Jack in the box, p.15
Jack in the Box, page 15
‘Three,’ Lomond muttered. ‘Lone woman. Homeless guy. Young gay man.’
‘Not the usual victim profile,’ Khavari ventured.
‘Not at all. And no obvious link.’
Lomond winced as flashbulbs went off in the garden. Beneath the tent, every single bit of it was being photographed. Slater joined him.
‘Looks closed off,’ Slater said.
‘They’re not overlooked. End terrace. House next door’s empty,’ Lomond said. ‘We’ll have to go over that too, make sure he wasn’t hiding there.’
‘He’s targeting them, gaffer. Surely. Watching the houses.’
‘That’s a definite. Woods and the water at the back. Broad daylight.’ Lomond bit back the urge to kick out at the stuffing that was floating over the hardwood floor like dandelion seeds. ‘Surely someone saw him.’
‘There’s a security camera at the patio,’ Slater said.
‘Aye,’ Lomond said. ‘Same make as the Symes’.’
‘I thought I recognised it,’ Khavari said.
‘Same builder too,’ Lomond said. ‘Avalon King.’ He took one last look at the boy. Suffocated. Little chance to put up a fight.
‘Strong bastard, eh?’ Slater said.
‘Yep. Bloody gorilla.’ You tried not to think of it, of course. The pure shock. Presumably pressure on the chest, knocked right off the seat, then the crude intrusion of the fibres and the pressure, the air snuffed out, the struggle for life rather than the struggle to fight off the attacker, and all too soon the lights, the darkness, and whatever came next.
‘We’d better talk to him, the partner,’ Lomond said. ‘Got to do it fast.’
‘Good luck,’ Khavari said, in a tone that suggested there was none to be had.
*
The portable incident room was an oasis of sorts in the darkness. The glare from the lights cut out the rest of the street. Only the police tape was prominent, laser-blast bright around the perimeter.
Drew Gough had changed out of his running gear. They’d had to take samples and test his clothes, of course. He’d understood. He’d been co-operative.
Lorna McGill had taken the lead on it. She’d held his hand and sat close to him; Lomond had felt reassured himself by her warm tone and smile.
‘Thing is,’ Drew said, ‘I absolutely hated that bean bag. I hated it sitting in the kitchen, you know? We had the big dining table, tons of room, and that’s fine. Rowan had his music and his record player and the headphones, you know, and that was all fine too. He liked to sit there when it was dark. See the stars, he said. He actually wanted a conservatory. We were saving that for our forever house.’
He began to shake. Lorna placed her other hand over his free one. He tried to drink some of the tea she had made, but spilled it en route to his mouth.
‘So he had that bloody bean bag in the corner. Slumped in it, you know? I’ve got strong legs and I can’t even stand up from it. I told him that . . . told him . . .’
‘How long have you had the house?’ Lomond asked.
‘Eighteen, nineteen months?’
‘Had bother with the neighbours?’
‘No . . . well, one or two comments from the people who used to be next door. Nothing nasty, but people do say stuff and can get a bit weird. But nothing that would make them do . . . nothing . . .’ He swallowed and focused in the distance.
They’d found him screaming in the street. Off his head, apparently. Not making a bit of sense. He couldn’t be made to go back in the house, and someone had the presence of mind to call the police. Lomond had been on the scene in half an hour.
‘Was anyone ever threatening or unpleasant? Say anything dodgy?’
‘No, everyone was lovely, I have to say. Even those old neighbours. Presents at Christmas, invited for drinks. But Rowan was the chatty one. He got on with folk. He could talk anyone round. The wives on the street loved him. Better-looking than me. Not hard, mind you.’ He laughed bitterly.
‘So no bother at all?’
‘I think one night there was a drone out. Just before Christmas. Early December?’
‘Did you see it?’
‘Just the lights. Two wee green lights, up in the sky. And that buzzing. I actually tried to chase it. Nosy bastards. I remember looking for chippy stones to throw. Rowan was laughing his head off.’
‘How many times did this happen?’
‘Just the once.’
‘And no sign of an intruder or anything?’
