Soul Seeker (30 page)

‘Do you make any use of it at all, then?'

‘Wallace – the owner – wants to redevelop it but I'm not sure the figures are right for that. At the moment it's just used as a general storage compound; bulk supplies such as fence posts, barbed wire, stock-proof fencing, that kind of thing. Of course we keep it locked, because we don't want the stuff stolen.'

‘You check that it's secure regularly?'

‘It was checked only a day or two ago.'

Beverley was examining the map. ‘It's not too far from the place where the bicycles were found,' she said thoughtfully. ‘We ought to confirm that it's as secure as you say, I would suggest.'

Smillie's expression might have been because he was experiencing intense indigestion or a particularly severe bout of tenesmus, but it was odds on it was because he did not need to have a fellow officer of equal rank making suggestions about how the investigation should be conducted. If Beverley realized this, she hid the knowledge well and looked at her colleague in blatant innocence. Smillie, unwilling to argue in front of juniors or a member of the public, said briefly, ‘Of course.'

Somersby's reaction was interesting. ‘There really is no need. That area is completely secure; I guarantee that. The Grange is in an extremely dangerous state of disrepair; it's not only a question of security, but of health and safety, and we take that very seriously.'

Smillie, though, was not to be swayed; indeed, the more Somersby talked, the more convinced he became that he wanted to take a look in the area. ‘You don't have children, do you, Mr Somersby? You'll find that they are a most resourceful and irritating species, Mr Somersby. I really think we have to make absolutely sure that they're not there.'

Eisenmenger watched dusk fall through eyes that were shaded with alcohol. He found that he did not care anymore, that he had run out of emotional fuel. The impact of what Charlie had said to him was only now unfolding in his head, spreading sinuous tentacles through his mind, insidiously destroying the props that held his confidence and self-respect. It was a sadly, strangely familiar experience, one he recalled with all-too-great clarity from the weeks that had followed the suicide of Maria, a girlfriend who had immolated herself before his eyes in an explosion of petrol-driven flame. He had then tormented himself with the knowledge, the certainty, that he had been responsible, and that he was solely so. Charlie might not have committed suicide but Eisenmenger was experiencing the same emotional shock, the realization that his interests, his profession, his personality were all anathema to the business of love, that he was some sort of freak, ultimately abhorrent in the eyes of those who might otherwise love him. Even Helena had been falling – had actually fallen, he supposed – out of love with him at the time of her death.

He was a Jonah, a pariah, untouchable.

‘Dr Death' Clive used to call him, and Clive was no fool.

FIFTY-FOUR

‘
I
told you.'

Somersby's voice carried triumphalism but this overlaid something that Beverley suspected was relief. They were standing in front of the wooden gates in the stone wall that surrounded the Grange. They were, as Somersby had promised, securely locked and the broken glass on top of the wall was clearly a considerable deterrent to any would-be trespassers. Smillie said, ‘We'll just check the perimeter, Mr Somersby. Just to make sure.'

Somersby's face didn't change, but there was a noticeable increase in the tension within him, one that neither Smillie nor Beverley failed to notice. Smillie gave orders for two teams of two officers to walk in opposite directions around the wall, then said to Somersby, ‘If you could open the gates, Mr Somersby . . .'

Somersby found a key amongst a large collection and did so whilst shaking his head and muttering. He inserted it into a large black padlock that hung from a chain, pulled the chain loose of the doors and pushed them open. Smillie walked into the woods beyond with Beverley following, then Somersby and two plain clothes constables. It was cool and quiet in there; almost unnaturally so. They walked along the rough gravelled driveway, looking from side to side, occasionally startled by something scurrying through the undergrowth, although very rarely did they identify what it was. The afternoon sun was yellowing and warm, ageing and becoming more slothful and decadent; there were a lot of flies and midges buzzing around them, with the odd small wasp and bee, all seemingly sleepy and bad-tempered. The air was oppressively heavy with natural and not always entirely pleasant perfumes.

