‘Probably when the dog murderer appeared.’
‘That what we’re calling him? The dog murderer?’
Mickey gave a grim smile. ‘Press loves a nickname.’
‘He killed a man, too.’
‘Yeah. And you know what the media are like. Given the choice between reporting on the murder of a human and the death of a dog, you know which one they’ll always go for.’
‘Right. So dog murderer it is.’
Mickey straightened up, looked round the kitchen. The electronics, gleaming silver and black, were at odds with the surroundings. The sink and cupboards looked over forty years old, and any attempt at upkeep, or even cleaning, had long since been abandoned. The lino on the floor was cracked and stained, leaving huge threadbare gaps over the discoloured and dirty floorboards. The furniture was mismatched and well used. The windows were opaque with dirt, the walls a deep, greasy nicotine orange. Dishes at the side of the sink indicated that there had been three people here; two large plates, one small one, by Mickey’s reckoning.
Lovely, he thought, and returned his gaze to the equipment on the table. ‘So what was all this used for?’
‘Well, if it is a GPS system, which I strongly suspect, then it’s been used to track someone. Or to see if someone’s tracking them. Either way.’
Mickey frowned. ‘And there’s no way of knowing who? Or why?’
‘Not without that computer. But if — or should I say when — we find out who, then it shouldn’t be too difficult to see why.’
‘Ah,’ said Mickey. ‘Police work.’
‘Right.’ Adrian gave a grim smile. ‘Find that laptop, Sergeant.’
‘At once.’
Adrian opened his mouth to speak. Mickey knew what he was going to ask but didn’t think he could talk about Phil again, so he thanked Adrian and turned towards the door leading to the rest of the house.
‘Forensics done in here, are they?’
Adrian shrugged, already back examining the electronics. ‘Don’t know. They let me in, so it must be OK.’
Mickey moved out of the kitchen. The rest of the house was in a similar state. The place had been allowed to fall into serious neglect. He needed to find out who had lived there and what had happened to them.
He walked down the hallway — all peeling, faded floral paper, spreading triangles of mildew in the corners and everything coated in several layers of grease and dirt — and went up the stairs. Sleeping bags and mattresses on the floor. Clothes and belongings, litter and debris, from two people sharing the room. In the bathroom, more of the same. A few cosmetics, a fairly new bar of soap, the logo not yet washed off, the wrapper balled up on the floor, a half-used bottle of shampoo. Like someone had been camping indoors. Or squatting. Plenty of stuff for forensics to be going on with.
He went back downstairs and into the living room. Through the filthy windows he could see the team moving about like ghosts in the mist. He looked round the room. A portable TV had been hooked up in the corner, a cheap aerial on top of it. The settee was huge, horsehair stuffing falling out of it. An old blanket had been used as a throw. And on the door handle, a rope.
He crossed the room, looked at it. It hung down over a sheet-covered mattress. A small bowl at the side. This must be where the third one had been sleeping. He looked at the rope once more. Tied up? Against their will, a captive? Christ …
He hurried back into the kitchen. Adrian was still poring over the GPS system. ‘Adrian, can you get the team together? Need to have a few words.’
It took a few minutes, but soon everyone was assembled outside the house, away from any TV cameras. They all stood there looking at him, expectant.
I’ve got to inspire them, Mickey thought. Say the kind of thing Phil would say if he was here. Send them off to do their jobs. Make them the best they can be. Searching for Marina would have to wait. This case would now take priority. That was how the system worked.
‘Right, listen up,’ he said, unconsciously echoing the words Phil always used to start a briefing. They were listening. ‘The boss, as you all know, isn’t here. And in his absence, it falls to me to take charge. So here’s what we’ve got and here’s what we’ll do. First thing. Identification of the deceased. Jane, coordinate with uniforms. Get this area canvassed, door to door. I know neighbours are a bit thin on the ground round here, but someone saw the dogs so they may have seen something else. Hopefully something suspicious.’
‘Like a murderer coming up the drive?’ asked Jane.
‘Exactly that. And Adrian, it looks like someone’s either rented this place or was squatting here. Obviously rented would be best and easiest for us. Get on to that. Check rental agencies, find out who owns this place, who owns that caravan out there.’
Adrian nodded, making notes in his electronic notebook.
‘And something else.’ Mickey’s phone rang. He ignored it. He tried to continue speaking, but the phone was insistent. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’d better get that.’ He took it from his pocket, checked the display. Anni. Not now, he thought. Later. I’m working here.
But then so is she …
He looked up, aware of everyone watching him. Knew he had no choice. Pressed the answer button. Turned away from them.
‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Listen, I’m in the middle of—’
‘Yeah, I know,’ she said. ‘And I wouldn’t phone if it wasn’t important.’
‘Right.’
Just work colleagues again. No mention of the previous night.
‘I’ve been back to see the farmer’s wife at the service station, watched the CCTV footage again. I had an idea.’
Mickey waited.
‘And Marina, she’s sent us a message. That thrown-away wrapper. It had a postcode written on it.’
‘Brilliant. If you can—’
‘No, just listen. I put it into my sat nav, and guess where it came up with?’
‘No idea, tell me.’
‘Where you are now. After she left the garage, Marina was on her way to where you are … ’
Mickey let the phone slip away from his face. His heart was hammering; he felt numb. He turned back to the group, saw them all staring at him. Thought of the mattress in the living room. The rope tied to the door handle.
‘Shit … ’ he said. ‘Listen up. There was someone kept here against their will. And I think I’ve worked out who it was. Josephina. Marina and Phil’s kid … ’
56
DS Jessie James threw her head back, dry-swallowed two paracetamol. This was becoming a habit.
Just one quick drink, she had told herself. Just one. Then back home for her regular Saturday night in with Terry. Takeaway, maybe a DVD. Then Sunday they had planned a day out. A run out to Audley End, maybe, make the most of Terry’s National Trust membership. Dinner in some quaint country gastropub. She had told him she was on call, but neither of them thought she would be called in. But that was before she was handed this case.
So the previous night she had found herself dropping in to her neighbourhood pub on the way home. Just the one, she had said to herself. Just the one. A quick gin and tonic. Support the local economy, and all that. Maybe Terry would join her. They could make a night of it.
But of course he was at her house, DVD on the TV stand, takeaway menu in hand. Waiting for her. So she would just have the one. It went down so fast she barely noticed it. So she had another. And another. And when
