Читать книгу The Murder House - Michael Wood - Страница 11

Matilda and Christian drove to the crime scene in silence. Christian was driving while Matilda sat staring out of the window with a heavy frown on her face. She had been so sure the neighbours would have spotted a bloodstained man fleeing the scene. Now, her theory had been thrown out of the window.

A larger crowd had grown at the entrance to the cul-de-sac. Police tape was keeping them at bay, but uniformed officers were still battling with the neighbours who chanced their arm and stood in the middle of the road. Christian beeped, making a few onlookers jump.

‘Ghouls,’ he said quietly.

‘At least there are no reporters here, yet.’

‘I doubt they’ll be much longer. One of these lot will have called them, hoping to snag a few quid.’

They drove up to the drive and Christian parked haphazardly on the pavement. Sian was waiting for them.

‘Have you heard from Scott?’

‘Not yet.’

‘I just wondered how the young girl was,’ she said as she led the way down the gravel drive to the large house.

‘How are forensics getting on?’

‘There are plenty of fingerprints but as there was a wedding reception here yesterday it’s hardly a surprise.’

‘True. Give Scott a call, see if the woman who found them is ready to talk to us. She might know who the guests were. Then we can start eliminating people.’

‘Will do.’

Matilda paused at the bottom of the stairs. Jeremy Mercer was still slumped in the corner. It seemed disrespectful for him to have been left alone here with nobody sitting with him, but depending on what you believed, the person previously known as Jeremy Mercer was no longer here. He was dead. What remained was a shell, an empty body.

‘By the way,’ Sian continued, ‘we’ve found about a dozen digital cameras in the marquee. It seems there was one on every table and guests were invited to take snaps.’

‘I wonder if our killer will be on any of those photos. Maybe it was a fellow guest. Sian, get them sent back to the station. I want every photo downloaded and every person identified.’

‘That’s going to be a full-time job in itself,’ Christian said. ‘We don’t have anyone available for that.’

‘Then draft someone in from uniform,’ Matilda raised her voice. There always seemed to be some obstacle to every little task. ‘Sian, what did you want to show us?’

Sian led them into the kitchen where several evidence bags had been placed on the central island. They were sealed but through the little window, Matilda could see bloodstained clothing.

‘Where were they found?’

‘In the main bathroom. There’s a hooded sweater, jeans and a T-shirt.’

‘How do we know they belong to the killer?’ Christian asked.

‘We don’t, but, there are no stab holes,’ Sian said.

‘So, what are we saying, the killer comes in, murders three people and has brought a change of clothes with him?’ Matilda asked.

‘It looks that way.’

‘Are there any clothes missing from any of the bedrooms?’

‘I don’t know. We still can’t get in to have a look yet. I doubt robbery was a motive though. Have you seen some of the expensive stuff they’ve got down here?’

Matilda picked up the bag with the hooded sweater inside. It felt heavy. ‘Get this back to the lab. I want every centimetre of these clothes analysed. If they belong to the killer there’ll be something on here, a stray hair or sweat or something. Maybe even his own blood. The attacks were that frenzied I’ll be surprised if he didn’t cut himself.’

‘If he came here with the intent to kill, why not just stab them once each? Why be so violent if he’s going to have to change his clothes? He’s left us vital evidence, here,’ Sian said.

‘Unless …’ Matilda began, thinking aloud.

‘What?’ Christian asked.

‘Either, he’s really dumb and he’s basically handing himself to us on a plate, or, he’s incredibly smart and those clothes will give us absolutely nothing.’

‘And if they give us nothing?’

She thought for a while. ‘Then they’re a plant, and the killer will strike again.’

On the M1 motorway between junctions 28 and 29 was the Chesterfield Motorway Service Station. The bay for lorries was mostly empty. One was just pulling away, and the driver of another was exiting the coffee shop, carefully carrying his provisions that would tide him over until he was able to stop again.

At the side of the bay was a patch of grass with a few wooden tables so people could have somewhere to sit if they wanted to eat outside before continuing with their journey. As it was a freezing cold day in January and there was a fine drizzle in the air, most of the tables were empty. However, sitting at one of them, furthest away from the glow of the services, was a man, hunched over his rapidly cooling coffee. He was wearing a hooded sweater that was too large for him. The hood was pulled up and covering his face. When he heard the sound of a wagon pulling up behind him, he risked a glance.

A heavy-set man jumped down from behind the wheel and bent down to tie his shoelace. He was on his mobile.

‘I should be with you in about three hours, depending on traffic. I’ve been told there’s roadworks just outside Milton Keynes but I should be in Luton before five. Is that any good to you?’ He stood up and headed for the Costa kiosk.

The man waited until the driver was heading back to his truck before he approached him.

‘Excuse me, mate. You couldn’t give us a lift to Luton, could you?’

The driver eyed him with a frown. Usually when someone wanted a lift they had a rucksack or bag with them. ‘Who are you running from?’

‘No one. I got mugged yesterday. They took my bag. It had my train tickets in and everything. I had to take this out of one of those charity bins or I would have frozen to death last night,’ he said, pulling at his oversized hoodie.

‘Okay. Jump in.’

The man breathed a sigh of relief. He was surprised by how quickly he was able to lie, and how convincing he sounded, but he’d always been told he could talk his way into and out of any situation. He ran around to the passenger side of the truck and pulled open the door. He was smiling as climbed in. In three hours he’d be in Luton. From there he’d try and get to Dover and see if he could get someone to drive him through the Channel Tunnel. This time tomorrow he’ll be lost in Europe.