Buried in the Past Page 17

  ‘Oh, nasty! It sounds to me like someone is trying to cover their tracks.’

  ‘According to the report I read, Freddie covered several tracks.’

  ‘You two are really sick, do you know that?’ Clara told them.

  ‘Without Freddie’s information,’ Nash said, ‘we can’t find out where Phil and Corinna are staying. Unless we can do that, we’d struggle to prove they were here at all, and certainly find it difficult to pin any of the murders on them. Freddie’s untimely close encounter of the Tube kind might just have set our whole inquiry back to square one.’

  chapter sixteen

  Nash was about to go out of his front door when the phone rang. He returned to the lounge. One glance at the caller display on the handset turned his thoughts into work mode. ‘Good morning, ma’am,’ he greeted the chief constable.

  ‘Good morning, Mike, I understand there have been two more deaths? What exactly happened?’

  Nash described the circumstances.

  ‘When will you know more?’

  ‘The post-mortems are this morning. In fact, you’ve only just caught me, I was about to set off when you called.’

  ‘In that case, I won’t detain you. Come and see me when you’ve finished at the mortuary. With Superintendent Fleming away, I need you to keep me in the loop.’

  ‘I was hoping to do that anyway and I’ve got all the case files with me, just in case.’

  When Nash arrived at Netherdale General, Ramirez was waiting in his office alongside the cold, cheerless morgue. The pathologist was kitted out for the procedure he was about to conduct. He wasted no time in greeting Nash, merely pointing to the viewing area. ‘Let’s get on with it. I have lectures this afternoon.’

  Nash walked through into the glass-fronted area alongside the procedure room where he perched on the hard wooden bench that ran along the front of the gallery. The seat wasn’t designed for comfort, but it was better than standing throughout what he knew was going to be a long, drawn-out complex operation. Two operations, to be exact, but at least the two bodies were now separated and laid on adjacent tables.

  Via the intercom, Nash asked, ‘How did you get them out of the car, Professor?’

  ‘We didn’t. We took the car from round them; less chance of damaging the corpses. Have you any idea as to their identities?’

  ‘We’re going to need DNA matches to be absolutely certain, but we have established who the car belongs to. We know the owner travelled up from London recently, together with another man. If your examinations can establish the approximate age of the victims, it will show us whether we’re on the right lines or not. I assume both victims are male?’

  Something that might have been a smile passed fleetingly across the pathologist’s face. ‘They are, even though that isn’t immediately obvious. Certain body parts survive incineration far better than others.’

  By the time Ramirez instructed his assistant to return the bodies to their drawers in the chilled cabinet they would occupy until they were claimed after the inquest, it was almost lunchtime. Not that Nash was in the least bit hungry. One post-mortem was a highly effective appetite suppressant. Two, banished all thoughts of food. He obeyed the pathologist’s instruction to return to the office.

  ‘Both men had been struck with some kind of blunt instrument,’ Ramirez told him, ‘what’s referred to nowadays as blunt force trauma. However, that didn’t kill them. I’m fairly certain they would both have been unconscious when they were placed in the boot of that car, but there is evidence of smoke inhalation in both sets of lungs. Which means,’ he added grimly, ‘that they were both alive when the fire was started and both suffocated. Whether they would have survived the initial assault had the car not been torched, I cannot say. Either way, both of them were murdered.’ He allowed himself a faint smile. ‘But of course you already knew that, so this is merely official confirmation.’

  ‘What ages are they, or were they?’

  ‘The shorter of the two would have been around sixty years old and far from fit. He was very overweight and his heart was in poor shape, which showed that he didn’t take regular exercise. The younger man, the taller of the two, was just the opposite. He was in excellent condition, very much as you’d expect to see in an athlete, or someone who spent a lot of time working out. He was far younger, and I’d put his age as in the mid-to-late twenties – early thirties at the top side. Does that help point to their identity?’

