Four Below (29 page)

‘You’re nit-picking now,’ McLusky said.

‘At least admit there are nits to pick.’

‘Not on me. But maybe, yeah. Time of death, Doc?’

‘Oh, sometime during the night, perhaps, though that’s merely a guess at this stage,’ Coulthart said. For once the pathologist looked genuinely uncertain rather than
deliberately vague. By now McLusky had learnt to tell the two states apart. ‘We’ve no way of knowing what the temperatures were like in whatever place she was before. And it’s
sub-zero out here.’

‘How long do we think she’s been lying here?’

‘SOCO think about an hour before they got here, which makes it about four.’

‘What?’ McLusky looked about him as though searching for the originator of this wild theory. ‘You’re telling me they dumped her here in broad daylight? And no one saw a
thing?’

‘Hardly broad daylight. It was already quite dark then. There was a heavy snowfall, heavier than now, and look …’

McLusky did. He couldn’t see far in any direction, and the opposite side of the river was completely obscured. He went rhetorical. ‘Still. Look at it. This is the nearest access
point, so they probably stopped out there rather than carry the body along the path. But that road must have been hellishly busy at four. And for what? I can’t see anything special about this
place. And if it isn’t special, then there’s another reason for dumping them here.’

Coulthart picked up his case. ‘I’ll leave you to your musings, gentlemen.’

McLusky watched him go, remembering the doctor’s perishable soul and briefl y wondering what soulful delights he might be travelling towards tonight. Then other matters claimed his
attention. He found the senior SOCO. It was the same man who had predicted the time of deposition of Mike Oatley’s body. ‘You think she was dumped here an hour before she was
found?’

‘That’s our estimate, and we don’t think we’re out much either way.’

‘No chance of footprints, I guess? Or better still, tyre marks?’

‘I think we might be lucky with both. We’ve been digging out quite a few, last time as well. The footprint compacts the snow, then snow falls on top, but its infill has a different
density. We dig around it, take away the whole thing, stick it in a box and keep it sub-zero. We won’t get much of a tread pattern, but size and shape definitely. Same with tyre
marks.’

‘Is that what all the digging was back there?’

‘Yes. We might get lucky. If I’m right, then I think it’s a van rather than a car.’

‘Interesting.’

‘Yes, a red one, we think.’

‘Very funny.’ SOCO humour. McLusky could do without it today.

It was after one in the morning when he got away from the site and drove home. He liked driving in the city at night: there was space and air to move about in; you could look
further than the nearest car. He could hear sirens close by as he turned into Stokes Croft. Checking his mirrors, he saw two fire engines following. He pulled over and waited for the heavy diesel
engines to growl past, then followed in their wake. When it looked as though they were going his way, turning into Ashley Road, he did a quick mental check of his kitchen: yes, he had turned the
gas off this morning. The fire engines carried on down Ashley Road. Just out of sight around the next bend, he could see the bright glow of a fire and black smoke billowing skywards. Instead of
turning off, and purely for sightseeing purposes, he drove along until he got to the site of the fire.

When he got there, he saw Constable Pym standing in the middle of the road, signalling him to stop. Flames roared behind two first-floor windows of a 1960s three-storey building. He was in time
to see the well-rehearsed routine of the firefighters connecting and rolling out hoses. A small crowd had gathered on the pavement opposite, being shouted at to move further away from the engines.
McLusky got out of the car. He was instantly hit by the heat of the fire, even at this distance. He could hear its dark roar too, until the noise from the pumps drowned it out. The flames soon
collapsed as jets from two hoses pumped through the shattered windows on to the flames. Pym stopped another car, which then started a laborious U-turn. McLusky swung on his crutches to the
constable.

Pym brightened up. ‘It’s you, sir, I didn’t recognize your car. Did they call you out for this?’

‘I was on my way home. I live round the corner.’

‘Seriously? Well I thought I was on my way home too. Then this cropped up.’

‘What is that place? It’s not residential, is it?’

‘No, it’s a local charity. A community centre sort of thing.’

‘No one in the building?’

‘There was no sign. It’s normally closed this time of night.’

McLusky nodded, prepared to turn around on his crutches. He was tired and had lost interest.

‘It could be arson, sir.’

