Dead and Gone Page 9

  ‘Come off it, Professor, you’d be bored stiff within weeks. You’d be sending me text messages begging me to return.’

  The pathologist’s reply was unrepeatable, even though it was in Spanish. Nash grinned. ‘I thought that as a doctor you would realize that what you’re suggesting is physically impossible.’ Nash ended the call, cutting off the flow of Castilian invective that followed. He looked across at Lisa. ‘I’d better take a quick look inside. Mexican Pete’s going to be a while before he gets here.’

  ‘He didn’t sound awfully happy.’

  ‘Don’t let that fool you. He’s never happier than when he’s got chance to insult me, or liken me to Dracula. You stay outside. I guess you’ve seen more than enough horrors,’ he said as he struggled into yet another paper suit. ‘I might decide to wear one of these permanently; it would save me a lot of time.’

  The interior of the workshop was much as Lisa had described it, but for the addition of the slabs of broken concrete stacked in uneven disorder at one end of the hole, and the pile of soil. Soil that would need sieving, Nash thought.

  He stared down at the makeshift grave, his expression sombre. In a way, the cold-blooded nature of what he felt to be a premeditated crime affected him more deeply than the original murders he had been called to at the property. This was different; this was planned and executed in a ruthless, clinical way that lent it an extra degree of horror. Nash wondered about the motive and the identity of the victim. He had already discounted any connection to the other bodies. The difference was so much at odds with yesterday’s savage handiwork. This crime might never have been uncovered but for DC Andrews. Her intuition and persistence had ensured that the victim had been found, and might even be given the justice he or she deserved.

  Two days later, Nash came from his office, a broad smile on his face, and briefed Mironova and Pearce. ‘I’ve just taken a call from the forensic lab. Case, or should I say cases, closed.’

  ‘You’ve got some results?’ Clara asked. ‘Is it the Kirby case?’

  ‘That and the Golden Bear. The fingerprints in the hotel room belong to Nigel Kirby, as do several fibres found at the scene; those same fibres were found on the bodies of Mrs Kirby and the children. The shirt removed from Kirby at Stark Ghyll after the crash was covered in blood; some of it was his, the majority of it belonged to Paul Jennings. Once the tech boys got to work on his car, they recovered a knife from the glovebox, which tested positive for blood from his wife. In the cottage, they found a second shirt which he had obviously worn when he killed his family.’

  ‘He wasn’t very careful, was he?’ commented Viv Pearce.

  ‘Why should he be? He wasn’t planning on hanging around to get caught,’ Mironova reminded him.

  ‘Perhaps it’s as well he didn’t survive the operation, then. They love child-killers in prison.’

  ‘I still don’t understand why he felt he had to kill his children,’ Clara said, sadly.

  ‘I can answer that,’ Nash said. ‘One more piece of information I got was that the two younger children weren’t his; their DNA was a match to Paul Jennings. Perhaps Kirby’s wife taunted him with it and on top of everything else it would have been the last straw. One thing the professor did say was that the children hadn’t suffered; they had been drugged.’

  ‘One man’s actions affecting so many families,’ Viv added.

  ‘And I can’t imagine there will be many mourning his death either,’ Nash said. ‘However, we still have the body in the workshop. The first thing we need to establish is how long that corpse has been there. For that, we’re waiting on Mexican Pete. I’ll be attending the post-mortem, later this morning – yes, I know what you’re both thinking,’ he said, in response to their expressions, ‘another one. Still, it has to be done. At least I got yesterday off while he attended his meeting. Hopefully, he’ll give us a clue as to the dates we should be looking at and also some idea of how the person in that grave died. I can’t think it was accidental, or natural causes, unless someone wanted to continue claiming an allowance by pretending the person was still alive, and that seems highly unlikely.’

  ‘It’s been done before,’ Mironova pointed out.

