Lethal Intent (DI Matt Barnes Book 2) Page 6

  “Excuse me, love. I’ve got a parcel for Boulton & Marshall’s,” he said, approaching her. “Can you tell me where to take it?”

  She was off guard. Even as she opened her mouth to answer, he dropped the empty box and punched her hard in the stomach, folding her up, winding and rendering her unable to scream as he dragged her to the car, bundled her into the open boot and took the time to hold the chloroform-laced pad over her mouth and nose. When she was fully unconscious, he quickly taped her wrists and ankles and pushed down the lid. The only evidence left at the scene was the abandoned cardboard box. No prints would be found on it. He wore gloves. And even in the unlikely event that the Sierra was seen being driven away, it would be of no help. The old banger would be crushed the following morning. Kirstie Marshall was now his to do with as he pleased. She would atone for her husband’s sins, and be of immense pleasure to him, before he returned her remains to be found and mourned over.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  SUNDAY was a perfect day. They got up at seven-thirty, showered together and ate a nice but naughty calorie-laden fried breakfast before leaving the house at nine. Matt drove them to Borehamwood, where they had arranged to view the cottage at ten o’clock.

  The photo of the property did not do it justice. It was on a private lane, backed by a river, and was set in large gardens.

  “This is it,” Beth said, gripping his hand as he turned off the ignition.

  “You think so?”

  “I know so, before we even set foot inside.”

  “Don’t be too enthusiastic. The asking price is loaded. I think we should offer ten grand less.”

  “If we do we’ll probably lose it. I can see us living here, Matt. And with time it will be worth a lot more than they’re asking.”

  Matt grinned. “So this is where we’ll hopefully grow old together, huh?”

  “I can think of far worse places. It’ll be a great place to bring our kids up.”

  “When did kids get to be part of the equation?”

  “They keep you young and give you focus.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “I read it somewhere. And how can you have family holidays or proper Christmases without them? You get to relive your youth through them.”

  “I want you to myself for two or three years at least before we go that route.”

  “That sounds good. We’ll travel and do some crazy things, first.”

  “Fine. Let’s go see if this place is worth the arm and leg these folks are after.”

  They walked down the path, and Beth knocked on the solid oak door. The subsequent viewing was almost a formality. They both loved the place. It had original exposed beams; some exposed brickwork, and was even roomier than it looked from the outside.

  “Do you mind me asking why you would want to leave a place like this?” Matt asked the owners, Graham and Annette Finch.

  “I’ve just retired,” Graham said. “We always planned on escaping British winters, and so have decided that this will be our last one. We’re buying a condo near Fort Lauderdale, Florida, and will spend summers in a flat near our daughter’s place in the midlands. You’ve got to know when to move on and make changes. Nothing stays the same forever.”

  Beth felt a little sad for the couple. There was a certain melancholy about them. Florida wasn’t known as God’s waiting room for nothing. It was where many Americans, and now many other nationalities, spent their twilight years. Florida had more funeral homes per capita than any other state in the union.

  They stayed for over an hour. Graham and Annette were good company; kept out of the way while Matt and Beth toured the house, then served coffee in the large farmhouse-style kitchen and talked as if the four of them were old friends.

  “We love the place,” Beth said. “I hope we get to live here.”

  “So do I,” Annette said. “We’ve been here for more than thirty years, and I’d like to think that you two were taking over from us.”

  Matt knew that Beth had her heart set on it. He wanted it because she did. Her happiness was paramount.

  “We were going to make an offer a little lower than you’re asking for,” he said. “But I intend to meet the price. So if you don’t plan on sitting back and hoping for more, you’ve just made a sale.”

  Graham smiled and offered his hand. “It’s a done deal, if you don’t drive off and have second thoughts.”

  Matt shook the man’s hand. There was an affinity between them. It wasn’t something that happened often in life. He knew that he had met fine people, who might easily become friends.

  “You think it’ll work out?” Beth said as they drove back to Harrow.

