Buried Slaughter (4 page)

“This witness. How did he survive?”

“I’m sorry,” DI Marlow said. “But what authority do you have asking questions here?”

Brian lowered his head. Marlow was right. He didn’t have any authority here. “I’m just…‌I’m curious. That’s all.”

“You don’t have to pretend to be anonymous to me, Brian.”

Brian lifted his head. Marlow half-smiled.

“I know what you did. Letting another officer die to save your own neck like that. But you’re a good cop. That doesn’t just vanish. So I’ll tell you. Because it’s you, I’ll tell you.” He peered at David Wallson with his baggy eyes. “As long as this fuck gets back behind the yellow tape, where he belongs.”

“Oh, come on,” David said. “I’m the reason he’s‌—‌”

“I’m fine with that,” Brian said. He smiled at David as a pair of officers pushed him out of the crime scene and amongst the rest of the journalists.

“You want to be careful keeping company like that,” DI Marlow said. “People might start questioning your integrity.”

Brian kept quiet. He thought his integrity was under scrutiny long ago.

“Anyway, the witness‌—‌Darren Anderson‌—‌he says he was working in this trench when it…‌yeah. When it happened. Gunshots. Didn’t see the rest.”

“Lucky,” Brian said.

“Very lucky.”

“The archeological group. What were they here for, anyway?”

DI Marlow sighed and pulled out his phone. “Davidson Archeological Contractors. Group of eight headed out here to search for some old shit a week ago. Looks like something beat them to it.”

Brian walked over to the side of the trench opposite again. He stared down at the severed heads, and at the bones, perfectly aligned.

“I just don’t understand all this show. I mean, excuse me for calling a massacre ‘show’, but that’s exactly what it looks like. Why would somebody do this? For laughs, or what?”

Brian peered at the bones. Something wasn’t right. Something that he had to investigate.

“I mean, it’s one thing finding a dead body,” Marlow continued. “But…‌but arranged like this. And the rest of the bones, I wonder where they are‌—‌Hey! What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Almost without thinking, Brian hopped down the side of the trench. His knees stung as he made contact with the muddy ground, like they used to whenever he used to run as an overweight oaf. But he needed to see something. He needed to check, for sure.

“McDone, get the
hell
out of there, right this second, or I’ll have to‌—‌”

“You said Davidson Archeological Contractors were digging for something?”

DI Marlow glared down at Brian, his eyes bloodshot and desperate. “Brian, now’s not the time for‌—‌”

“The bones,” Brian said. He pointed at them. He was so close to the decapitated heads now. “Look at them. They’re not related to the heads.”

DI Marlow shook his head. Two other officers appeared at the side of the trench and climbed down, grabbing Brian and pushing him back up the ladder, away from the bones, away from the severed heads.

“There’s seven heads and there’s seven sets of bones,” DI Marlow said, as Brian found himself being dragged further and further away from the crime scene, towards the pack of journalists, whose cameras all snapped Brian, including David Wallson.

“The bones are too old to be related to the heads,” Brian called, as the officers bundled him into a police car.

“What are you saying?” DI Marlow called.

“I think Davidson Archeological Contractors found their lost treasure after all.”

The door of the police car slammed shut and the sounds from outside were drowned out.

The engine of the police car came to life. One of the officers, with a ginger goatee and freckly bald head that Brian vaguely recognised, leaned to the back of the vehicle. “Let’s get you down to the station and have a little word, eh?”

The vehicle came to life. David Wallson looked on. DI Marlow looked on.

It was at that moment that the realisation of what he’d just gone and done hit him, full force.

Fuck. What an idiot. What a stupid bloody idiot.

Chapter Four

Brian sat in the plastic seat. He held his hands tightly together and looked around the dismal grey room; inhaled the sweaty air. Opposite him, at the other side of the table, DC Edgar kept her mouth closed and waited to be joined by her colleague. The room was familiar to Brian. Very familiar. However, sitting on the opposite side of the interview room desk wasn’t one bit familiar.

And he didn’t like it at all.

“Look, can’t I just say my apologies and get out of here?” Brian asked. He tried to look DC Edgar in the eye, but she remained silent. A younger police officer. Another new recruit since he’d left the upper ranks. There had been all change in office over the last two years. He barely recognised the place anymore.

“Please. I can go home and we can both forget this‌—‌”

“You know how this works, Brian.”

The voice came from the opposite side of the room. The door had opened.