After a walk of some ten minutes' silence – nervous silence in the case of the estate manager – they reached the chain-link fence and could see the decrepit roofs of the Grange above the tree line. ‘See?' exclaimed Somersby hurrying to the gates, showing them that they were padlocked. At that moment, Smillie's mobile phone rang. He answered it with a curt ‘Yes?' then listened. Just before he switched it off, he said, ‘Get more men and some dogs over here.' Then he looked at Somersby with eyebrows raised ever so slightly. ‘My men have just found some sort of tunnel under the wall. Possibly it's a badger run, they think.'

‘Well, then . . .'

‘But it's quite big enough for a young boy to get through.'

Somersby looked stricken and Beverley found herself become more and intrigued; doubly so because then a breeze blew through the trees and it brought with it a new perfume, one that for a moment she could not place. It seemed out of place in a wood, she thought, striving to identify it. Then she did so. Acetic acid, she thought, and she knew the significance of that. She said, ‘I think we need to take a look at what's on the other side of that fence.'

Smillie hadn't caught the scent of vinegar yet and didn't therefore know what she was thinking, but he looked at Somersby who, seeming almost to be battling invisible forces that were crushing and immobilizing him, turned slowly to the padlock with the correct key selected. There was a dull metallic clank as the chain fell away against the wire and he pushed the gates open. They went through and looked around; the trees and undergrowth were thicker here, the scents even stronger, but not strong enough to hide the acidic scent of vinegar; Smillie noticed it, then glanced at Beverley who nodded imperceptibly in response. They both knew what it meant. Smillie beckoned to one of the constables and whispered to him, gesturing at Somersby's back; the man nodded.

The party moved forward in silence. After a couple of minutes, one of the constables said, ‘Sir?' He was pointing to their right where there was a large low outbuilding.

Smillie asked, ‘What's that, Mr Somersby?'

‘Nothing. Just a storage shed.'

‘I think we'd better take a look.'

‘It's secured. There's no way—'

‘That's what you said about the outer wall,' pointed out Smillie. ‘We'll take a look nonetheless.'

They veered off, following a rough path of sorts. It was clear that it had been recently used, and used heavily. ‘Do you have much occasion to come in here?' Smillie asked of Somersby, who shook his head but did so jerkily and with his eyes on the ground.

They were about a hundred metres away when Somersby suddenly made a bolt for it, sprinting away to his right. He wasn't fast enough, though, and immediately there was a policeman on his tail; within ten seconds he had brought Somersby to the ground in a clumsy rugby tackle. The estate manager was being brought back to his feet when the rest of the party came up. ‘Going somewhere, Mr Somersby?' Somersby, still panting, said nothing. Smillie didn't seem to mind. ‘Shall we resume? Let's see what you've been doing in that storage shed, shall we? I'll wager it's something your boss doesn't know about. Something, even, illegal.'

The vinegar could only be described as a stench as they stood outside the door to the shed; it was a large wooden building, perhaps ten by ten metres, and freshly done up. Smillie asked Somersby, ‘Open up, please, Mr Somersby.'

‘I don't have a key.'

Smillie held out his hand. ‘Give me that impressive bunch of keys you've got in your pocket. We'll just check.'

Somersby had no alternative but to hand them over. It took Smillie four minutes to work his way through over twenty keys before the lock clicked open. He glanced across at Somersby, astonishment on his face, but he said nothing. The stench of vinegar became so strong that Beverley found her eyes watering as they trooped inside, then stood in a small knot, looking around at the large vat in the corner, at the bags of chemicals on the wall opposite, at the heavy duty electric hob and at the collapsed packing cases piled high to their left.

‘What the hell is all this?' asked Somersby, his voice betraying a slight trembling, and attempting but failing to Beverley's ears, to assume a basinful of incredulity.

Smillie continued to look around as he replied. ‘This, Mr Somersby, is a heroin factory. And I'm willing to bet all Chief Inspector Wharton's annual salary that your fingerprints are all over it.'

‘Rubbish! I know nothing about this. I let Shaun Carter have the use of this shed; he said he wanted to store some booze he'd brought back from the continent. He said he had a nice little earner . . .'

Smillie was no longer listening, a man who had heard all the lies before and felt that life was too short to indulge in futile debate with scallywags like Somersby. To the one of two constables he said, ‘Take a scout around outside. Check to see if the boys could have got in here.'