  “Yeah. But cross everything, and remember that if it doesn’t happen, then it wasn’t meant to.”

  “It’s not in your nature to allow for fate to have a hand in anything.”

  “I must be getting old. Over the last six months I’ve come to realise that some aspects of life might be meant to be. Something happens and one thing leads to another. Call it destiny if you like.”

  “But destiny might not always turn out for the best.”

  “It brought us together, so don’t knock it. Let’s go celebrate that we may have just found our love nest.”

  “Love nest!” Beth said, and squeezed his thigh.

  They stopped at a village pub, had a ploughman’s lunch, and jumped the gun by deciding where some of their furniture would go in the cottage; which bedroom they would sleep in, and whether to have a real fire in the ingle-nook.

  That the next day fate would initiate a horrifying journey into the unknown, was beyond their comprehension as they looked out of the pub window at grey, leafless trees and the flat shadows that cast a lattice pattern on the glassy surface of the river that meandered into the distance like a dead snake.

  It was seven o’clock on Monday evening when Matt and Pete turned up at the business premises of Boulton & Marshall. The report of a confirmed abduction rang warning bells. Although this wasn’t a missing child, it was a woman, and that meant they could not rule out a second attack by the killer of Laura Preston, however tenuous the link.

  Uniformed officers were in attendance, and techies were searching the rear, taped-off car park for clues.

  “Anything, Don?” Matt asked a sergeant who he knew well enough to be on first name terms with.

  “No, Matt. A kid saw a beaten-up old red Sierra leave the car park in a hurry, but didn’t get the number, or a good look at the driver. As a rule, the woman wouldn’t even be listed as a missing person for twenty-four hours. But with the lad seeing what could have been her abductor’s car, and with what went down last week, any suspicious disappearance is red-flagged, as per the flyer that was circulated.”

  “What do we know for a fact?”

  “That she left her office at three-thirty this afternoon, as per usual, and vanished. Her car is still here, and the keys were found on the ground six feet from it. Her daughter got home from school and phoned to see where she was. That’s when her business partner, Boulton, came out back, put two and two together and gave us a bell.”

  “Is the box significant?” Matt said, walking over to where the large carton lay.

  Don shrugged. “It’s evidence till we know it isn’t. Seems to just be what it looks like, an empty box, maybe from a supermarket.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No blood or sign of a struggle. I got a photograph of the woman off her husband. A and E departments are being checked.”

  “Good. Where’s Boulton?”

  “Inside.”

  Matt and Pete were met at the office door by a very tall, middle-aged man. He had long, white hair and shrewd grey eyes that, to Matt, lent him the air of a biblical patriarch. But in place of a flowing robe he wore a charcoal suit, plain maroon silk tie over a white shirt, and highly polished black leather loafers.

  “I’m John Boulton,” he said in an Oxbridge accent. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

&n
bsp; “Let’s hope so,” Matt said. “Did Mrs. Marshall have any appointments to show property to a prospective buyer today?”

  “No. And all clients are required to call at the office before being taken to view. Single men are dealt with by one of the males on our sales team. It was uncommon for Kirstie or myself to get involved. We tended to work from the office.”

  “Do you have any reason to believe that Mrs. Marshall may have met someone and left―”

  “If you are suggesting that Kirstie was in any way acting improperly, then I can assure you she is happily married. She would never put her husband and daughter through such anguish.”

  “I wasn’t implying anything, Mr Boulton, but will obviously investigate every possibility in trying to locate her,” Matt said. He tended to go with first impressions, and decided that the man was a pompous prick, used to dictating to others and having his own way. “Now, if you have no insight as to where your business partner might be, I’d be grateful if you would go and get her appointment diary for me.”

  John Boulton tried to stare Matt down, but couldn’t handle the unblinking eyes that drilled into him. He reddened, then turned on his heel and headed towards a door at the rear of the main office.

  “I don’t think he likes you, boss,” Pete said. “You aren’t servile enough for a public servant.”