Brian’s stomach sank when he saw the bucktoothed, rodent-like demeanour of the man walking into the interview room, holding a cup of decaf coffee.

Stephen Molfer. Or
DS
Stephen Molfer, as he now was to Brian.

He pulled his seat aside and plonked himself into it. “Long time no speak, my old friend. Just a shame about the circumstances, eh?”

Brian held his breath. It took every ounce of strength inside him to resist lashing out at Molfer. Fucking Molfer and his stupid, patronising grin.

“Let’s see…‌Hopping into the middle of a crime scene. Jeez, Brian‌—‌I hear PCSO duty is boring, but wow. That’s just morbid.”

“Stephen, let’s just get the formalities done with and‌—‌”

“Stephen?” He slid his ID across the table. “Detective Sergeant Molfer, I’ll have you know. So please could you repeat that? With a formal apology attached, perhaps? Then we can think about letting you walk out of here. As long as you promise to do nothing of the sort again, of course.”

Brian gritted his teeth and widened his eyes at DC Edgar. She simply stared back at him, a small smile peeking across her face.

“Say the words, Brian,” Stephen said. “Say the words and we can think about letting you get back home with nothing but a…‌yeah. A minor suspension from your PCSO duty.”

“Stephen, I‌—‌”

“Detective Sergeant Molfer.”

Brian took a few deep breaths to calm himself. A red-hot flush spread across his cheeks. He cleared his throat. There was no way Stephen Detective Frigging Sergeant Molfer was letting him out if he didn’t humour him.

“I’m sorry. Detective…‌”

“Detective Serge‌—‌”

“Detective Sergeant Molfer. I’m sorry for…‌for…‌”

“I’m sorry, Detective Sergeant Molfer, for recklessly interfering with a crime scene.”

“For recklessly inter‌—‌”

“No, no. Again, from the beginning.”

The heat continued to engulf Brian’s cheeks. Fucking bastard Molfer. “I’m sorry, Detective Sergeant Molfer, for interfering with a crime scene.”

“Recklessly.”

“Recklessly.”

The sides of Stephen’s mouth twitched. “Good. Very good.” He closed the papers in front of him, whatever the hell they were. “Anyway, I’ll be in touch with your department about that temporary suspension. Maybe we can look at keeping it to the minimum if the officer in charge of the case doesn’t believe that the culprit offers a significant risk of repeated offence.” Stephen stopped and stared closely into Brian’s eyes. “I can trust you on that, can’t I? For old times’ sakes?”

Brian shrugged. He’d been stupid going along with David Wallson to the crime scene in the first place. What on earth was he even thinking? He wasn’t a Detective Sergeant anymore. And the reason he wasn’t a DS was because he chose to run away from all the crap and life-sucking duty that came with it. So why had he gone searching again?

“I understand, you know?” Molfer added. The way he still had that wrinkly smile on his face suggested that no, in fact, he did not understand. Quite the frigging opposite. “I realise it must be tough. I realise that…‌that bug. That desire for solving mysteries. It doesn’t just die with a…‌how can I phrase it without being condescending?”

“You probably can’t, I’d imagine.”

“Well, a demotion,” Molfer said, chuckling. Then, he patted DC Edgar on the back. “Anyway. We’d better let the man leave. Your department will be in touch with you regarding the suspension.”

“Oh, come on. Do you have to?”

“Brian, I’d love to let you walk away unscathed here. I really would. But I don’t make the rules.” He stuck out his bottom lip and turned on his best puppy-dog eyes.

Evil fucking puppy-dog at that.

“Hope you come out of this one alive,” Molfer said, as Brian snatched his coat and emerged from the dingy pit of misery. “I’m rooting for you.”

As he walked down the corridor‌—‌the corridor he used to walk down every day‌—‌Brian realised he had more self-restraint than he’d ever imagined.

But he needed to get the hell out of here before he turned right back and punched the bloody lights out of Stephen Molfer.

“Hey, Brian!”

He stopped in his tracks and cringed as he heard footsteps approaching behind. If Molfer said one more thing…‌

“Glad I caught you.”

When Brian finished spinning around, he realised it wasn’t Stephen at all, but instead, DI Marlow from the Pendle Hill dig site.

