the forensic team’s job fractionally easier.

‘Bloodstain here.’ Marilyn pointed a metre to his left. ‘Boot prints here. Both from Callan. And another set of boot prints—’ he swung his arm a metre to the right – ‘here. Men’s, for sure, from the size of the prints, unless we’re dealing with a female bigfoot or a clown, though the evenness of the prints tells me that the shoe fit the boot.’

‘From the perpetrator?’

Marilyn nodded. ‘Given where I found Callan, and where Callan was standing.’ He took a step sideways, laying his feet carefully to avoid stepping anywhere critical, and squatted down. ‘The second set of boot prints are approximately a metre directly behind Callan’s. Hip width apart, the right, a quarter of a metre behind the left, with the toe of the print angled forty-five degrees outwards.’

‘Right-handed shooter’s stance,’ Burrows said.

‘Absolutely.’

‘Careless, leaving such clear prints.’

‘Rushed.’ Marilyn straightened, rubbing a hand across his eyes. He was knackered, the adrenalin that had kept him going for the past twenty-four hours, adrenalin intensified with outrage on finding Callan bleeding his life into the mud and leaf mulch of this shitty wood, had now evaporated, leaving him feeling shattered and morose. ‘I heard the shot. I’d gone off to answer a call from the station. I’d just come back, was standing on the track by the Sandhurst boundary fence, shouting to Callan. When he didn’t answer, I called his mobile.’ He met Burrows’ jaded gaze, shaking his head. ‘I heard the fucking ring. He didn’t answer – now I know why. A few moments later, the shot.’

‘He’s a cop, Marilyn. It’s his job.’

‘It’s my fucking job too,’ Marilyn snapped. ‘And I was on the phone chatting about shift patterns while he was out here doing his properly.’

He usually kept his emotions bottled up at work, cork shoved in firmly, hated unprofessionalism in any form. The inevitable build up of stress was dissipated instead through too many late nights in grotty clubs, overdoses of vodka, dates with women young enough to be his daughter and material enough not to care, as long as he paid.

‘I shouted, vaulted the fence and charged like a bloody rhino on heat through the wood. Still got here too late.’ He sighed. ‘Callan was right. The killer must have cut in a semicircle through the trees to surprise Wendy Chubb.’
Cover of sight and movement until the last moment.
‘Callan must have found something important, some evidence. I can’t think of any other reason for the killer to revisit the crime scene in the middle of the bloody night. He must have dropped something. But there was nothing on Callan when I found him. I checked his pockets while the air ambulance trauma team were trying to stabilize him.’ Hauling the collar of his jacket up around his neck, he looked despondently down at the patch of blood. ‘Get a cast of those prints and then search every centimetre of the woods within this perimeter, Burrows. Every damn centimetre. However long it takes.’

Scratching a latex-clad hand over his bald patch, Burrows nodded. ‘Leave it to me, Marilyn. If there is more evidence here, I will find it.’

Marilyn laid a hand on his arm. ‘Thanks, Tony.’

Ducking under the crime scene tape, he joined DS Workman, who was briefing a team of constables, setting out search parameters. Back to the house-to-house. Asking more questions. Had anyone been woken by the sound of a car at around 3 a.m.? If yes, did they get a look at it? Was it a stranger’s car? A car they hadn’t seen before? Or perhaps a car that rang bells from the night before? A diesel engine that sounded familiar?

‘Workman, get on to Colonel Holden-Hough now. I want to know everything there is to know about an Army bloke called …’ He tugged his notebook from his pocket, found the relevant page. ‘Scott. Major Nicholas Scott.’

Jesus, you trained killers.
A trained killer, to shoot a trained killer?

‘Wendy Chubb’s employer, sir?’

‘Right. Wendy Chubb’s employer. Callan said that he was working on a suspicious death involving Scott.’

‘It could be a coincidence.’

‘Coincidences, smincidences, my arse. I’m going to St George’s Hospital to see how Callan is and then I’m off to visit this Major Scott character. Give me a call when you’ve spoken with Holden-Hough.’

Marilyn navigated his way back through the trees and hauled himself over the Sandhurst boundary fence, for what felt, to his weary bones, like the hundredth time. As he walked back down the narrow track that led to Birch Close where his precious BMW Z3 was parked, a mobile rang in his pocket. Not a ringtone he recognized. Callan’s mobile then. He had found it when he had searched Callan’s pockets, hadn’t wanted it to get damaged or lost in the air-ambulance or in the hospital. He had Callan’s wallet in his other pocket, for the same reason.
Small tokens. The least he could do.
Pulling the mobile from his pocket, he looked down at the name flashing on its screen.