‘Could it?’

‘Someone reported hearing a crash. Broken glass. Just before the fire broke out. And the centre’s van was torched a few days ago.’

‘Was it? Okay, Pym. Let me know what the fire officers say once they’ve been over it.’

He turned his car around and drove home. Once inside the flat, he flicked on the light and exhaled. He could see his breath in front of him. He thought he’d probably be more comfortable
sleeping in the car.

‘I wasn’t a
hundred
per cent sure it was drugs money. He did get paid a lot, might have put it by over the years.’

James Boyce had handed himself in as McLusky had counselled. This advice had earned him another rocket from upstairs, and he had to admit to a certain amount of relief when Boyce actually turned
up at Albany Road, on his own, without a solicitor. Now in Interview Room 2, Boyce was contrite and co-operative. McLusky let Austin conduct most of the interview so there could be no question of
animosity.

‘Is that what you want us to believe, or is it what you wanted to believe yourself?’ Austin didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Did you see any drugs in the lockup?’

‘No. There was nothing.’

‘You didn’t find some bags of yellow or brown stuff and put them aside for a rainy day?’

‘No, I wouldn’t deal in drugs. There was nothing. I would tell you. I’m totally against drugs.’

One of the things SOCO had found and didn’t need forensics for was a note band that had once belonged to a thousand-pound bundle of twenties. ‘And you found the money how? Presumably
a hundred and ten grand hadn’t just been left lying around?’ Austin asked.

McLusky spluttered as the tea he’d been sipping went down the wrong way. ‘Excuse me, back in a while,’ he said when he had composed himself. ‘You carry on.’

‘DI McLusky leaving the room,’ Austin said for the benefit of the machine recording the interview.

Once in the corridor, McLusky hurried. He had exchanged crutches for a single walking stick this morning and had also managed to fit his left foot into a shoe one size too large for him, both
items bought at a charity shop in St Pauls. Using the stick and walking on his heel, he hobbled along as fast as he could manage. ‘Like a demented cripple,’ Sorbie muttered to himself
as he watched the inspector limp past the CID room.

McLusky felt in too much of a hurry to wait for the lift, and propelled himself down the stairs. His haste drew an interested glance from Sergeant Hayes at the front desk as he clattered out of
the door into the car park. The MiTo bleeped and unlocked itself. Only when his hand had closed around the handles of the carrier bag did his heartbeat begin to steady. He travelled back up
serenely in the lift.

‘DI McLusky enters the interview room,’ Austin informed the recorder.

McLusky liberated the gift box from the carrier. He commented on it for the benefit of the recorder as he opened the box and lifted out the cake, which seemed none the worse for having bounced
around on the floor of the car. The money was tightly crammed into the hollow cake. He lifted it out, counting as he went. Most of it consisted of neat bundles of twenties, with only some rolls of
mixed notes on top, secured by rubber bands. ‘Happy fourteenth birthday. One hundred and ten grand, accounted for.’

Austin didn’t comment on the fact that it hadn’t arrived in an evidence bag until after the interview was wound up.

‘The money totally slipped my mind. Dead bodies have that effect on me.’

‘We have a preliminary from forensics on the garage, minute traces of heroin found in a storage box. You think Boyce is telling the truth? That he just found the money, not sold the
drugs?’

‘Can you see him dealing drugs? I don’t think he’d have walked away with the money; they’d simply have taken it off him.’

‘Then it was his dad. But
he
walked away with the money.’

‘Yes. Donald Bice knew more than just how to drive a boat. Either he was aware of a consignment of drugs hidden somewhere and laid his hands on it after Fenton was securely inside, or it
was hidden in the lockup all the time. And he was no street dealer. You know what street dealers’ cash looks like: bags of grubby notes. You saw the money. That came in one lump.’

‘And it’s about the right amount for two kilos of good-quality heroin.’

‘Exactly. But if he managed to walk away with the money, why was he killed?’

‘Good question,’ Austin admitted. ‘I’ve got one of my own, though: what makes you so sure the cycle-path bodies tie in? Especially the woman? She could turn out to be a
rape or robbery victim. Beaten for her credit-card details, for instance.’