  “I’d have doffed my cap,” Matt said. “But I left it at home.”

  “There,” Boulton said, returning with a leather-bound book that had the appearance of a photograph album. He thrust it into Matt’s hand. “You do realise that the contents are confidential?”

  Matt ignored the comment. “Did Mrs. Marshall seem under any duress, or act in any way that you considered uncharacteristic?”

  “No. Kirstie was in her usual good humour. She had coffee with me before she left the office, and was talking about spending the evening looking through holiday brochures with Dennis...her husband, and her daughter, Faye.”

  “Where is her husband now, sir?”

  “At home with Faye. I believe there is a police officer with them.”

  “We’ll need to listen to any phone messages she might have received. And an officer will be checking all incoming and outgoing calls that have gone through her extension, and e-mails on the PC she had use of.”

  “Very well,” John said. “I’ll do anything I can to help find her.”

  Matt sensed that the man cared, and that he was worried sick about his business partner. His crusty exterior was beginning to crack like a drying face pack.

  Twenty minutes later they were at the Marshalls’ house.

  A uniform opened the door to them and checked both of their IDs before showing them through to where the missing woman’s husband and daughter were in a huddle on the settee.

  “Have you any news?” Dennis Marshall said, standing up and facing Matt after the constable had formally introduced them.

  “No, Mr. Marshall,” Matt said, feeling for the man, who was obviously distraught, but having to keep himself together for his daughter’s sake. “Maybe you can help us find her. There might be a simple explanation for why your wife has gone missing.”

  Dennis took a few steps forward and almost touched noses with Matt. “There’s no simple bloody explanation,” he whispered, so that his daughter could not hear. “Kirstie would be here if she could be, so don’t patronise me. Somebody took her from the car park. You and I both know it. Don’t we?”

  “That’s a possibility. But it’s not definite. We’re checking all the local hospitals, showing copies of the photograph you gave to the sergeant who was here earlier. She could have had an accident. Maybe fallen, hit her head and become confused. For all we know she’s wandering about dazed.”

  “Is that what you think?”

  “It doesn’t matter what I think, sir. All that matters is locating your wife. Have you contacted all her friends and family members?”

  “Everyone but her mother. She has a bad heart. Knowing Kirstie is missing would only make her ill. And it stands to reason that if my wife had turned up there, I would have had a call.”

  “Can we go through to the kitchen, sir,” Matt said. “I want a private word.”

  Dennis went to his daughter. “I’m just going to make us a cup of tea, sweetheart. Why don’t you put the telly on. I won’t be a minute.”

  In the kitchen, with the door pushed to but not closed, Matt took a deep breath and asked the question he knew would alienate the man. “I’ve got to ask you a sensitive question, sir. “Is everything all right between you and your wife?”

  Dennis actually managed a weak smile. “I’m aware that the husband is usually the last to know when his wife is having an affair,” he said. “But even if she was, which I know isn’t the case, Kirstie would never leave Faye. There’s not a man born, including me, who she would put before our daughter. Plus, my wife is a very practical person. She would not have left her passport and bank and building society books behind.”

  “You mean you checked?”

  Dennis did not answer. Matt didn’t push it. It was human nature to have some doubt, however fleeting. Dennis Marshall had, if only for a second, allowed the possibility of his wife playing away from home cross his mind.

  “I’d appreciate another photograph of your wife, sir,” Matt said, now wanting to be away from the man, his daughter, and the despondency that seemed to have pervaded the house. “And can you tell me if she or you know a Chief Superintendent Ray Preston?”

  “I don’t know any policemen. And if Kirstie does, it would only be if she has sold them a property. Why? Is it in some way relevant?”

  “I’m sure it isn’t, sir. Now if you could get me that photograph.”

  Matt didn’t want there to be a link. If there was one, then Kirstie Marshall might be lost to her family forever. Trouble was, he had the unshakeable notion that Laura Preston’s killer had struck again.