  ‘It certainly doesn’t discount the two men we had in mind. By the sound of it, the older man was probably the car owner, a dodgy club and casino operator by the name of Trevor Thornton. All I can tell you of the younger man is that we suspect he was nicknamed Mr Muscle, and he was Thornton’s minder.’

  ‘He didn’t do a very good job of it, I’m afraid. I’ll check the dental records and let you know what I find.’

  Nash left the mortuary and stood outside for a few minutes before getting into his car. There was a gentle breeze blowing, but any hopes he might have entertained that this would dispel the stench, even through the glass, he knew was unrealistic. It would take a long, hot shower and a complete change of clothing before the smell left him.

  He drove the short distance across town to the police headquarters building, and after a few minutes spent talking to Tom Pratt, was ushered in to see the chief constable.

  ‘Have you heard anything from Superintendent Fleming? Do you know when she’ll be back?’ Nash asked the chief as he sat down opposite her.

  Gloria O’Donnell shook her head. ‘I did manage to talk with her yesterday, but you know how these secondments can drag on. How are you managing without her?’

  ‘We’re coping fine. It’s not staff we’re short of but hard evidence. Certainly nowhere near enough to contemplate making arrests.’

  Nash hesitated and smiled. ‘Ironically, although we’re low on facts, we do have a lot of suspicions and theories, some of them quite wild – and some of them even wilder still.’

  ‘I’ve listened to your wild theories before,’ O’Donnell pointed out, ‘theories that later proved to be absolutely spot on, so how about trying a few more out on me?’

  Nash took a sizeable stack of folders from his briefcase, which he passed across the desk. ‘Those are in chronological order,’ he told her, ‘and I think it’s best if we tackle them that way. There’s a heck of a lot to go through, so this could take a long time.’

  ‘That’s OK. I’m not planning on dining early this evening because my husband’s away on business and won’t be back until late. In the meantime, I forewarned my secretary to bring coffee in at hourly intervals, so let’s make a start.’

  ‘I think we ought to begin with events that took place over twenty-five years ago, mostly in and around London, before Max Perry was murdered. We believe those events were the catalyst for everything that has happened since, including all the violence around here.’

  Going through each of the files, searching for the most minute detail and fitting the pieces of the jigsaw together, was, as Nash had predicted, a long and tiring process. It wasn’t until they had examined all the separate incidents and Nash had presented his conclusions that he dared mention his outlandish theory. ‘I haven’t even had chance to talk about this to Clara or Viv as yet,’ he confessed. ‘It only came to me last night.’

  Nash outlined his idea, and they spent a further half hour re-examining the files. Despite this, neither of them could find anything to disprove the theory. ‘The problem you have,’ O’Donnell pointed out eventually, ‘is proving any of it.’

  ‘There is a way.’ Nash explained how it could be resolved. ‘That’s only half the battle, though. Getting solid evidence to bring a case to court could be far more difficult, unless something else happens, or we get really lucky. At the moment I have absolutely no idea how.’

  By the time Nash emerged from the meeting it was late. He phoned Helmsdale, and was lucky to catch Mironova. Clara, it seemed, had been hanging on in the hope of speaki
ng to him. ‘I’d like you to contact Shaw,’ Nash told her. ‘Tell him we’re assuming the bodies are those of Thornton and his henchman, but we need to prove it beyond doubt for the inquest and to notify next of kin.’

  ‘OK, Mike, I’ll get on to him straightaway. Anything else?’

  ‘Based on our assumption as to who the victims are, Mr Muscle’s real identity would also be helpful. The only other thing we’re going to need for tomorrow is a checklist of dates from the files, but we can go through that in the morning. Who’s on call tonight? Is it you or Viv?’

  ‘It’s supposed to be me. That was why I was hanging on here, hoping to get a word with you. I asked Viv to swap, but he’s got tickets to take Lianne to the theatre in York, so I was hoping you might agree to stand in for me. There’s a programme about Afghanistan on TV tonight and David wants me to watch it with him. I know damned well that if I’m on call, I’ll get a shout minutes before the programme starts, or halfway through, which will be even more annoying.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll cover for you, no problem. Just make sure you let the control room know about the change.’