‘Did you see what she was wearing? If she’d had credit on her card, she’d have bought some decent clothes.’ McLusky saw Austin take a deep breath and held up his hands.
‘I know, it’s all pretty vague. In both cases the killer takes a lot of time over the killings and much less care over the disposal of the body.’

‘But at least the first two
were
buried. These were just dumped.’

‘That’s because they were killed for a different reason, Jane. Same killers, different reason.’

Austin took another deep breath, but McLusky cut him off again. ‘No point arguing about it. Listen to the oracle. When forensics dig their lazy arses out of the snow, they’ll confirm
it. Anyway, we’ve a more pressing question. Who’s the second cycle-path body? Let’s try and find out before a third one lands on the mat, shall we?’

Chapter Nineteen

Alison Laing jabbed the ball of tissue into her eyes and made an effort to stop sobbing. Constable Purkis, who was sitting opposite her at the kitchen table, pushed the box of
tissues closer to her. The woman pulled out a fresh one and noisily blew her nose with it. She was glad they’d sent a woman; you didn’t have to try and be delicate around them.

‘We can’t be certain yet that it is Deborah.’

‘Debbie. No one calls her Deborah. But if she’s not at home and she didn’t start her job, then where is she?’ She had tried for two days to get hold of her, even went
around to her place in St Pauls and leant on her doorbell. In desperation she had called the Bristol Royal Infirmary to see if she could reach her at her new job. And eventually she’d been
told that Deborah Glynn had not shown up for work. Not on the Monday, and not today.

The doorbell rang and Alison made to get up.

‘No, don’t worry, I’ll get it,’ Purkis told her. In the hall, she used the spyhole and saw a fish-eye view of DS Austin, scratching his nose. ‘Come in,
sir.’

‘How’s … erm …’

‘Alison Laing. Tearful. Any news?’

‘All bad, I’m afraid. We went to Glynn’s flat. It’s definitely been searched without any sign of a break-in, and the neighbours haven’t seen or heard her music
since Saturday. Apparently she likes to play loud music. Hip-hop. The neighbours had noted the quiet with relief; now they feel guilty about it. She used to have a boyfriend living with her until
recently. I’m hoping Ms Laing knows where we can find him. McLusky is still at Glynn’s place, grilling one of the neighbours.’

‘How’s his foot?’

‘Making him short-tempered and more stubborn than ever.’

Five miles away, at a window of Deborah Glynn’s second-floor flat, McLusky was struggling to subdue his stubbornness and short temper as he saw DSI Denkhaus arrive in the
street below. The super’s Land Rover was the only thing down there not covered in snow. Upstairs and downstairs neighbours were being questioned. SOCO and forensics still hadn’t
arrived, and McLusky had sent Austin to talk to the girlfriend who had alerted them. He had hoped to find a few minutes of breathing space, to get a feeling for who Deborah Glynn was and what had
written a violent death into her life story, along with that of three others.

There were more possessions here than in Mike Oatley’s place, more books, CDs and DVDs, only it wasn’t differences he was looking for, it was similarities. If they were here, they
didn’t show up easily. Except that again papers were strewn all around a couple of box files on the floor, and drawers had been left open. If the intruders had found what they were looking
for, then it was no longer here, and today it was beginning to get him down. He was profoundly grateful that the kettle hadn’t disappeared from Glynn’s kitchen as it had from
Oatley’s. Strange events he didn’t mind; weird McLusky hated.

Playing catch-up was a police officer’s lot for most of the time, with a few bright moments of ‘catching them red-handed’ thrown in, but he knew he was about to have his ear
bent about the lack of progress and the tenuous connections between the killings, and for a brief moment he wished he’d stayed at Louise’s place, as she had urged, put his injured foot
up on a cushion and let someone else have a go. He leant heavily with both hands on his stick and nodded at Denkhaus, who stepped gingerly into the little sitting room.

‘No SOCOs, McLusky?’

‘Imminent.’

‘She wasn’t killed here?’

‘No way.’

‘Again no sign of a break-in. Could be both knew their killer and let them in. The two could still be unconnected and the second killer simply used the same place to dump—’

McLusky cut across him. ‘No. They were grabbed elsewhere, killed, dumped and their house keys used to gain entrance to their flats.’