  CHAPTER NINE

  HE got out of the car and went to the rear and opened the boot. She was conscious but disoriented, and had thrown up, which was probably a result of the chloroform, the smell of petrol and the motion of being ferried in the darkness of a confined space.

  He tutted. “You stink,” he said, reaching down to roughly lift her up and out of the car.

  Hannibal’s paws slammed into the bodywork, and his claws scrabbled on the lip of the boot as he sank his teeth into her calf and began to shake his head, like a killer whale with a seal pup in its jaws.

  “No, boy. Down!” he shouted, lashing out with a steel toe-capped boot, catching the dog flush in the ribs. “Bad dog.”

  Hannibal yelped and released Kirstie’s leg. She moaned and struggled feebly.

  “He’s not very good with strangers,” he said, carrying her across to the house, to open the door and enter in the manner of a groom bearing his new bride across the threshold.

  When she was safely ensconced in the cellar, he went back out, drove the old Sierra to the side of the crusher and cut the engine. First thing in the morning he would reduce it to not much more than a two by three foot cube.

  He walked back across the uneven ground, stopped at the door and looked up to where flakes of snow began to swirl out of the dark sky. It was nearly Christmas. The good-looking woman he had taken would be an early present. He would unwrap her in an hour or so, after he had eaten and properly savoured what the night ahead promised.

  The fat snowflakes increased in volume and began to settle on every surface. He was excited. Snow painted the world a pristine white, camouflaging the unsightly works of man to enhance the bareness of nature in winter. It crossed his mind that it would be nice to put up decorations and a tree festooned with fairy lights. He would have to buy them. He would keep his house guest alive till Christmas, then play with her all day, before killing her and returning her to her loved ones. He may even let her speak to them. That would be the Marshalls’ festive treat, to get to say their good-byes. Ha! Giving was always better than receiving.<
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  The snow tapped on his face like icy fingertips and began to coat his hair and shoulders. It was purifying in a way. He blinked as airy, insubstantial crystals caught in his eyelashes and melted. He closed his eyes and let a Christmas past invade his thoughts. It was like Scrooge being led back to relive what had gone before…

  …He was five. The bedroom was dark and cold as he sat up and yawned. Had he missed Santa? He climbed out of bed, pulled on his dressing gown and made his way out onto the landing, to tiptoe down the stairs, careful not to stand on the two that creaked. In the living room, he saw that the small glass of sherry that had been left in the hearth was empty. And one of the two mince pies had vanished from the plate.

  “He’s been! He’s been!” he shouted, running pell-mell back up the stairs and into his parents’ bedroom, to shake his mother’s shoulder.

  Vivid imagination and faith were a potent combination. He believed implicitly in that which had no substance. It had been a time of innocence and wonder, which he wished could have been maintained. Growing up was no big deal. Reality sucked, or had done so for a long time. Now, he was liberated, to live out his fantasies and make the guilty pay for fucking up his life.

  He was like Frosty the Snowman. How long had he been standing out in what was being transformed into a white wonderland? He was shivering with cold and elation.

  A hot shower invigorated him. He rubbed himself dry with a fluffy bath towel, then dressed in T-shirt, jeans and moccasin-style slippers, went down to eat, and enjoyed a large, neat scotch as he listened to a CD of Christmas music. He sang along to Slade’s rendition of Merry Xmas Everybody, then John and Yoko’s Happy Christmas (War is Over), as he filled a bowl with hot water and went down to the cellar, now whistling White Christmas, which was his absolute all-time favourite. Just that one song – sung by Bing Crosby – seemed to encapsulate the whole spirit of the season.

  “You look like shit,” he said to Kirstie. She was sitting on the stained mattress, staring up at him with wide, wet eyes. Jesus! You’d think he was Fred West, or Harold Shipman creeping up on her with a loaded hypo. “Lighten up you miserable bitch, or I’ll give you reason to be a sour puss.”