  Despite having gone through all the case files with the chief constable only hours earlier, Nash studied them once more as he ate his less than gourmet dinner, which comprised a quiche he’d bought at Good Buys supermarket on his way home, accompanied by a pre-mixed salad.

  He ignored the bottle of wine on the dining table, conscious that the phone could ring at any time. As he concentrated on the Ray Perry file, he lifted the photo of Frankie Da Silva from the other paperwork.

  He propped it against the half-empty bottle and stared at the image. When the shot had been taken, techniques such as air-brushing were all but unknown, except to top-class fashion photographers. If this photo hadn’t been enhanced, Wellings’ praise of the missing woman’s beauty was no exaggeration.

  Nash looked at the long, dark hair, the soft, lustrous brown eyes, the high cheekbones and the slightly olive cast to the woman’s complexion, her face an almost perfect oval. If the name was genuine, and not one adopted for the stage, did that and the complexion argue a Mediterranean ancestry? Da Silva sounded Portuguese. Had her family hailed from Portugal? His admiration of her features was tinged with sadness. The more he heard about events from a quarter of a century ago, the more Nash was convinced that the key to them lay with what had happened to Frankie. Had she absconded with a fortune in diamonds?

  Frankie would now be at least fifty years old. The passage of time would have done little to erode her looks. Hers was the type of beauty that withstood the ageing process well. On the other hand, if she hadn’t run off to a life in the sun, taking the stones to fund her lifestyle, where was she?

  Nash shook his head in sorrow. He thought he knew, and if his idea was right it would mean grief for at least one person. Like so many other facets to this case, Nash was unable to prove it one way or another. Nor would he be able to, unless….

  He returned to his quiche, which had been less than appetizing when warm, was completely unappealing now. He pushed the plate away, returned the folders to his briefcase and prepared for an early night. He might be able to get a good night’s sleep, providing he could thrust the frustrations of this case from his mind.

  Any thoughts Tina might have entertained of a break from work had been banished by her interview with the boss of the software company she worked for. Having been handed the new challenge, Tina presided over a succession of meetings and analytical sessions. She needed to assemble the best available talent to work on the lucrative contract the firm had recently secured.

  It was almost midnight by the time she pulled up outside her mother’s house. Once inside, she locked up and leaned against the door. A tide of weariness swept over her. She had been in Leeds by 6.30 that morning, and at seven o’clock was beginning the first interview. These had continued throughout the day, with only a twenty minute break for a sandwich and a soft drink. The early evening had been taken up with a meeting with her second in command, to discuss which operating systems they should be designing the new software for. After that, Tina had stopped at La Giaconda, the Italian restaurant in Helmsdale marketplace.

  Now, Tina headed upstairs, force of habit taking her into her own room. She hoped tonight’s sleep would be uninterrupted, now that she was beginning to get used to her old bed again.

  Next door, as Tina tumbled into bed, one of her neighbours was preparing to go to work. Although far from a regular form of work and one that was all but unpaid, the task that faced him was one he would enjoy. It was a favour for his brother-in-law, who farmed the land surrounding the village.

  ‘Bloody rabbits are playing havoc with my yields. I need them sorting out urgently. The trouble is the little buggers are breeding like – well, rabbits. Unless we get rid of them sharpish, the sods will bankrupt me. I tell you one thing, I’d welcome an attack of myxomatosis were it not for the awful way it afflicts them. If you could reduce their numbers a bit, that would be great.’

  ‘I’ll take my gun out and lamp them for a night or two. Do you want any for the freezer?’

  The farmer shook his head. ‘No, they’d stick in my throat. You keep what you need, and sell the others to pay for the ammo.’

  He’d smiled at the farmer’s optimism. The price he’d get from a game dealer wouldn’t go far towards meeting the cost of ammunition. Nevertheless, he was willing to help out.