A wave of embarrassment crashed over him. He felt like a schoolkid in the spotlight of the headteacher’s wrath all of a sudden. “Listen, DI Marlow, I apologise for‌—‌”

“Ah, forget it. You’re a detective at heart. That doesn’t just go away. I mean, what you did, it was a pig-headed, dick-cheesed move and a half. But you were, um…‌you were right.”

Brian squinted. DI Marlow could barely look at him, as he scratched at his greying moustache.

“Right? About what?”

DI Marlow sighed and held out a couple of sheets of paper, filled with more text and numbers than Brian could even subconsciously be bothered to scan through. “Results just came in from forensics over at Burnley. The bones. You’re right. They didn’t match the heads.” He stuffed the papers back under his arm, keeping them out of sight, and looked over his shoulder. “I, er…‌I just thought you should know.”

Then, he turned around and scooted off down the long, well-lit corridor of the station, towards the buzz and chatter of the office, towards everything Brian used to hate about his past.

“Oh, and…‌erm…‌Your lift. They’re waiting out front for you.” Marlow raised his bushy eyebrows as he backed into the double doors and pushed through.

A twinge of fear sparked up inside Brian. His lift? Shit‌—‌Stephen Molfer hadn’t gone and called Hannah to pick him up, had he? Fuck. He’d tell Hannah about today, but of course, in his own condensed, moderately biased version of the truth. He rushed down the corridor, sprinted down the stairs and barely broke a sweat. Fuck. He’d have apologised to her in his own way. Maybe it was the afternoon media. Maybe they’d printed the photos of him being dragged away in the afternoon editions and she’d put two and two together. Shit.

He ran through the reception area, past Friendly Jill The Desk Lady, through the doors and into the growing autumn chill.

The visitor parking area was empty. Hannah’s red Fiesta was nowhere in sight. There were two cars in the parking area next door. A black Ford Escort. And a…‌

“Couldn’t leave you to catch the bus all the way back home. I’d offer you a pound, but I hear those bastard bus bandits are upping the prices yet again.”

Brian’s stomach sank as he stared at the black Honda Jazz. He looked over his shoulder at the approaching voice.

David Wallson flicked a coin into the air. His coat was undone, revealing a loose-collared blue shirt and a waistcoat dangling over his shoulders. “Want a lift?”

Brian turned away from David Wallson and chewed even further into his lip as he approached the passenger door of the car. “Just get me home and don’t mutter a single fucking word to me. I’ve just about had it up to here.” He pointed at the top of his neck.

Wallson hit the unlock button of his car key. “You’re very welcome, Brian. Thanks for your manners.”

David Wallson turned up the radio as he crunched on a half-eaten Ginsters pasty. Christmas songs were starting to play on the radio. Already.

“I swear they play this crap earlier and earlier every year,” Wallson said. Crumbs of pastry fell from his mouth and onto his creased black trousers. He indicated to the right, onto Watling Street Road. Brian would be back home soon. Back with Hannah. He could put this day behind him, providing they didn’t suspend him from PCSO duty for too long. He wasn’t looking forward to having to explain it.

“I hear talk that they’re granting you a couple of weeks ‘paid leave’. Dressing it up so it doesn’t tarnish your reputation. Very kind of them.” Wallson bit into the last part of his pasty, cringing with every bite. “Horrible, these things. Horrible.”

“How do you know about what they’re planning?”

David tapped the side of his button nose. “I know things. That’s what I do.”

Brian shuffled over in his seat as the black Honda got caught in a queue of traffic. Rain started to fall onto the windows. He just wanted to get home. Home, and away from everything. If he was being kicked off duty for two weeks, then so be it. As long as he didn’t have to spend it in Wallson’s company, he’d survive.

“A man shouldn’t have to spend two weeks stuck at home with fuck all to do.”

“I’ve got stuff to do,” Brian snapped. “Projects. The bathroom. The garden. I’ll live.”

Wallson raised his brows and tilted his head from side to side as the traffic crept forward, slowly. “You could do those projects. That would be a good idea. Or you could help me out.”

Brian frowned. If he wasn’t so bewildered, he might’ve burst out laughing at Wallson’s call for help. “I can help you? And how do you…‌Why would I possibly help you?”

As the car turned the corner onto Sharoe Green Lane, Wallson cleared his throat. “You’re a good detective, Brian. I know you think you’ve put all that behind you, but you’re good. I mean, you went up there and figured out the bones were dated differently to the severed heads way before anybody else, right? I mean, you knew after one look at the fucking bones that they were older than the heads. That’s good detective work. Really good.”