The Lost Victim, page 22
‘We’ve got less than a minute. It’s platform three,’ said Tristan. They broke into a run as they reached the other side of the bridge and started down the stairs.
‘You want me to exhume a body on the whim of a multiple murderer who isn’t known for his honesty?’ said Varia.
‘This is a deal which has been set up with the prison governor. Thomas Black is desperate not to die in prison. What if this is real, and it’s always been his trump card?’ said Kate. They reached platform three, where the guard was outside the carriage blowing his whistle. Tristan boarded the first carriage and held his hand against the door. It beeped just as Kate stepped inside, and the doors closed.
‘Okay, let me talk to my governor,’ said Varia. Kate ended the call and tried to catch her breath. Even though it was expensive, they’d bought first-class tickets. The prospect of an eight-hour round trip in a crowded train or, worse, standing, was too much. The first-class carriage was almost empty, and they sank gratefully into their seats at a table. They’d spent a little over an hour at Wakefield prison, and Kate was glad they were speeding back down south.
When they were settled and ordered coffee from the buffet car, they discussed the case.
‘Do you really think Janey Macklin’s body is in that grave?’ asked Tristan.
‘I don’t know. Thomas knew things about the case. I don’t know if it’s been made public that Peter Conway met Janey in The Jug. If she had seen Peter outside that night in an ice cream van, she could have remembered him as the nice guy who stuck up for her and Maxine on the Space Invaders machine.’
‘I’m just trying to think if I would have fallen for that when I was fifteen, some bloke telling me he had chocolate in the back of his ice cream van?’
‘I hope I wouldn’t have fallen for it.’
‘He said it was around six pm, maybe later, that they saw Janey. That would fit with Robert Driscoll’s story of dropping her off outside The Jug after they went for chips near Golden Lane,’ said Tristan.
‘That information wasn’t released to the public in the Crimewatch reconstruction.’
‘But the Janey Macklin case was in the newspapers over the years. The details could have been repeated, and he picked up on them.’
They were silent for a moment. Their coffees arrived, along with a couple of cheese sandwiches. Kate sipped her black coffee but didn’t feel like eating. The memory of Thomas Black, withered and sickly, in his wheelchair with the bags of bodily fluids hanging off, still made her feel queasy.
‘If Thomas Black is telling the truth, then it would mean Robert, Forrest, and Roland had nothing to do with Janey going missing.’
They sat in silence contemplating this. Tristan ate his sandwiches. Kate’s phone rang, and she saw it was Varia again, calling on FaceTime. Kate angled the phone around so she could see Tristan.
‘Are you on a train with me on speaker?’
‘We’re in first class, and the carriage is empty,’ said Tristan. Kate angled the phone around to show her.
‘You two are very fancy,’ said Varia. ‘I just wanted to call you with some more information. The gravestone in Kensal Green Cemetery for Malcolm Newell checks out – it’s real. As we’ve just reopened the Janey Macklin case, we’re going to apply to have Malcolm Newell’s grave opened and the coffin exhumed. He doesn’t have any next of kin, which will make it a little easier.’
‘How fast will that happen?’
‘Hopefully in the next couple of days.’ Varia’s phone moved as she opened a file on her desk. ‘We’ve also had the postmortem results back from the body of Jon Chase or Roland Hacker. There was a high amount of benzodiazepine in his bloodstream. Three hundred and fifty milligrams. A regular dose would be between twenty or thirty milligrams. The forensic pathologist was also able to test the contents of the stomach. They found alcohol – red wine, to be specific – and benzodiazepine. He’d been dead just over forty-eight hours when you found him.’
‘Have you spoken to the neighbours?’ asked Kate.
‘Yes. Quite a motley crew of substance abusers and some straight shooters who just keep themselves to themselves. No one apart from an old lady at the other end of the corridor can remember seeing him since September. She thought he’d moved out.’
‘Someone gave him a drink of red wine laced with benzodiazepine?’ said Tristan.