Jessie Flynn.

His thumb found ‘answer’. ‘Detective Inspector Bobby Simmons.’

A pause. He could hear light breathing at the end of the line. Then a young woman’s tentative voice. ‘Ben? Is that you?’

‘No. No, it’s not. My name is Detective Inspector Bobby Simmons.’

‘Oh, hi. I, uh, I wanted to speak to Ben Callan. I must have dialled wrong. Sorry—’

‘Wait,’ Marilyn cut in.

At least I know that I didn’t drag you away from a beautiful girl, not wearing that jumper.

You have no idea how beautiful.

And now he had to tell that beautiful girl that Callan had been airlifted to hospital with a bullet lodged in his abdomen, was unlikely to see the day out. At times like this, he hated his job with a passion, could think of no logical reason on earth why he hadn’t become an accountant like his old man. No logical bloody reason at all.

The little girl sat alone on the floor. Pale yellow curtains studded with dainty white daisies framed the window in front of her, softening the flat winter sunlight that cut through the glass. She stared, with tilted head, into nothingness, not seeing the broad sweep of lawn that ran away from the back of the house to join a field of grazing horses – horses that most ten-year-old girls would be captivated by. At the far end of the room the sound of CBeebies filled the silence, other children lolling on chairs or lying on the carpet, watching the cartoon figures charge around the screen.

The little girl was oblivious to the television and to the other children.

The man who had come to visit her didn’t notice them either, so focused was he on her. He thought again, as he always did when he came here, how cruel it was that such a beautiful child would never lead a normal life, never experience everything that life had to offer. Lowering himself on to the carpet beside her, he reached for her hand, pulled it on to his knee.

‘Soraya.’

She gave no response; continued to look at the window, as if transfixed by the beauty of the view beyond the glass. Unsure if she had registered his presence, he moved in front of her so as to obscure her line of sight to the window. Placing a hand gently under her chin, he lifted it so that he could look straight into her eyes.

‘Soraya, it’s Daddy.’

Slowly, her eyes focused on his face, and she smiled up at him.

‘I have a present for you, sweetheart.’

Pulling the pale yellow teddy bear from his coat pocket, he pressed it into her hands. She held it lightly, smiling again, but he couldn’t be sure whether she was smiling at the feel of the soft fur in her hands or something else entirely.

He sat with her for an hour, cradling her in his arms and talking to her: about the horses in the field, the birds in the trees, how in the summer he’d take her to West Wittering Beach and build sandcastles with her. He sang her a song, the words whispered quietly into her ear. He could feel her body rock as he sang, knew from her reaction that she was hearing, processing the tune at least, somewhere deep inside her brain.

He glanced at his watch; an hour had gone by. He had to get back before he was missed. Giving her a kiss on the forehead, tucking the teddy bear, which had fallen into her lap, back into her arms, he stood. Her head drifted to the side and her face returned to emptiness. But her arm remained clutched tight around the pale yellow teddy bear.

Looking at her, he felt a deep upset. When he was younger he had believed in fate, believed that everything happened for a reason, a reason that would, in time, lead to good. Now, he believed none of that shit. He knew that life was tough and unfair, that terrible things happened to good people, and that was all there was to it.

He sensed, rather than heard someone approach. Turning around, he smiled at the young red-headed nurse.

‘How are you, Miss Greene?’

He knew that she fancied him – not that he was going to do anything about it.

‘It’s mid-morning snack time. Do you want to stay, while we feed Soraya her morning snack?’

‘I’m sorry. I need to get back to work.’

‘Will we be seeing you next week?’

‘I hope so.’

‘Your daughter will miss you if you don’t come, Mr Starkey.’

He smiled a sad smile. ‘I doubt that. But I’ll try my hardest to visit.’

The Jacksons’ road looked narrower, dirtier than it had coated in darkness when she and Callan had visited two days ago. Black city grime dusted the cream house next door, and the air smelled tight and claustrophobic against the country air she was used to. The newsagent’s was open, a stack of newspapers in plastic containers outside, the containers grimy with fingerprints. An e-fit of a man’s face looked out from the front page of the
Daily Mail
and the
Daily Express
, a full-colour shot of a riot in progress in some unnamed country on the cover of
The Times
, but Jessie didn’t stop to read the headlines. Her stomach constricted with nerves as she walked up the garden path, her wedge heels clicking on the tiles.

