67
It’s three a.m. when Jimmy Dockery turns up at Megan Baker’s desk clutching a chipped mug full of steaming coffee. ‘You got a minute, boss?’
‘Sure.’ She waves to a seat. ‘What’s on your mind?’
He sits, looking exceptionally tired. ‘This lad that died in the Camper.’
‘Timberland.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Don’t worry. I’m not going to ask you to talk to the parents. The Met can do it. They made contact after we pulled their son’s Amex bills.’
‘It’s not that.’
‘What, then?’
He blows out a long breath and takes a steadying sip of coffee. ‘The fire scene was a mess. Parts missing from the body, probably blown off, skin melted. And his head was just a big black ball. It was all wrong.’
She understands. He’s badly shaken and doesn’t want to talk to male colleagues about how it’s affected him. ‘Do you want me to fix for you to see the psychiatrist?’
He looks aghast.
‘Jimmy, when I was training, I saw a guy hit by a train. A suicide. I couldn’t sleep for days. Eventually, I found talking to a shrink really helped me.’
‘Thanks, but I didn’t mean that. I meant the scene was wrong. Wrong for what was supposed to have gone on.’
She’s intrigued. ‘How so?’
He suddenly wonders if he’s going to make a fool of himself. ‘You’ll see the prof’s report in a few hours so maybe it’s worth waiting until then.’
‘No, go on, Jim. If you’ve got a theory, a gut feeling, I want to hear it.’
‘All right.’ He rests his elbows on her desk. ‘Location, location, location. Right?’
She looks confused.
‘That’s what estate agents say is the single most important thing.’
She nods, still not sure where he’s going.
He tries to explain. ‘So you’ve got a Campervan, a rugged little home from home. You can go anywhere in it. It’ll survive whatever the elements throw at it. But you choose to park up inside a barn. A building so far off the beaten track, I bet most locals don’t even know it’s there.’
She gets his drift. ‘Strange, I grant you. A barn isn’t the right location for a Camper.’
He relaxes a little. ‘That’s the first thing, okay. So this Timberland guy was a posh nob. A rich guy. Son of a lord, right?’
‘Right.’
‘So if a guy like that hires a vintage Camper to take his new girlfriend out, what else might he bring along for the trip?’
She thinks about it. ‘Soft drinks for the journey. Maybe snacks, probably food. I imagine champagne, maybe a bottle of rosé or a chilled white, some decent glasses.’ She gets into her stride. ‘Picnic blankets, hamper, sunglasses, maybe a surprise present for her.’
Jimmy smiles. ‘Fine. I didn’t get as far as you did but look at the list of stuff forensics identified.’ He slides a piece of newly printed A4 across her desk and watches as she reads it. ‘What you’ll see on there,’ he adds, ‘is a dented can with burned bits of beans inside, fragments of silver tin foil — probably from a chocolate bar — two empty vodka bottles and some staple foodstuffs like bread and butter. Nothing you wouldn’t expect. He probably bought some of it, but most of it is likely to have been freebies from the gift hamper that comes with the rental.’ He jabs a finger at the bottom of the sheet. ‘The little fridge in there protected what was inside from the blast. So here we have some fancy ice cream and a full bottle of Bollinger champagne.’
‘What are you getting at?’
‘The vodka. Two bottles. To have got through that but not opened the champagne that’s hard-core drinking. Surely if you buy the Bolly, that’s what you’re going to open first?’
Megan jumps to her own conclusion. ‘It’s hard to start a fire with champagne, but not with vodka. You think the spirits were used as an accelerant?’
He shrugs. ‘I’m not even sure you can set fire to champagne, can you?’
‘I don’t know. She looks off into the distance, remembers another world, her wedding when she last drank champagne. I’m not going to waste any trying to find out though.’ She thinks about his hunch. ‘You’re right, the vodka bottles and the champagne don’t make sense. Nor does parking a van inside a barn. And the fact that the girl is still missing makes me even more suspicious.’
Jimmy swings a chair alongside Megan’s desk. ‘Do you think maybe the two of them had a fight over something and she cracked him one, a bit harder than she meant, then panicked?’
Megan shakes her head. ‘Not her. Remember who she is. The daughter of the Vice President wouldn’t behave like a halfwit and try to torch the scene, she’d have called Daddy for help.’
He sees her point. ‘And I guess it doesn’t explain the vodka bottles, either.’
‘Quite. What I’m wondering though, is why she wasn’t in the Camper with him.’
‘They had a row and she stormed off?’
‘Doesn’t work for me. If she’d have done that, she’d have called home. This isn’t a girl who’s going to catch a train back to London.’
They sit in silence, both cycling the same thoughts. Jake Timberland is dead because someone killed him. Caitlyn Lock is missing because someone took her. Find Caitlyn and you catch the killer. Hopefully, before he kills again.
68
Serpens and Musca drive separately to Octans’ place. They shower while Volans puts their clothes and shoes in two separate sacks, ready to be incinerated later that morning. They put on the fresh clothing and footwear that’s been laid out for them.
Plates of cold pizza and cans of chilled beer mark their places at the card table. None of them speak about what has happened. They play poker, gin rummy and crib until streaks of daylight seep through the dusty window of the backroom. Four old mates on a boys’ late night out.
Grabb hasn’t touched a bite, though he’s drinking like a Viking. Disposing of the body has cemented his guilt about the killing. He only cracked the lad with a small rock, no bigger than the palm of his hand. It shouldn’t have killed him. The kid must have had some skull defect or something wrong with his brain.
But Serpens can’t escape it. He’s a killer and it doesn’t sit easy. If he gets caught, it will be the end of his parents. They’re in their eighties, barely mobile, living in sheltered accommodation. They stuck by him when he went to prison. His mother thinks he’s stayed out of trouble since then. Gone straight. Grown up. Become someone they are proud of.
‘Do you want another card or are you going to stick?’
Serpens looks at Musca and throws his hand in. ‘I have to go and get some rest.’ He turns to the other two men. ‘Thanks for this, for the food and everything.’
Musca gets up, follows him to the door. ‘You okay to drive? Do you want me to take you home?’
He shakes his head. ‘I’m fine.’
Something has broken between them. Musca feels it. ‘Why don’t you come back and stay with me for the rest of the day? It might help you.’
‘I’m fine, I told you.’ There’s tension in his voice.
They briefly lock eyes, then Serpens opens the front door and walks out into the cool light of dawn.
Musca follows. ‘Hang on.’
Serpens is past hanging on. He zaps open his Warrior.
Musca halts him with a firm hand on his shoulder. ‘Wait a minute, we really need to—’
The punch Serpens throws is fast. It’s one that’s been in his mind for three months. Borne out of frustration, nurtured by resentment, unleashed with anger. It hits Musca smack in the mouth, sends him staggering backwards and falling on the pavement.