‘Nah. Just some teenagers during the summer, drinking in the woods at the back, but that was it. That was it . . .’ He scratched his chin, staring into the distance. Gone, Lomond thought. And not coming back for a while.
35
They walked around the house, front and back. They ignored the neighbours; Lomond in particular tuned out the tumult that was surely growing. It wouldn’t take this news long to travel at all. In fact, Anita Khavari had already had to tell a young woman to sling her hook. Turned out she was a reporter. They’d scaled back Lomond’s media appearances since the Ferryman case, but he was still in charge of the investigation, still on the hook.
‘He’s escalating,’ Lomond said.
‘Mmm,’ Slater said. ‘He must have messed up somehow, though, eh? He’s no ghost.’
‘That’s what I thought last time.’ Lomond paused. He took in the corner of the house, the camera at the front, the closed windows and the curtained upper rooms with quick movements. ‘Same deal with the Symes woman. Security system active, set to come on when someone enters the garden. It comes on. It takes a recording. But there’s nothing there. How’s he doing it?’
‘He’s re-recording the footage. What we’re seeing is a recording.’
Lomond nodded. ‘Possible. We can match the times and the movement of the sun on the back lawn.’
‘Didn’t have a lawn,’ Slater said.
‘You’re right . . . they had that fake crap. Same as the Symes woman. Remember the plastic greenery all over her back fence? Same stuff.’
‘No sign of footprints anywhere. Possible he crept over the rock garden. Nothing in the house, though.’ Slater stifled a yawn. ‘Sorry,’ he said, face reddening.
‘So how’s he getting in? Locked back door, locked front door, both times. Symes’ mother-in-law unlocks the door to get in. She’s sure of it. And the daughter sees her taking out her keys. This man – his partner’s adamant he locked the front and back doors when he left. He’s the more clued-in, and he takes no chances. The doors are locked.’
‘Going to ask the question, gaffer . . . is it Drew Gough?’
‘What, all three? Doubt it.’
‘Maybe a cover-up. Killed his partner, made it look like a jack-in-the-box . . . Sorry. I know you hate the daft names.’ Slater winced at his own mistake.
‘Never mind,’ Lomond muttered.
‘So let’s say Gough kills his man, but makes it look like the other guy out there?’
‘Too many similarities, too many coincidences, and too much inside knowledge if he did that. Plus there’s the dog walker and the drivers who placed him on the canal. No, this is someone who sneaked in, did the deed, made sure they left no trace whatsoever and got back out again. Came and went through the woods at the back of the house yet dodged the security system, front and back. How did he get in? That’s the key. How does he do it?’
‘Houses were both Avalon King. The homeless guy’s body was dumped at a place where Avalon King’s going to develop some flats. Obvious link there, gaffer.’
‘Laybourn’s involved in the first two. Plus we found him loitering in the woods behind the Symes house. But he’s got alibis.’
‘Not fitting, for me,’ Slater said. ‘I know that counts for nothing, and I know we’ve been wrong about hunches before. But I just don’t see it.’
‘I agree with you.’ Lomond kicked a loose stone back into the slated siding of the driveway and scratched his chin. He needed a shave. ‘There’s something we’ve overlooked. Something in both houses.’
‘It would show up in the blueprints, wouldn’t it? The plans?’
‘I’ll speak to the architect. He’s bound to know.’
‘What about the invisible boy? The guy the two wee lassies spoke to?’
‘If they’re telling the truth – and their stories do tie up – then I think he’s the killer. But we’ve got nothing to identify him, except that he’s male. That’s as much as they can say.’
‘UFOs . . . ghosts . . . invisible boys . . .’ Slater laughed bitterly. ‘Vampires and witches next, maybe? Is Nessie our killer?’
‘I’ll stake my career on the fact that Nessie didn’t kill anyone.’
‘Not according to St Columba, way back in the day.’
Lomond shifted his shoulders like a boxer spotting his opponent at the weigh-in. ‘I’d like to see his evidence.’
‘No witnesses, no one spotted going in or out. Where do we go from here?’