‘That’s one theory we’re working on. Roland Hacker, or Jon Chase, as he’s legally known, had severe liver damage from alcohol abuse, he was underweight, and had traces of cocaine and heroin in his body. Forensics also found traces of cocaine and heroin in the flat,’ said Varia.
‘Whoever killed him tried to knock him out with benzodiazepine, but he had a high tolerance and fought back?’ asked Kate.
‘That’s another theory. Forensics think that his flat had been wiped down, there were virtually no prints, but it had been done in a hurry. They found a thumbprint on the wall in the hallway. It doesn’t belong to Roland. We also ran the print through the National Crime Database, and there was no match. However, the print matches a thumbprint we lifted from the voice recorder you found in the Percy Circus flat.’
‘Wow,’ said Tristan.
‘Forrest Parker was never officially arrested, so he was never fingerprinted,’ said Kate.
‘I know where you’re going with this,’ said Varia.
‘Can you arrest Forrest?’
‘On what charge? He lied to you about being in contact with Roland, but he was also helping him financially,’ said Varia.
‘You need to find out where he was when Roland died.’
Varia put up her hand. ‘We’ve spoken to him already. His partner, Maddie, says that he was with her.’
‘And you believe her? What about when the flat was broken into?’
‘She also says Forrest was with her all night.’
‘They’re lying!’ It came out louder than Kate wanted.
Varia sighed. ‘I can’t just arrest Forrest Parker on a whim. I’d need evidence, probable cause. Especially if I wanted to take fingerprints from him.’
‘Could you ask him to give you his prints voluntarily?’ asked Tristan.
‘It doesn’t work like that. Roland Hacker had a history of drug and alcohol abuse. He also owed money to several people on his housing estate. It’s a rough estate, which experiences a lot of violence. The CPS are already pressuring me to pursue that avenue.’
‘What about the flat in Percy Circus?’ asked Tristan. ‘Surely the same fingerprint popping up on a hidden voice recorder gives you probable cause to investigate?’
Varia nodded wearily. ‘When we spoke to Forrest and his partner, they gave us access to all of the guests they have hosted at the Airbnb in the past three months. The list is long, and we’re working our way through it.’
They were silent. Kate could feel the frustration bubbling up in her chest.
‘I hear you, and I promise I am doing all that I can,’ added Varia.
‘Thank you. We really appreciate you keeping us in the loop,’ said Kate.
‘It works both ways, remember,’ said Varia. ‘I’m hoping that the information you’ve given me is correct, and not just a last wind-up from a sicko like Thomas Black. If we can find Janey Macklin and close this case, it will be quite a coup after thirty years.’
48
On Tuesday, Jake heard that Peter Conway would be cremated in two weeks time, so he decided to stay in the UK to attend the funeral.
Kate wasn’t sure if she wanted to go to Peter’s funeral. It was going to be held in a crematorium in North London, and the details were being kept quiet. The weather was bright, and Jake joined her for her early-morning swim in the sea, and it was wonderful for Kate to have some unexpected time with him. They talked and talked about Peter’s death, and oddly how life changing it felt for them both, no longer having him as a presence in their lives. The investigation seemed to slow down, after what felt like a breakthrough with Thomas Black saying he knew the whereabouts of Janey Macklin’s body, and Kate and Tristan had to wait to hear if the body Black had identified in Kensal Green Cemetery would be exhumed.
Tristan had tried to avoid seeing his sister on their return from London. He didn’t want to have to discuss why he’d suddenly come home, when the plan had been to stay in London for at least a few weeks. Sarah seemed to sense that the agency’s fortunes were perilous, when she brought Adam Manthorpe, her colleague from work, to come and look at Tristan’s spare room. Adam was a nice guy, a very handsome nice guy, whom Tristan remembered from school. Adam Manthorpe had been a star on the school football team, and he was often teased with the nickname ‘Madam Anthorpe.’ Still, Tristan didn’t want to have to commit to losing his privacy, so he told Sarah he needed a few days to think it over.
