Perfect Intentions: Sometimes justice is above the law (15 page)

Sarah had failed to notice the small, drab woman staring daggers at her and sitting not six feet away. She had been far too wrapped up in her own predicament. It hadn’t been finding the finger that had unsettled her so much as the fact that if what the police had suggested was right and Jon had become the serial killer’s latest victim, where did that leave her as far as her child allowance and detached house were concerned?

All of a sudden, as if from nowhere, she had some crazy beast on her back, pulling at her hair and slapping at her face. She screamed out in terror as the woman on her back started screaming obscenities at her.

The WPC and PC who had interviewed the two women earlier came bursting back into the reception area and dragged Joanne off of Sarah.

“Now, can we all just calm down?” The PC sounded tired and both women regarded him warily, Joanne still panting from her energetic assault.

“It’s been a very stressful time for you both, so let’s just concentrate on getting you both back home,” the PC ventured. Sarah swung about to face the PC.

“Hold on—I want to press charges; she just attacked me for no reason.” The indignation in her voice was palpable. The WPC who was still holding Joanne by the arm turned to face Sarah.

“
If you want to press charges Miss Lester, you are of course within your rights. However, these are exceptional circumstances and Mrs Hamilton here has just suffered a terrible shock, emotions are running very high for you and for her.”

Sarah regarded the both the WPC and Joanne as the last statement hung in the air waiting to be addressed. The PC, sensing that a man had no place in the argument, held his tongue and did his best to blend into the back ground.

“Do you wish to press charges?”

“No. Take me home.”

Sarah turned and headed out the door, the PC following behind her.

Then the WPC turned to Joanne.

“Christ, I wouldn‘t want to get on the wrong side of you.”

Joanne gave a weary smile.

“Guess I must still have feelings for the cheating bastard after all.”

The WPC held the door open for Joanne and they made their way to the squad car waiting for them outside.

Dean arrived at The Tin Whistle at eight as previously arranged and saw that Mark was already waiting for him with a pint ready. He wandered over to the table, sat down, and took a long drink before acknowledging Mark.

“So come on then, what do you know?”

“Well the bloke’s name is Adam, and he’s usually down at Andre’s every Friday and Saturday night.”

“What time?”

Mark checked his phone briefly before responding.

“Well, according to my mate, he should be there in the next half hour—what do you want to do?”

“What do you think I want to do? I want to go down there and kick the living shit out of him. Let’s go.”

Mark downed the rest of his drink quickly and grabbed his jacket as they headed toward the door. Getting into Marks car the two set off at speed toward Andre’s. Pulling up in the car park, they marched inside and ordered drinks—two lagers and a vodka chaser for Dean. They managed to find a small table in the corner of the room where they could watch the door.

“So how are we going to go about this? I mean, are you going to ask him anything or just twat him outright?”

“Not sure yet.” Dean slurped his pint noisily.

The door swung open and three men strode in. Mark nodded at the first of the men.

“That’s your man there. Adam Woodacre.”

“So I see. Look, Mark, I don’t want you to get involved in this. I’m going to wait until he goes to the bogs, follow him, and I’ll meet you in the car after, ok?”

Mark looked across the room to where Adam was standing; he was busy laughing at the landlord with all his mates chiming as required. Mark hated that kind of bloke, all mouth and no substance. Mark could run his mouth with the best of them, especially if he’d had a few, but he had form. He wasn’t necessarily proud of the reputation he had garnered, but at least he had a reputation. Adam Woodacre was a ponce, a lowlife piece of shit who liked to strut about like a big man.

“You sure you don’t want me to come with you? To be honest, mate, I wouldn’t mind kicking that shit eating grin back down his throat myself, and he ain’t even done anything to me.”

“Nah, you just get yourself back to the car. Ah, looks like we’re on.” Dean nodded toward the bar as Adam started to make his way to the gents’ room.

The two men got up, one following Adam and the other heading for the car park.

Adam slammed the gents’ toilet door open. His website’s popularity had grown phenomenally within the last week. Other people had been posting items and this had given him a kick. To him, the fact that there were other people who shared his perverse mind-set had been a form of validation. As he stood in front of the urinal, he smiled a wide smile, lost in his reverie. He barely noticed the door swing open.