‘It’s got to be the houses,’ Lomond said, nodding to himself. ‘I’m sure of it. It’s tied to Avalon King.’
‘What’s the motive, though?’
‘I don’t know. But the houses are the key.’
‘So what’s next, gaffer?’
‘Rip them apart.’
‘We can do that?’
‘Too bloody right we can do that.’ Lomond fished for a number, then sent a message. ‘Get it started as soon as the forensics are wrapped up here. Both houses. There’s another way in. If they aren’t getting in by either door, and they’re bypassing the security cameras, there’s no question in my mind: we have to look at the blueprints. I’ll talk to the techies.’
‘He’s stalking them too,’ Slater said, pointing to the stunted fingers of the trees on the near horizon. ‘Through the woods. That’s the link to both houses.’
‘Has to be. Drew mentioned green lights. Laybourn’s UFOs.’
‘And Laybourn.’ Slater had his own phone out. It burred in his hands. ‘What is it?’ he said into the handset, turning away. ‘Aye . . . I did mention this. I’m going to be busy on a case. All night, maybe. No, I can’t pick up dinner for your mum. You’ll have to do it. Well, we all have to work, don’t we? Look, I’ll call you later.’
Slater’s voice had risen by the end of the call.
‘How’s it going?’ Lomond said.
‘Cracking,’ Slater replied, slightly irked.
‘That Meghan?’
Slater nodded.
‘It’s tough being out on a case,’ Lomond ventured. Slater said nothing. ‘Everything OK at home?’
‘Peachy. Let’s go and see about wrecking these houses, gaffer.’
36
‘Now, here’s the roundabout again.’ The instructor coughed to mask his rumbling stomach and leaned back in his seat. ‘Easy peasy. All you do is watch for traffic coming from the right. OK? That includes traffic coming all the way round. So anything from twelve o’clock through to three o’clock. You know, on the dial. OK?’
‘OK,’ Shane said. He was a tall, handsome lad of seventeen, with long delicate fingers which he wiped on his thighs, one hand after the other, as the roundabout approached. It was busy, and the streetlights were on.
‘Now, you’re watching, eh?’ the instructor said. ‘Here it comes, right? From the right? Got it?’
‘Got it,’ Shane said.
‘Try not to grip the wheel too tight. You know . . . relax, Shane.’
‘All right,’ Shane said. He slowed up, a little heavy on the brakes.
‘Right. Look to the right. Wee quick looks,’ the instructor said. ‘Can you go? Can you?’
The car edged forward. Shane’s right foot trembled on the accelerator. A car swept around from the right, another one, then it looked clear.
‘Can you? No, you can’t!’
The instructor hit the clutch and brake on his dual unit, hard. The car came to a rough stop. Shane gasped, almost swallowing his chewing gum. From the right – though from nine o’clock, initially – a black 4x4 swung round. The driver had no intention of braking and was moving fast, though there was time to take in the finger tapped against the temple, the shake of the head. ‘Bampot,’ he said, quite clearly.
‘That’s quite rude,’ Shane said.
‘Ignoramus. You’ll meet a few of them on the road – and elsewhere. Right, you need to restart the engine, Shane. That means turn the key. Then brake, clutch, into gear . . .’ The instructor sighed.
‘Sorry,’ Shane said.
‘One more time. Now we’re looking to the right. We’re watching for a gap. And we’re relaxing, aren’t we? Taking a deep breath.’
‘OK,’ Shane said. He swallowed. The car bunnyhopped a little, and there was a moment when it seemed they might stall, but the car eventually found its way round.
‘You got there,’ the instructor said, in neutral. ‘Right. We’re straight along here, then a left at the next roundabout and we’re on the home straight. Think you can get us home, OK?’
‘Sure,’ Shane said.
‘OK.’ The instructor leaned back and checked his phone, but kept his feet poised on the dual control pedals. This was not his first rodeo, after all, nor his five hundredth.
