order. We’ll take it from here.’
Brook blinked at Hudson, Grant hovering behind him, aware that his body language was causing concern. He smiled faintly, mimicking Jason’s faraway stare.
‘Sure.’
Outside in the corridor, Grant allowed Brook to walk ahead of her and walked in front of Hudson to slow him down. She engaged her boss with a raised eyebrow.
‘Well, guv, one day on the case and we’re already in credit,’ she said softly.
Hudson shrugged and stepped after Brook. ‘We’re not here to solve bungled burglaries, Laura.’ He caught up to Brook. ‘Well, Damen. What’s the story on this Annie Sewell?’
‘You heard Jason. He was pretty clear.’
‘So she was killed the same night as the Wallis family?’
‘That’s right. But she got lost in The Reaper maelstrom.’
Hudson nodded. ‘I can see how she might. Could those lads have killed her?’
Brook came to a halt and looked into Hudson’s eyes. ‘It wasn’t my case. But yes, those lads could’ve done it.’
‘Well, that’s some measure of justice then,’ said Hudson. ‘That’s a comfort.’
Brook smiled bleakly. ‘Right. Three cheers for The Reaper.’
‘What are we looking for, Mike?’
‘You got me, Ed. Maybe I’ll know when I see it.’ Drexler shone the flashlight around the cabin, consciously avoiding the bloody writing on the wall. Wandering around at night at a deserted crime scene that had offered up over twenty corpses was good reason not to crank up the atmosphere any further.
‘It’s late,’ said McQuarry, resolutely confining her own flashlight to watching her step.
‘There must be something to connect, Ed. Assuming the Dodge is at the bottom of a lake, or burned out on some forest track, we can’t tie the Ashwells to Sorenson. So we have to tie Sorenson to this cabin. If we can put him here then…’
‘Then what?’
‘…we can sweat him.’
‘Thought you said he was made of ice,’ retorted McQuarry. ‘Look, Mike, Latent have been all over this place. They got Sorenson’s prints from the garage but no matches in here, none on the wine bottle, nothing. He would’ve worn gloves. He’s not stupid. We got no saliva in the wine, hell, he didn’t even leave a glass. There are no footprints we can find, no fibres and no hairs.’
‘He doesn’t have hair.’ Drexler shone his flashlight under the worn sofa then stood upright. He moved into the hall and opened the door to the third bedroom. The smell hit them like a wall of sewage, rancid and sour, and they puckered under its assault.
Drexler ran his fingers over the bolt on the door. ‘This feels like it’s been forced.’
McQuarry peered at it. ‘Maybe Sorenson ransacked the place.’
‘Looking for what?’
Drexler shook his head and swept the light around the windowless cell. The thin blanket and dank mattress were at Quantico and had delivered up their grisly secrets. The DNA of the Bailey girls was abundant in this room but nowhere else in the cabin — this had been their prison. Blood, hair, saliva, tears, urine and even traces of excrement were all found on the mattress. Two related females had spent time in this room, the mother, Tania, was not one of them — she’d been raped and then murdered in the clearing, probably in front of her family, according to the profiler. Young Sally had joined her parents a month or so later. They still hadn’t found Nicole’s grave. They probably never would.
The Ashwells had spent time here too. Their body fluids were all over the bedding, chiefly semen and saliva. Young Billy had evidently been fully initiated into the family pastime. It didn’t paint a pretty picture but at least the fact leavened the agents’ horror at the memory of Billy’s feet scrabbling for solid ground as he dangled from the noose in the garage.
But there was something more. According to Forensics it wasn’t just Caleb and Billy who’d been in the room: there were three different sets of DNA, all from the same family. A third male had been present, though less frequently it would seem, and Caleb and Billy’s only next-of-kin was Caleb’s brother, Jacob Ashwell. It seemed reasonable to assume he was the other participant and a bulletin was issued on him.
Inquiries had found Jacob’s last known address in Las Vegas but he’d since fled. And the fact that he hadn’t come forward despite the media attention was telling. The gas station — while no gold mine — was a merchantable piece of real estate and Jacob Ashwell was the sole heir now that the corpse of Caleb’s wife Mandy-Sue had been positively identified from her dental records.
Finally Drexler closed the door on the chamber of horrors and continued his tour. He unfolded the Forensics report from his back pocket and read it for the hundredth time. He went into the bathroom and opened the rickety bathroom cabinet with its cracked mirror.
‘What are you looking for, Mike?’
‘The drugs.’
McQuarry sighed. ‘The CSIs went over this place twenty-four/seven for three days, Mike. If they didn’t find the drugs then they’re not here.’
Drexler looked at the sheet again. ‘Billy Ashwell had coffee before he died, laced with hyoscine and traces of morphine. The combination depresses the central nervous system and causes paralysis and amnesia. George and Tania Bailey both received a similar cocktail of drugs before they died.’
‘I read the report, Mike. But there’s nothing here.’
Drexler sighed. ‘Know what I’m thinking? Maybe Sorenson took it … for future projects.’
‘Good luck getting a search warrant. It’s past nine, Mike. I’d like to have some dinner and maybe a drink before I go back and collapse in my welcoming motel room.’
Drexler rubbed a hand over his face, then smiled. ‘Sorry, Ed, you’re right. Let’s get out of here. Dinner’s on me.’
‘Damn right.’
They closed and locked the cabin door and walked back towards the darkened garage on the highway, Drexler swinging his flashlight and McQuarry greedily lighting a cigarette.
The noise of the forest was deafening and, but for their one pyramid of torchlight, the darkness total.
‘It sure is lonely out here, Ed. I can’t imagine anyone wanting…’ Drexler halted in his tracks and swung his flashlight at the scrub on the side of the dirt track. He retraced his steps and got down on his haunches to examine something on the ground.
‘What is it, Mike?’
‘This hole. It looks freshly dug.’ Drexler swung his flashlight over the hole. It was about a foot deep and six inches in diameter. He fingered the soil inside it. ‘What do you suppose was buried in there?’
Drexler stepped back and swung his flashlight from side to side. There was a line, an avenue almost, of half a dozen small saplings planted equidistant from each other. The end tree was now missing. He approached the sapling nearest to the hole. The deep green leaves were large and oily, and horn-shaped creamy white flowers drooped towards the ground.
‘Unusual. Don’t think I’ve ever seen a tree like this. Know what genus that is?’
‘Gee, Mike, is it a Californian Redwood?’
Drexler laughed. ‘Sorry, Ed. I’m used to you knowing everything.’
‘I know my stomach is grumbling.’
‘I wonder what happened to this end tree.’
‘There’s been heavy traffic on the site, Mike. Maybe one of the ambulances or tow trucks knocked it over.’
He nodded. ‘I’m sure you’re right.’
It was cold, dark and beginning to rain by the time Brook, Hudson and Grant arrived back at the Ingham house. For that reason the crime scene was not as besieged as it might have been. There were still a few gawping