Dean stood in the doorway and watched Adam’s back for a moment. Walking quietly up behind him, he stopped just inches from Adam’s back before peering over his shoulder.

“Not as big as the one stood in front of me.”

Adam jumped at the proximity of the voice. Doing up his jeans, he spun round to see who it was.

“What’s your fucking problem?”

“Careful, Adam, you’ve gone and pissed all over your shoes.” Dean hadn’t backed off, and he now stood just inches from Adam’s face. Adam looked down to check his shoes, and as he brought his head back up to Dean’s level, it was met by Dean’s forehead. The blow put Adam straight on the floor as Dean set about kicking him, blows landing on his stomach, legs, and back. Adam had no chance of fighting back through the ferocity of the kicks that were raining down on him, so he was busy trying to protect his head and face with his arms. Seeing this, Dean continued to kick at Adam’s body, trying to focus on his kidneys. Dean had been on the losing side of a fight once and had taken a few blows to the kidneys, and he remembered how painful it had been. He had been pissing blood for a good few days after. Finally Dean tired and he squatted down next to Adam, who was dully aware that the onslaught had ceased. He looked Adam up and down.

“You’ll be pissing blood for the next few days; however, if you ever go near Clare Heathers again, I’ll be back, and next time I won’t leave you with anything to piss with.”

Dean hawked back in his throat and spat straight in Adam’s already swelling eye.

Getting back up, he checked his reflection; apart from a small red mark on his forehead from where it had made contact with Adam’s nose minutes before, there was nothing to indicate he’d done anything untoward. Glancing once more back at Adam, he left the toilets and met Mark in the car.

“Are we good?”

“We’re good.”

With that, Mark sparked the engine into life and pulled out of the car park.

Robert Hollister wasn’t a happy man. He was in charge of the estate to the south of Manning’s Town. The estate was run from Shropshire approximately seventy miles away, and so it was up to him to ensure the smooth running of this particular part of it. The estate owned around forty thousand acres of land, ten thousand of which he was personally responsible for.

The estate would rent land and sometimes farm buildings to farmers in the area. In return the estate would be ultimately responsible for the buildings’ upkeep. The estate had originally been set up as a trust fund by a wealthy landowner who didn’t want the land to be sold off to the highest bidder after his death and fall into the wrong hands—the wrong hands being those of property developers or industry. He had wanted to make sure his farmers weren’t forced off their land by large corporate companies; the flipside of the trust, however, was that the farmers could never actually own their land—the trust was not allowed to sell any of it off.

The reason for Robert Hollister’s visit, however, was a specific building within this particular area of the estate: a derelict farmhouse. Its previous occupants had left over twenty years ago and the building had not been touched since. However, with the recent jump in house prices within Manning’s Town, the estate had to been quick to pick up on the fact that the farmhouse was a prospective goldmine.  Commuters would pay a substantially larger rent than most in order to have the peace and tranquillity this country retreat would offer.

In his opinion, moving non-country folk in would be a nightmare. Unfortunately, though, it wasn’t his decision to make. All the land that had originally belonged to the farmhouse had since been divided up between the surrounding farms, which meant the only use the farmhouse would have would to be a family residence.

As he pulled into the top of the driveway, he had a prime view of the building; it may have been completely derelict, but as the morning sun streamed over it the view was breath taking.

There was a long sweeping driveway into the front yard area. Far in the background a hillside fringed by a wooded area masked the horizon. And Robert could see why people from the town would want to live in such a place. The seclusion and solitude it provided would serve as a balm in even the most hectic of lives.

As he manoeuvred his car onto the drive, he was once again reminded of how much work would be needed to bring this place up to scratch. The driveway was full of potholes, and as his wheels found another one and grazed the underside of his new Mercedes he cursed quietly under his breath.