  ‘Yes, but hardly for such a long time. The remains were almost skeletal, so I don’t think we’re looking at something that happened recently. That leads me to the next part, which is going to be the identification. What I suggest in the meantime is that we all concentrate on compiling reports as far as is possible and submitting them to Tom Pratt. Let’s get ahead of the game, because I’ve an idea we might get rather busy in the next week or two.’

  Nash arrived at Netherdale General Hospital for the third time that week and made his way to the mortuary. He greeted Professor Ramirez and the post-mortem examination began.

  ‘I have good news for you,’ Professor Ramirez told him.

  ‘Please tell me. I’m not exactly overwhelmed with glad tidings at present. It has been quite a week.’

  ‘The victim is a woman; I suggest she was between twenty and forty years old. Cause of death: garrotting. Unfortunately, this lady’s teeth have been removed, which suggests the killer didn’t want her to be identified, even if she was found. I believe the removal was conducted after death.’

  ‘Can you estimate how long ago she was buried there?’

  ‘I’d say no less than two years and no more than five, but at present that’s all it is, a guess. I’ll need time to conduct further tests and get the results back from samples I’ll send off for analysis before I can be more definite, and even then I can’t give much in the way of certainties.’

  ‘Thank you, Professor; that is so comforting.’

  ‘If that’s comforted you, my other news should make you ecstatic. There is a possibility that we might be able to get DNA from the remains. It will take some time, and even longer to analyze it, and at this stage I can’t make any promises.’

  ‘You rarely do, Professor, and I’ll forego my ecstasy until I know one way or another.’

  When he returned to his office, Mironova and Pearce were in the CID suite. He told them what the pathologist had said. ‘Given the time span we could be faced with a long list of potential victims and equally large number of suspects. First off, I want to know more about the owners of that cottage, and the letting agents involved in renting it out. Viv, start with the agents, will you; they must know who the owner is. At the same time, find out how long they’ve had the property on their books. If it’s more than eighteen months, they’ll have to provide us with the names and addresses of all the tenants they let it to from before. If we’re really lucky, they might have had the property in their portfolio for the whole of the period we’re interested in, which would save us more work.’

  ‘I doubt we’d be that lucky,’ Pearce commented gloomily.

  ‘Probably not, but we can always hope. I know it sounds like a mammoth task. You’ll need help with all the information from the agents. I think you should ask Tom Pratt to collate the details as they come in, and then we can spot any that might be missing, or periods when the cottage was vacant. Of course,’ he added with a rueful smile, ‘the body could well have been interred during the winter, which would mean all that work would have been for nothing. However, it’s the sort of job that Tom will enjoy.’

  Pearce looked slightly more cheerful, from which Mironova guessed that the bulk of the work would fall on their civilian support officer, former Superintendent, Tom Pratt. Boredom had prompted Tom’s return to work following early retirement caused by a heart attack some years earlier. His knowledge of the area and expertise were of great help to the team. ‘Tom’s going to be kept busy,’ she remarked with a wicked smile in Pearce’s direction.

  Their attempt to obtain any information from the lettings agency was going to be delayed, as Pearce reported to Nash later the same afternoon. ‘The firm is a husband-and-wife affair. I spoke to the receptionist, who is a bit on the dim side, to put it mildly. She told me her boss and his w
ife run the business and they’re both on holiday until next week.’

  ‘Couldn’t the receptionist give you any information?’

  ‘Couldn’t or wouldn’t, take your pick. I tried several different approaches, but all I got was “You’ll have to speak to Mr or Mrs Baines when they get back from holiday.”’

  ‘Did you think about doing a Land Registry search on the property?’

  ‘I did, but it would have cost us, and it might take even longer before we get the results.’

  ‘OK, I suppose we’ll have to wait, but it’s frustrating, to put it mildly. However, if that poor woman has been buried as long as Mexican Pete thinks, I guess another week isn’t going to make a lot of difference.’