‘What’s to think about, Tris, when you have a mortgage and bills to pay?’ she’d replied.
On Wednesday morning Kate and Tristan met in the agency office, and they were just settling down to work when Jake knocked on the office door with a look of triumph on his face.
‘Guys. You know you asked me to talk to one of the agents I work with about your investigation? Jeffery has had an offer from a production company.’ When he told them about the fee, Kate almost dropped the cup she was holding.
‘Seriously?’ said Tristan. ‘That’s . . .’
‘Buy-a-house money,’ said Kate.
‘The most important thing is making sure that the deal is strong in your favour, and that you would have control over how the story is told,’ said Jake.
‘I can hear a but coming.’
‘Yeah. There’s just one thing,’ said Jake. ‘I’ve been sparse with the details I gave Jeff, my boss, but I did tell him that you’re waiting for something that could solve the case, for the grave to be opened where you think Janey’s body is buried . . . The long and the short of it is that he thinks it could be worth waiting for the results of this, until we made any decisions.’
‘Are you telling me this as an agent or as my son?’ asked Kate.
‘A bit of both.’
‘So do we have an offer, or is it pending us solving this case?’
‘We have an offer, but we need it in writing to make it a concrete offer, and solving the case would really . . .’
‘Help mix the concrete?’ finished Tristan.
Jake laughed. ‘Yeah. That’s one way of putting it. Listen. I know things are a bit difficult now, but if you can hold on for a few more days . . .’
Tristan looked over at Kate.
‘What’s happening with Fidelis at Stafford-Clarke?’ he asked.
‘She sent a flurry of emails, but in the last couple of days she’s gone quiet. I don’t know if she’s got wind of us talking to a US agent.’
‘I’ll let you two discuss this,’ said Jake. ‘I’m going to go for a walk on the beach.’
Kate and Tristan were silent for a moment.
‘Do you think it’s grubby of us, to pursue a “deal”? Especially when it’s concerning a young girl who’s still missing, and her family don’t know what happened to her?’ asked Kate.
‘I think we would need to tell them about it, and to maybe get their consent. Doreen and Maxine,’ said Tristan. Kate nodded. She got up and went to the window in the kitchen, and looked out at the long trench cut through the caravan site.
‘In the short term, I’ve managed to get us a small overdraft on the business account. It’s going to cost a couple of grand to get the soil filled in, if we want to open the caravan site in March.’
Tristan came to join her in the kitchen and put the kettle on. ‘March seems such a long way away. I’ve been looking at Roland Hacker’s history online under Jon Chase. He was on the council tax register for a couple of house-shares. One of them, the one in Morden, had the names of a couple of other people, and I found one of them last night. His name’s Tony Carducci. He lived in the house for six months. I sent him a message on Facebook, and he just replied. He lives in South London and is happy to meet for a coffee and talk about Jon. Maybe there’s something there, maybe not. What do you think?’
‘That could be very interesting – we don’t really have any background on Roland,’ said Kate. ‘I want to talk to Maxine again, and ask her about the time Janey went missing. I know it was a long time ago, but kids sometimes notice things that adults don’t. And it would be good to talk to her on her own.’
Her phone rang, and she saw it was Varia Campbell.
‘Hi, I’m here with Tristan,’ said Kate, answering.
‘We’ve just got the go-ahead to exhume the body of Malcolm Newton. It will be tomorrow morning,’ said Varia.
Kate looked over at Tristan and he nodded.
‘We’ve got some things we need to do in London, and we’ll be coming up tomorrow morning. We can meet you there.’
49
Kate and Tristan had a very early start the following day, arriving at London Paddington station just before 10am, and they took a Bakerloo line Tube train up to Willesden Green. Kate had never visited Kensal Green Cemetery. It was vast, covering several acres, and as soon as they were through the gates, she felt cut off from the surrounding city. Tall trees lined the endless rows of Gothic headstones, some dating back to the 1800s, and there were rows of elaborate mausoleums and vaults. Varia had sent them a map, and Tristan guided them to a broad gravel pathway between the hundreds of headstones, some in terrible decay and some new and dressed with fresh flowers, to a small chapel amongst the trees. Here, the gravel path broadened into a road running from the other side of the cemetery, and another police car was waiting with a large forensics van.