The door to the property was wide open. Getting out of the car, he first walked round to inspect the damage done. There was a small scuff mark along the bottom of the skirts that troubled him even though he’d had to actively look to notice. He sighed noisily and made his way to the front door, checking to see if it was still attached; it was, but only just. Walking into what was once the kitchen; it was like travelling back through time. The kitchen cabinets were unfitted and painted, something he reflected, that you rarely saw anymore. What had once been carpet tiles on the floor were virtually all rotten and peeling up at the corners. Robert grinned to himself. It all reminded him of his youth. His parents had been farmers; in fact, before they had retired, they ran a farm less than ten miles from here. He could still remember the mornings; they always felt like the busiest time of the day. He would have to be up at seven to get ready for school, and as he was dressing in his freezing cold bedroom, he’d hear his mother in the kitchen below scraping the ashes from the hearth, ready to start the fire for the day. By the time he bowled into the kitchen she’d have all the breakfast plates laid out. His two sisters would already be there, bickering between themselves. And then his father would come in, bringing fresh milk for the day, and they would all sit down and have breakfast together, which, depending on the time of the year would consist of either toast or porridge. Once they’d all finished their breakfast, he would run back upstairs to have a wash in tepid water that the kitchen fire had only just managed to take the edge off of. By the time he got back down to the kitchen, his mother would be dashing around trying to find her keys to take him to school.

Taking a final look around the kitchen, Robert made his way into the hallway; the stairs went off to the right, spiralling as they did so. He was under strict instruction from the estate not to go up there under any circumstances. He had been assured that the staircase would be rotted through by now, and clumsy footing could see him starting the renovation work earlier than intended.

Going back outside again, he decided to take a walk around to the back of the property to explore the possibility of turning the stables into a garage. A quick scan about told him everything he needed to know: they’d serve that purpose brilliantly, but a new roof would be required.

Pondering the idea of fitting patio doors into the main house, he strode over toward the old barns that had disrupted the view. The doors looked about fit to collapse, but a quick analysis of their situation couldn’t hurt.

The first barn had no roof and the brick was already beginning to crumble. As Robert started toward the second barn the one directly in the line of view from the house, he stopped.

There was something just outside of it. Something was there, shining. It was in a pothole, which was probably why he hadn’t seen it from the house. He walked over to investigate further and found a cigarette lighter. He bent and scooped it up; the cigarette lighter had once belonged in a car. It stuck out because everything around him that was manmade was in decay, but not this—this looked brand new, not tarnished, scuffed, or weatherworn in any way. Wondering if this place had become the chief hangout for the local kids, he put it in his pocket and continued into the barn. This barn, like the first, was in shambles with crumbling brickwork and gaping holes in the roof. Robert scanned the floor, wondering what it would take to have the lot removed and lay down some turf instead; a building this size would make a nice family a home, and the parents would want a garden for the kids.

As his eyes moved over the concrete flooring, his line of sight moved to the back of barn. There was something there, in the shadows. Maybe it was his eyes; the morning sun was bright outside, and although the roof needed replacing it was still dark enough inside to mask certain areas of the floor.

There is something there.

Robert felt a small chill going down his spine.

Maybe it’s an animal—a fox?

No, it’s too big for a fox
.

His rational side kicked back in. He chastised himself for being afraid.

You’re too far away from it to make that decision
.

Maybe it’s something the last tenants left behind, machinery or something.

As he drew closer, he could tell it wasn’t machinery. His mind started to race.

A homeless person?
He mentally scolded himself again.
Why would someone come out to the middle of nowhere
to sleep in a barn? The house is a derelict but it would still be preferable to this.

Just to be sure, he called out to the bundle, but there was no reply.

Well, that settles it—it’s not human, so no need to continue any farther.

But he couldn’t stop; his legs weren’t listening, and something inside of him had to know what it was.

As he came up on the remains of Richard and Jon, he heard a scream.

One of them is alive.

Robert was unsure of how much time elapsed before he realised the scream was coming from him.

Before he knew what was happening, he had his mobile in his hand and was furiously pressing buttons.

Within thirty minutes, three police cars and an ambulance were there.

And Robert Hollister had been tranquilised.

“Sir, we’ve found two more.” Henson’s voice came through loud on Holt’s mobile.

“God, please tell me
one
of them is Jon Hamilton.”

“It looks like it, sir. The chap on top’s missing the fourth digit on his left hand.”

“The chap on top? Never mind, Henson, where are you anyway?”