She still felt sick from her conversation with Detective Inspector Simmons, a sick ache that had settled hard in her stomach and in her chest, keeping pace with her while she retrieved her car from outside the pub and drove up the A3 to Wandsworth; felt as if she would burst into tears if anyone looked sideways at her. She clenched her hands so hard that her fingernails bit into her palm.
Not here, not now.

Rachel Jackson opened the door. At first glance, she looked better than she had two days ago, wearing a crisp white shirt and skinny jeans, her hair newly washed. But when Jessie met her dull, red-rimmed gaze, she realized that the impression was only window dressing. Her eyes were flat, their light extinguished.

‘Do you remember me, Rachel?’

Pursing pale lips, she nodded. ‘The psychologist.’

‘Jessie Flynn.’

She didn’t smile. ‘What do you want?’

‘I’m sorry to come back, particularly without an appointment. But I have a few more questions about Andy.’

‘Where’s the policeman?’

Jessie swallowed to ease the words out around the choking lump in her throat. ‘This isn’t a formal visit. I just have a few more questions. Captain Callan didn’t need to be here.’

Rachel didn’t move.

‘Can I come in, please?’

A dull nod. She stood back, pulling the door open.

Jessie followed her down the narrow corridor and into the kitchen. As if following some strange ritual, they gravitated to the same chairs that they had sat in before, facing each other across the kitchen table. Jessie almost expected to hear Steve Jackson’s voice –
Of course I’m bloody sure. He was my son. He didn’t have any medical problems
– Callan’s measured replies. But the house was silent, felt almost peaceful around them. Jessie knew that she would shatter that repose with what she was about to ask.

‘Did your husband have any medical problems, Rachel?’

A tiny pause, and then Rachel shook her head. ‘No. None. He wouldn’t have been in the Army if he had done, would he?’

‘Are you sure about that?’

Though Rachel stared back resolutely, her hand moved to finger her lips. ‘Positive.’

‘You can’t lie to me,’ Jessie said. ‘It’s too important.’

‘I’m not lying.’ Her voice quivered.

Listening to her, Jessie suddenly felt immensely sad: not only for Rachel and her children, but also for Sami, for Callan, for herself, for this whole damn mess.

‘Rachel, I know that Andy was an opium addict.’

Her face twisted with anger. ‘How dare you.’

‘The autopsy confirmed it. Captain Callan has the results and he said that Andy was addicted to opiate-based painkillers for months, years probably, and opium – pure opium – for weeks before he died.’

Rachel groaned. ‘Oh, Jesus.’

‘Callan won’t do anything with the results. He’ll keep them hidden – if he can – but you need to help me.’

Silence. Rachel’s gaze remained fixed on the same invisible spot in the middle of the kitchen table as before.

‘Callan is lying in hospital with a bullet wound in his abdomen …’ Jessie paused, took a breath to stop her voice from breaking on the words. ‘He lost a ton of blood before they got him to hospital and it’s doubtful that he will live.’

Rachel gave a tiny shrug, and that one movement made Jessie want to lean across the table and slap her face.

‘He was shot investigating Andy’s case,’ Jessie snapped. ‘So you need to be straight with me, Rachel. Lies won’t do.’

She covered her face with her hands. ‘I’m not lying.’

‘Half-truths won’t do either.’

Jessie heard a sudden noise behind her. She turned. Andy Jackson’s mother was standing on the kitchen threshold, cradling Rachel’s baby son.

‘I’ve heard every word and I want you to leave my house. Now.’

Meeting her gaze, Jessie saw nothing but her own mother, shrunken with grief after Jamie’s death. But she couldn’t let her own memories cloud her judgement.

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Jackson, really I am. But I’m not leaving until I get what I came for. Truth. That’s all I want. I just want some truth.’ She held up her hand, thumb and index finger a millimetre apart. ‘Just a grain of truth.’ She felt as if she was going to burst into tears herself; dug the nails of her left hand hard into her palm again to stop herself. ‘I can have you arrested for impeding a police investigation, Rachel.’

It was a cheap shot, but the words hit home. Rachel’s tear-filled eyes widened.