  Much as Nash had predicted, there was a lull as the team waited for the forensic evidence to be sifted and analyzed. Nash was at last able to brief Superintendent Fleming and the chief constable on the closure of the Jennings and Kirby deaths.

  Gloria O’Donnell was relieved. ‘I suppose it will look good on the stats, although I can’t say it’s the sort of crime anyone wants on their patch. Well done, Mike.’

  ‘Actually, ma’am, we didn’t do much. The evidence was all there, it was SOCO who deserve any praise. They did all the work.’

  ‘What about the remains Lisa recovered from the workshop?’ Fleming asked.

  ‘The body is that of a woman aged between twenty and forty. That’s all we know at present. SOCO sifted the soil from the grave but that gave us nothing. There were no scraps of material, or fibres even, so we believe she was naked when she was put into that hole.’

  ‘How long will it be before you know more?’

  ‘I asked Mexican Pete that. He said it would be a week or two longer, but not to worry, she wasn’t planning on going anywhere.’

  ‘I imagine not,’ O’Donnell commented dryly. ‘By the way, that was excellent work by DC Andrews. But for her persistence, that poor woman’s body might have lain there undiscovered forever. I think a mention on her file is merited.’

  ‘I agree.’ Fleming looked over at Nash. ‘Do you want to tell her, Mike, or shall I?’

  ‘I think she’d appreciate it more if it came from you, as the senior officer.’

  ‘We’ll have to wait for that report before we can consider how to progress the case,’ O’Donnell commented. ‘In the meantime, what about the other stuff we’ve got outstanding?’

  Nash shrugged. ‘I’m concerned about these computer scams. Fortunately, no more incidents have been reported in the last few weeks, but that’s not to say we won’t suddenly get another rash of them. So far, Viv’s made no headway trying to get help from our experts, other than a few phone calls. He’s tried liaising with them, and from the scraps of conversation I’ve heard, they could be talking Mandarin, for all I know. Mironova is coordinating both inquiries, which will leave me free to head up the “workshop woman” investigation.’

  ‘Is that what they’re calling it?’ O’Donnell gathered up the paperwork Nash had supplied and placed it in her out-tray, signalling the end of the meeting. ‘We’ll meet again in a fortnight, unless there are any urgent developments in the meantime.’

  chapter ten

  Neil Ormondroyd was always first to arrive at the solicitors’ office in Bishopton. He glanced at the brass plate by the front door. Ormondroyd & Partners was a little deceptive as titles go, although there had once been a partner and a clerk. That had been in the days when Neil’s father had been the Ormondroyd, before Neil had qualified ten years ago; before everything had changed.

  He really would have to get round to having a new plate made. But that would involve ordering new stationery and having the bank mandate changed. Then there would be all the official bodies to notify. The size of the task had deterred him, caused him to put it off time and again. But he would have to tackle it. The longer he deferred it, the more painful the reminder was. The reminder of things Neil would much rather forget.

  All the legal work undertaken by Ormondroyd and the middle-aged woman who acted as secretary and receptionist was confined to civil matters, with Ormondroyd steering clear of criminal work. The most exciting aspect of his caseload was likely to be the titillating evidence from a divorce case.

  As he opened the morning’s mail, Ormondroyd’s attention was not totally on the task. Part of his mind was still occupied with the memories his train of thought had stirred up. He worked his way through the pile, which contained no surprises until he came to an envelope near the bottom. Although the address was printed rather than handwritten, there was no company logo or franking mark. It was only when he removed the contents and unfolded the letter and sheet of paper within that his attention was fully caught. He read it through, then returned to the beginning and read it again. Not that there could be any mistaking the meaning or the disappointment the content brought him.

  Later, after his secretary had left for the day, Neil sat for a while at his desk staring at the letter and the enclosed invoice. The demand was for services rendered, but they hadn’t been. Not in the way Neil had hoped. Nevertheless, he took the chequebook for his private account from the desk and wrote out the sum, wincing slightly at the cost. It was money he could ill afford, certainly when the accompanying letter reported total failure. He addressed an envelope and enclosed the cheque.