  He checked the rifle and locked his gun cabinet. Before leaving the house, he was tempted to fill the magazine but decided against it on the grounds of safety. He had several stiles to climb and a loaded weapon in that situation could be extremely dangerous. Having tested his powerful, battery-operated spotlight, he placed it in his game bag alongside a couple of boxes of shells.

  As he was balancing precariously on one leg and then the other in the act of putting his wellingtons on, a car drew up at the front of the end cottage. As soon as the headlights were switched off, the driver and passenger got out. The driver waited as her colleague removed a small holdall and a sledgehammer from the back seat.

  ‘Ready?’ she asked as he straightened up.

  ‘Yes, we’ll go round the back. Houses are always easier to enter from the back than the front.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘It was on some insurance statistics I read. House-owners concentrate on making sure the front of their property is secure, but by and large they forget about the back.’

  ‘Fascinating; you live and learn. Come on then, let’s do it, and this time I hope we don’t see any ghosts.’

  They set off towards the track alongside the end house. Little more than a hundred yards away, the rabbit hunter locked his kitchen door and began walking down his back garden, before turning right on to the track that provided access to the back of the properties. Although he had only to pass one other house before reaching the farmland, he would walk several fields away before commencing operations. No point in upsetting the neighbours, one of whom was not the sort to approve and would welcome any chance to make a complaint.

  He walked slowly, allowing his night vision to adjust. The moon was almost full and high in the sky. The light from it was so strong that with luck he might not need his torch. He had only gone a few steps when he stopped, his keen senses aware of movement off to his right.

  He turned his head slowly, knowing that what he’d seen should not have been there, and not wanting to give his presence away by any sudden motion. He focused his attention on the end cottage, and the area directly behind it. He knew Margaret was away, but that her daughter was at home. The movement behind the house had nothing to do with the lovely Tina, though; that he did know. As he became aware of what he was looking at, he stared incredulously at the two figures half-crouched by Margaret’s back door. A burglary? In Kirk Bolton? Such a thing had never happened before. Nevertheless, these two were definitely attempting to break into the house. He hesitated, wondering what he should do. One thing for sure, wha
tever he decided, it had to be quick. Within minutes, seconds perhaps, the intruders might have forced their way inside, and then Tina would be at risk. No way could he allow that to happen.

  His choices were few, and stark. He could return home and call the police, but by the time they reached the remote village, the damage would be well and truly done. He had heard of cases, read about them in the press, where the police hadn’t bothered to turn up until the following day to events such as this. Alternatively, he could call out in an attempt to scare them away, but if that failed, he would put himself in peril. For all he knew they could be armed. More and more burglars were going out to commit crimes ‘tooled-up’, as the papers referred to it.

  Almost as a reflex action, he slipped the rifle sling off his shoulder and reached into the game bag for ammunition. He moved with great care, avoiding making the slightest sound that would alert the intruders. Once he had the shells in his hand he hesitated, knowing that what he was about to do was highly illegal. He could think of no alternative, however, and the possible consequence of doing nothing was too terrible to consider. Whatever the outcome, he had to act, and act quickly.

  He filled the magazine, something he had done so many times before that he didn’t need light to work by. Once he had inserted the final round into the chamber, he looked up. In the short space of time he had been otherwise engaged, the intruders had managed to get the door open, only to be temporarily frustrated by the chain that Tina had wisely ensured was in position. The delay gave him all the time he needed.

  The rear door of the cottage was half timber, with glass panes above. His object was to scare them away, and in order to achieve that, he would have to damage Margaret’s property. As he lifted the rifle, the thought that he might hit one of the burglars by accident didn’t occur to him. He was far too good a shot.

  He settled the stock into his shoulder and lined up the target, took a deep breath and let it out again, before squeezing the trigger twice in rapid succession. The effect was dramatic, for the night air was filled with a cacophony of sounds that mingled into a horrendous din.