‘You wouldn’t.’

Was that even true? Jessie had no idea where the Military Police jurisdiction ended, but suspected that it was far short of spouses – ex-spouses – living in civilian accommodation.

‘Could you be any more cruel?’ Mrs Jackson said in a voice that shook with fury. ‘Could you be? I’m calling my husband. He’ll come back from work. He’ll come back now and force you to leave.’

Mrs Jackson turned and Jessie heard her footsteps receding down the tiled hall. She sat forward.

‘I need you to help me, Rachel.’ She was aware that she was almost pleading.

Rachel squeezed her eyes closed ‘I don’t want his memory ruined,’ she said. ‘He was a good soldier. He
was
.’

‘This goes no further. You have my word.’

Silence. Jessie laid a hand on Rachel’s arm. ‘Not to the Military Police, not to the Intelligence Corps. Rachel, please look at me.’ Jessie waited until Rachel’s red, swollen eyes met hers. ‘No further.
You have my word
.’

Rachel drew in a long, quivering breath. ‘My husband broke his leg on a training exercise in Norway, three years ago. It never healed properly.’

The drawing of Andy Jackson clutching his leg, the huge box that said ‘PAN’. Pain.
Of course. Obvious now.

‘But he pretended that it had?’ Jessie asked.

‘He couldn’t leave the Army, it was his life. It was all he ever wanted to do since he was tiny.’

‘So he took prescription painkillers?’

‘Steve … his father got them for him. He has a bad back. It wasn’t much of a stretch for the GP to hand out painkillers to him. They hand them out like sweeties to old people. Anything to get them out of the door, stop them sucking up surgery time.’

‘But Andy got addicted?’

‘It wasn’t about addiction. He
needed
them. He couldn’t do his job without them.’

‘And then he was sent to Afghanistan.’

Rachel nodded. ‘For six months. Steve couldn’t get enough painkillers to last Andy that long.’

‘So Andy plugged into the local drug dealers?’

‘It wasn’t like that.
He
wasn’t like that.’

‘Opium. It’s a Class A drug, Rachel.’

‘He told me that he was getting the opium from an Afghan that he worked with. One of their Intelligence Corps contacts – not some scummy drug dealer.’

‘Who was this man?’

Rachel lifted her shoulders in a weary shrug. ‘I don’t know. Andy didn’t tell me his name.’

‘Think. What did Andy say about him? Anything. Any detail you can remember.’

‘Has this got something to do with my husband’s murder?’

Jessie looked down at her hands.
It wasn’t murder
, she wanted to scream across the table. ‘Yes. Yes, it could do.’

Rachel sighed; her body slumped. She looked as if the last vestiges of her will had been sucked out of her.

‘He was a government official, something to do with water. Andy said that the coalition was funding a dam for the Helmand River, so that the farmers had access to water for their crops. The Intelligence Corps made the contact, managed it.’

Water.
Where the hell had she heard that before? Jessie raised her hands to her head, pressing her fingers against her skull, as if she could physically reach into her mind and drag up the memory.

Farmers not fighters. But of course, the money never gets used for what it’s supposed to.
Sergeant Colin Starkey.

She dropped her hands to the tabletop. ‘Water?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re sure?’

A strangled, ‘Yes.’

‘What else, Rachel?’

Rachel turned tear-filled eyes to the window, shook her head. ‘Nothing else.’

‘Think, please, anything.
Anything
.’

She flinched at the tone of Jessie’s voice, at the command.

‘All I remember is that he used to joke that the man was like a bad dream.’

Hurried footsteps approaching: Mrs Jackson. ‘Steve’s left work. He’ll be here in ten minutes—’

Jessie stood, holding out her hands to halt Mrs Jackson’s flow. ‘Mrs Jackson, I’m leaving. I’m leaving now.’ She turned back to Rachel. ‘A bad dream? What do you mean?’

Rachel was picking at the skin around her thumb, drawing blood. She didn’t respond.

‘A bad dream? A … a nightmare? You mean he was a nightmare? To work with? Is that what he meant? Rachel.
Rachel
.’

With a sob, Rachel shook her head. ‘No. A nightmare.’ She wiped her sleeve across her nose, streaking snot across the white cotton. ‘He said that the man’s name meant “Nightmare” in Dari. We laughed about it.’ Her head fell to her hands. ‘We laughed so hard back then.’