Eventually the car came to a smooth stop at the bottom of the gated estate. Shane’s mother was waiting by the twelve-foot brick wall that surrounded the big house. You knew the house was there, but there was no way of actually seeing it unless you stopped to look through the wrought-iron security gates, or, heaven forbid, were invited in. Great arrowhead conifers poked high over the top of the wall, and there was a hint of a huge garden. The instructor remembered once driving past and smiling to himself when he saw bubble-style graffiti and other spiky bombings spray-painted along the red brick exterior. When he’d driven by later that day, he had been slightly less amused to see a team of men in hi-vis vests scrubbing it all off with high-pressure washers.
‘You’re coming along well,’ the instructor said. ‘You’re getting into gear, I’d say.’
Shane nodded. Then he laughed, a genuine laugh that lit up an anxious face. ‘I’m not really.’
The instructor didn’t contradict him. ‘It’s all about practice; it eventually becomes automatic. One day everything slots into place, and it’ll be as normal as putting your shoes on and going for a walk. You’ll get there, I promise.’
‘Not any time soon, I reckon.’
‘Confidence, Shane. The name of the game. Think of it this way: you remember the idiot in the 4x4?’
‘The one on the roundabout?’
‘Yes. The bampot guy. Forced his way through in his gas-guzzler. He was ignorant and rude about a learner. That guy has a driving licence.’
Shane smiled as the instructor paused, letting it sink in. ‘That is kind of reassuring.’
‘You’ll do fine, son . . . Uh-oh, here’s trouble.’
The instructor sat up straight as Shane’s mother walked towards them. She had a long woollen coat on, smoky grey, and her hair was loose. Her lipstick was crimson.
‘I’ll head out then,’ Shane said quickly, unbuckling his seatbelt. ‘Thanks for today. I’m enjoying it now.’
‘That’s great. Next week, then?’
‘I think there’s another lesson booked in for the end of this week, actually.’
‘Oh, you might be right,’ the instructor said. He reached for a folder behind him on the back seat, but the teenager had already left the car and closed the door. He didn’t appear to say anything to his mother in passing, simply fitted some earbuds and carried on up the driveway. His mother walked round behind the car and knocked on the passenger’s window. The instructor opened it quickly, and Nicole Kingsley leaned down to look in at him.
‘Hey, hello,’ he said. ‘How’s it going?’
‘You’re fifteen minutes late.’
‘Sorry, Ms Kingsley. Going out at this time . . . the traffic gets a bit heavier. It’s good practice for him.’
‘How much do I owe you?’
‘For what?’
‘For your time. Fifteen minutes extra. That means money, doesn’t it?’
He waved a hand. ‘No trouble at all. Don’t worry about it.’
‘Very reasonable of you. So how’s he getting on? Shite?’
He was almost too astonished to laugh, but did so. ‘He’s as good as any other seventeen-year-old. He’ll do just fine.’
‘That’s not really what I asked you.’ He didn’t think she’d blinked once since she bent down to the window. She had leaned nearer to him, an extreme close-up, an imposition. Her perfume was reaching him now. ‘I asked you how he was getting on. And is he still shite?’
‘He needs practice, that’s all.’
‘And he’s getting it. He’s been doing these lessons for a while.’
‘Yeah, a few weeks.’
‘I want him driving before his exams. They’re coming up fast.’
‘I’ll do my absolute best. Well . . . he’ll do his absolute best.’
She tapped the window frame. Her fingernails were dark purple, with a strange spattering of tiny glitter stars. ‘You know, my dad was really great when he put us through our driving, back in the day. Every single one of us passed first time.’
‘You must have been cracking drivers.’
‘Some things run in families. My dad was a great driver. Raglan Kingsley. Started out in haulage. Something to think about. Anyway, I’ll send the money through for the next lesson. Thursday, please. Let’s get him up to speed.’
The instructor’s heart was beating hard now. He averted his eyes from the tanned skin beneath her unbuttoned shirt. ‘Absolutely, Ms Kingsley. Look forward to it. He’s a great kid.’
‘Course he is.’ She drew back and he closed the window, sighing as he did so.
She was still watching him as he moved to the driver’s seat and pulled away, with a glance in the mirror. He shook his head, but not so you’d notice from another vehicle, or on a security camera.