“We’re seven miles outside town. Come out of town as if heading towards Newton Leigh, and about four miles along the road there’s a turn on your right, take it and follow the road for three miles, and the entrance to the farmhouse is on your left. I’ll have a couple of uniforms standing at the top so you don’t miss us.”

“I’m on my way.” Henson could hear Holt open his car door.

“Hurry, sir, the coroner’s here already and he’s getting impatient.”

“Be with you in ten.” And with that, Holt hung up.

Henson stared down at the phone in his hand for a few minutes. Why had it taken so long to get hold of him? They were in the middle of a major investigation and Holt was becoming the scarlet pimpernel—not good, considering Dennis Grant wasn’t known for good-humoured patience. Dennis Grant was the acting coroner and had all the good temperament of a rabid dog. When he’d arrived on the scene and Holt hadn’t been there, he’d spent ten minutes chewing Henson’s ear and wouldn’t tell him anything pertinent about the bodies at all. He’d referred to Henson as “boy,” something that had gotten the young DC’s back up straight away.

He said he wanted to speak to “the organ grinder, not the monkey,” and had then gone on to berate DI Holt’s slapdash attitude to the case in general. Anyone would think the man was in charge of the investigation himself.

Ten minutes later, Holt’s car pulled into the driveway. Dennis Grant walked over to meet the upcoming vehicle, his head to one side,
the most petulant look he could muster on his face. As the car pulled up and the door opened, Dennis opened his mouth to speak, seeing this Jimmy raised his hand.

“Dennis, I don’t have time for this. I’m sorry I’m a little late.” Dennis raised his eyebrows and went to speak again. Jimmy cut him off once more.

“However my DC was here and now so am I, so if you’d like to make a formal complaint please feel free, but for the time being can we just do what we’re all here to do?”

Dennis turned on his heel and stormed back toward the barn.

Henson had seen the exchange between the two men and suppressed a grin. Holt was really good at cutting people off dead—he had a real presence about him when he chose to.

Holt was walking in Henson’s direction and knew he wouldn’t be happy with what little information he had garnered about the discovery.

“What do we know, Henson?”

“Well, sir, I believe the body on top to be Mr Jon Hamilton.”

“And the other?”

“Not sure, we’re rechecking missing persons. We think it might be a Richard Abbott—went on the list over a week ago.”

The two men strode toward the barn, following the irritated Dennis Grant into the building.

“Who found the bodies?” Consulting his notepad, Henson answered,

“A Mr Robert Hollister, the estate manager for the area; you won’t be able to speak to him yet, though.”

“Oh yes, and why’s that?”

“He’s been tranquilised.”

“Tranquilised?”

“Yeah, poor guy went into shock.”

Holt was amazed but ultimately pleased to hear some compassion in the young DC’s voice.

Walking into the dim barn, Holt was reminded of how secluded this area was; the killer had really done their research on this particular location. If the PCs hadn’t been standing at the top of the driveway, he’d probably have driven straight past. As he neared the bodies he started to smell the decay—they’d probably been here a while.

“Who owns these buildings?”

“Oh, they’re part of an estate. We spoke to Robert Hollister’s boss earlier, and apparently the place his been empty for over twenty years. They’d sent him down to assess the state of it and then they were going to renovate. What with the property market as it is, I guess they figured they could really cash in on it.”

“Good job they did, otherwise we might never have found them.”

Holt was surveying the remains of Jon Hamilton and Richard Abbott.

“Any idea of time of death yet?” Holt queried. Dennis Grant, having gotten over the previous set-to with Holt, answered.

“Around two weeks ago—this one was first, the other a week or so later. I won’t know properly until we get them back into town, but it does look like the one on top was moved into this position post-mortem.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Well, the discolouration of the feet, mainly; if the victim had died in this position the mottling would be all down the front of their body, including the face.”

“What about rigor mortis? Surely it would have been practically impossible to move him after he’d died.”

“Not necessarily. Rigor mortis only affects the body after the first few hours, then after twenty-four hours the effect wears off and the body becomes pliant again.”

“There’s no doubt that the one on top is Jon Hamilton, then?”

“No, I don’t think so. Build, height, and clothing fit, and of course there’s this.” Picking up Jon’s left arm, he held out Jon’s hand.