Varia was waiting for them on the other side of the small chapel. She wore a black trouser suit, a thick winter coat, and a hat. She greeted them both with a hug. ‘I’m blaming you both if it goes south,’ she said wryly. ‘It’s just over the way here.’
They left the chapel and walked to the right, down another path forking away between rows of graves. They came to a large tree whose roots extended out amongst the headstones, and some of the older ones sat at odd angles where the roots were pushing up under them. The tree was very tall, and on the top, a crow sat with its black feathers glistening in the weak sun.
A small digger was parked in front of a newer grave of black quartz, and two men were waiting in high-visibility jackets with two police officers in uniform.
‘Morning. I’m Superintendent Varia Campbell,’ she said, holding up her warrant card. ‘Are we all ready to go?’
One of the men went to the digger, and the other was on hand to guide him.
Kate and Tristan moved closer to the gravestone and saw that Malcolm Newton had been eighty when he died. An epitaph on his grave, under the date of his death on 18 December 1988, read:
‘To live is the rarest thing in the world.
Most people just exist.’
– Oscar Wilde
Within twenty minutes, the digger had carefully carved out a deep hole. They were joined by three forensics officers, who had backed up a small truck with a winch lift on the back. When the digger reached the coffin, two of the forensics officers took over and stepped into the hole to clear away the mud. Kate and Tristan watched as the mud-caked coffin was slowly lifted out of the hole. A low mist hung around the gravestones, and the crow cawed in the tree. The quote on the gravestone suddenly held a deep meaning and simplicity to Kate. Slowly, with clods of mud falling off it onto the ground, the coffin was swung around and placed gently on the gravel path. She suddenly felt tears coming, and she searched for a tissue in her pockets.
‘Are you okay?’ asked Tristan, touching her arm.
‘Yes,’ she said, dabbing at her face. ‘I suppose seeing this kind of thing makes you feel lucky.’
A police support van drove up to join the forensics van. The coffin was now steaming faintly in the freezing air.
‘Guys. Would you like to warm up and grab a coffee?’ asked Varia, indicating the police support van. It was warm inside, and Kate and Tristan talked about the case, and made small talk for the next hour. Kate felt on edge, and she could see it in Tristan and Varia.
An hour later, Varia’s radio crackled, and a voice asked her to come back to the grave. Kate and Tristan followed. There was now a second forensics tent pitched next to the one over the grave. There were things that Kate could never forget from her time in the police, and that glow emanating from the white skin of a forensics tent on a gloomy day was one of them.
They were all asked to put on white coveralls, and the second tent was warm inside from the bright lights.
‘Good morning,’ said the forensic pathologist, a short, squat man with bushy eyebrows poking out from under the protective hood of his overalls. He was standing next to a blue mud-stained tarpaulin. On it lay a small skeleton.
‘Thomas Black wasn’t lying,’ said Tristan, his voice cracking with emotion. Kate could immediately see that the skeleton’s small skull was broken, caved in at the front, and when she looked closer, the jaw was badly smashed.
‘But is it Janey Macklin?’ Kate said. It was more of a rhetorical question.
‘Whoever buried this person didn’t want the body or skeleton identified,’ said the forensic pathologist, leaning closer, his arm casting a shadow on the broken skull. ‘The teeth have all been smashed, along with the lower and upper jaw. The hands have also been removed.’
‘Can you tell if it’s male or female?’ asked Kate.
‘Not at this stage. And unless we find any teeth deeper in the grave, we won’t be able to make an identification using dental records.’
‘Would it be possible to use blood DNA?’ asked Varia.
‘Possibly. At this advanced stage of decay, with decay almost complete, I want to try and extract DNA from the victim’s bones.’
‘How long will that take?’