‘This has nothing to do with me, inspector,' said Somersby again and with the same degree of success he had had before.

Smillie's only response was to say, ‘Why don't you take a seat, Mr Somersby?' Somersby wasn't given the chance to make his own decision, for his escort pulled him down into a chair and, at Smillie's order, handcuffed him.

Beverley looked around the shed at the equipment and chemicals, whilst trying to work out where this fitted into her case. It didn't seem to, though; but then neither did it fit into the disappearance of the boys. Perhaps this was just a distraction, forwarding neither case. Smillie was on his phone, giving orders presumably to Frobisher, when the policeman who had been looking around outside rushed back in. He looked both sick and excited. ‘Sir, I've found something.'

Smillie was quick, Beverley had to admit. He barked to Somersby's escort to stay put, then ran outside, followed by Beverley. Around the back of the shed, about five metres away, there was a tangle of fern, bindweed and bramble. It had been trodden down and the policeman ran to it, then stopped. As Beverley came up she saw that Smillie was staring at the middle of this.

At what appeared to be a freshly dug shallow grave.

FIFTY-FIVE

T
he phone rang irritatingly, almost painfully, inside Eisenmenger's head. His mouth felt swollen and rough, his tongue tasting only acrid mucus. He reached for the receiver, found that he had fallen asleep on his arm and it was no longer his, refusing to do as he told it; it felt heavy, lethargic and clumsy, a reluctant recruit to the cause of helping him answer the phone.

‘Eisenmenger here.' As he spoke he was looking at his wristwatch, surprised to see that it was only a quarter to six in the evening. His clothes were rumpled and he knew that he looked as dishevelled and disreputable as he felt.

‘John, it's Beverley.'

And he knew at once what that meant. He said tiredly, ‘Another body?'

‘Two. The missing boys, we think.'

‘Oh, shit,' he breathed. ‘Where?'

‘On the estate at Colberrow.' He closed his eyes; the thought of having to watch another posting, this time involving young boys, made him feel nauseous, ready to vomit, but Beverley's next words surprised him. ‘It doesn't look as though it's the Internet killer, though.'

Which piqued his interest, despite his hangover. ‘Then who?'

‘They stumbled across a heroin factory in the woods and got killed for their trouble. We need you here to do the autopsy.'

He felt awful, was probably still drunk, and he was on the point of suggesting they find another pathologist when he stopped. Something wasn't right, he suddenly realized; it was too much of a coincidence.

‘Send a car to pick me up, Beverley. I'm not sure I'm up to driving at the moment.'

For the first time since the death of her mother, Lancefield found a small spark of the kind of enthusiasm for the job, enthusiasm even for life, that she had known such a short time before. It was minute, almost beneath her ability to perceive, but it was there. She clung to it as she pondered what to do next.

Beverley had instructed her to find a link that concerned alcohol between the victims that had thus far been identified. Lancefield had got the impression that she was being given the task because it was safe and probably a waste of time; after all (and as Lancefield had asked) what kind of link could that possibly be? Beverley had shrugged and told her to start with the pub in which Malcolm Willoughby had lately been employed – were the others customers of the pub? If that didn't pan out, her only suggestion was to talk again to the next of kin and steer the conversation around to alcohol, places where they drank, parties they had been to, that kind of thing.

And Lancefield had thought – but definitely not said –
Thanks very much.

But after half a fruitless hour spent in the delightful company of Stan, Malcolm Willoughby's last employer, followed by a whole fruitless hour with Malcolm's mother who, understandably, was completely devastated but who, perhaps not so understandably, was off her head on cannabis, something in the back of her near moribund brain flared just briefly – a glimmer, nothing more in a fleshy nook – and she stopped abruptly. She was just walking away from the ground-floor flat that Mrs Willoughby occupied in the Benhall area of Cheltenham, picking her way amongst dog faeces in varying states of decomposition, crushed lager cans and signs of pavement pizzas long past, happy to be out of the atmosphere of sad inadequacy and damp that seemed to pervade the grieving mother's house, when she stopped walking, stared for a long time into the clouding sky, then turned around and knocked for a second time on the slightly warped, sun-bleached red front door.