  He walked over to the filing cabinet, opened a drawer and lifted out a file and flicked through the first sheets containing information and computer prints from his research. He shook his head before replacing the folder, sighing heavily as he did so. He closed the cabinet, returned to his desk, pulled open the bottom drawer and took out a bottle of whisky and a small tumbler. He half-filled the glass and walked across the corridor to the other partner’s office. He unlocked the door and stood, leaning on the frame, sipping the spirit as he stared at the interior of the room.

  This had been his office when he joined his father’s practice after leaving university. Following his father’s retirement, Neil had moved to the larger room; his old room remained vacant. Ormondroyd sighed, sadness in every line of his face. How different things might have been, if it hadn’t been for…. He shook his head as memory stirred.

  The practice had grown to such an extent that the premises had become a little cramped, especially as the workload demanded two clerks. Much of the additional work was generated by the parallel expansion of their largest client, the Bishopton Investment Group.

  B.I.G. had been the buzzword at the time. And then, back in 2010, it had all gone sour. As the group’s solicitor, Ormondroyd’s name had been on all the documentation. Although the Law Society investigation had cleared him of all wrongdoing, and the police inquiry into the fraud also stated that he wasn’t implicated, the damage had been done. Word got about. Work began to drop off and clients left, one by one, never to return. The cruellest blow had been the loss of the money earned from the Bishopton account.

  The B.I.G. receivership had happened shortly after Neil’s love life had hit a low ebb. The cause was the same in both cases: Linda Wilson. The rumour was that the directors had been waiting to confront Linda with evidence of her misdemeanours. However, before they could, she had fled the country. Had it not been for that, the woman would have been arrested, the money recovered, and life would have been so different for Ormondroyd and many others.

  Instead, she was probably sunning herself in some tropical paradise, whilst he struggled to keep his business going. And to what purpose? Sometimes the effort seemed futile, for he had never married, had nobody to succeed him. He had hoped to marry, but his hopes had been dashed. Ormondroyd’s face twisted with pain and he drained the whisky in one swift gulp. The sharp liquid matched the bitterness of his loss and the memory of the woman who had betrayed him.

  Neil closed and locked the door and wandered back to his own office. Before sitting down at the large, flat-topped desk, he took the letter to the shredder. Almost without thinking, he refilled his glass. He sat down and opened one of the desk dr
awers. As he had done many times before, he took out an envelope containing an old photo. It was of a young girl, a teenager, dressed in school uniform. Ormondroyd traced the outline of her beautiful features on the paper. This too he had done a hundred, a thousand times before, and, as always, with tears streaming down his cheeks.

  Elsewhere, a young man stared at his computer screen and turned to his associate. ‘We have a problem.’

  ‘We don’t deal in problems; we deal in solutions.’

  ‘This is serious, not a matter for hackneyed 1980s selling clichés.’

  ‘Sorry, couldn’t resist it. What’s the problem? Is it the bank transfers?’

  ‘No. Someone’s been snooping around.’

  ‘That’s not a problem. I told you before; there’s no paperwork and without a paper trail we’ve nothing to worry about. Let them keep looking, they won’t find anything.’

  ‘You’re missing the point. I don’t mean someone’s been looking through files. At least not that sort of file.’ He tapped his screen. ‘I mean someone has been using a computer to do their search. I’d say that represented a problem, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Ah, yes, I see what you mean. Do you want me to take a look?’

  ‘There’s no need for that; the triggers you put in place have already deflected our nosy parker. What concerns me is the identity of the snooper, so I want you to make sure it doesn’t happen again.’

  ‘Does it matter? If the triggers worked, let them try to their heart’s content.’

  ‘That’s all very well, but if they decide to combine physical and online surveillance, it could prove very awkward, and I think that’s exactly the sort of thing a solicitor would dream up, don’t you?’