Buried Slaughter (Brian McDone Mysteries) Page 4

  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.”

  Brian smiled and shook his head. “And what are you suggesting? You’re going to get me my job back? Is that right?”

  “Don’t be stupid,” Wallson said. He tossed the empty pasty packet over his shoulder. “I’m giving you the opportunity to…‌to be our man on the inside.”

  “‘Our’ man on the inside? Who is ‘our’?”

  Wallson hesitated, then cleared his throat again. “The Lancashire News. But hear me out‌—‌it’s strictly my business, and shouldn’t reflect badly on the company.”

  Brian laughed. “You want me to be your spy? Is that it?”

  “No,” Wallson said. “Well. Of sorts. I want you to investigate the Pendle Hill massacre. Pendle Hill is a fucking disgrace of a location to manage. It’s got Blackburn, Burnley and Preston police all trying to get to the bottom of it, which means a shitload of false information and mixups. Which gives us…‌Which gives me the chance to take advantage. A chance to gather some really great reporting and deliver it directly to the deserving public. I want you to be the vessel of information.”

  Brian could not believe what he was hearing. He shook his head. “You want me to be your private investigator? You want me to risk my own livelihood just so you can sell tabloid crap to the public? Seriously?”

  The car slowed down as it got closer to Brian’s road. “I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t desperate. The Lancashire News, things are changing there. All the new employees coming in are ruining the essence of the place with their tacky headlines. It’s going down the pan. Unless we can report on something big. It will save the Lancashire News. And it will…‌it will save my career. Or kick-start it.”

  Rain powered against the window as the car turned onto Brian’s road, creeping ever slower as David Wallson quite unsubtly haggled for more time.

  “And say I did take this crazy offer of yours. Which I won’t. But just say for a moment I did. What’s in it for me?”

  The car came to a halt. David Wallson smiled. “I was hoping you’d ask that.” He reached over, opened up the dashboard of his car, and a bunch of documents tumbled out over Brian’s knees.

  “What’s all this?”

  David shrugged. “Take a look through it. I’m sure you’ll recognise it. I’ve been holding on to it for a very long time. I thought you might be interested, but only when the time was right.”

  Brian thumbed through the documents. He didn’t recognise them at first, with their abstract letters and numbers, but the more he moved through them, the more familiar they became. A sense of dread welled up as he saw the dates, on papers signed and approved by Robert Luther, Nicola Watson’s murderer.

  “But…‌But these can’t be‌—‌”

  “The originals burned in the fire? Right. I get that. And yet here they are, in my car dashboard. Printed evidence that Robert Luther, not Michael Walters, was responsible for the death of Nicola Watson. Evidence of a police cover-up. And evidence that your former colleague, Cassandra Emerson, did not die in vain. A hell of a lot of juicy information.”

  Brian’s cheeks flared. He tossed the papers aside and grabbed David Wallson by the scruff of his collar. “Why would you have this information? And why would you bring it up? Why?”

  David Wallson shuffled free of Brian’s grip, a trademark slimy grin still on his face, as the pair of them sat outside Brian’s house in Wallson’s car. “It doesn’t matter how I got it, or when, or even why. What matters is that you have a chance to exorcise those demons of yours, once and for all. A chance to stop being blamed for the pointless death of Cassandra Emerson by your ex-colleagues. All I need from you is your co-operation.”

  Brian took a look at the documents resting in the footwell. A black and white photograph, previously unseen, of Robert Luther, his arms embracing Nicola Watson’s shoulders. Absolute proof‌—‌or near enough‌—‌that Robert Luther would finally be brought to justice, even in death.

  “I’ve moved on,” Brian said. He took a deep breath and opened the door of David Wallson’s car. “I’ve got a new life now. I put myself in too much danger last time. I can’t help you. Do not visit here again.” He slammed the door shut and made for the entrance of his house, where Hannah would be waiting for him.

  “McDone,” David shouted.

  Brian gritted his teeth and turned around.

  “Just take this, at the very least.” He tossed a square, white envelope out of his window. It landed on the gravel and speckles of rain fell down on it. “An anniversary card. From me. I won’t bother you again. You know where to find me if you change your mind.”

  “I won’t,” Brian started, but David Wallson had already wound his window up. He accelerated back towards the main road, petrol fumes coughing out of his exhaust pipe.

  Brian reached down for the card. He opened it up as he approached his front door. Definitely a card inside. The correct weight, glossy paper. Maybe the wanker had grown a soul after all.

  The front door creaked open in front of him. Hannah was standing there, arching her neck down the street in the direction of the exhaust fumes. “Did you get a lift back, honey?”

  Brian stared
at the card. It was an anniversary card, Wallson was right about that.

  But it was what was inside the card that twisted the rules somewhat.

  “Brian? Are you okay? What’s that you’ve got there?”

  “Oh, nothing,” Brian said, stuffing the card into his jacket pocket. “Just an…‌an anniversary card from one of the lads.”

  “Well, isn’t that nice of them?” Hannah said, grabbing Brian by his hands and dragging him inside. “Come on. You can give me a lift getting that printer out of the attic. Been meaning to do it all day but I figured you’d do a much better job of, y’know, manual labour.”

  Brian was in something of a daze as he entered his house. Everything seemed like it was on pause. “Sure,” he said. He walked towards the downstairs toilet, being sure to keep his jacket on. “I’ll just…‌Toilet. Yeah.”

  “You sure you’re okay, hun?” Hannah asked. “You look a little bit dazed.”

  Brian cleared his throat. He could tell Hannah about his suspension. About the contents of the card and what David Wallson wanted him to do. He could just be honest.

  “I’m okay. Just a bit of a bad stomach, that’s all. I’ll be out in a moment.”

  Hannah half-smiled. “Well, okay. I’ll get the kettle on. Don’t be too long in there.”

  Brian nodded in acknowledgement.

  Then, he headed inside the downstairs bathroom. Locked the door. The room was tiny and narrow, to the point that he had to crouch if he wanted to take a piss.

  Sitting on the peach-coloured loo, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the envelope as the kettle started to boil in the kitchen.

  He opened the card. Stared at the words.

  Brian,

  You can reach prime witness Darren Anderson at Carnel House, Beech Drive, Fulwood.

  Police not letting on to any info. Which is where you come in.

  You know where to find me. I know you want the truth as much as I do.

  Interview Anderson. Report back to me.

  We can solve this between us and get what we both want.

  Happy Anniversary.

  D.W.

  Brian closed the card and opened up the small white bin with the tip of his toe. He suspended the card over it. Prepared to drop it inside.

  The kettle squealed as it boiled.

  “Kettle’s done,” Hannah called.

  Brian sighed. Moved his foot away. Stuffed the card back into his pocket.

  He knew what he had to do. He knew exactly what he had to do.

  Chapter Five

  Brian barely spoke a word to Hannah when he woke the following morning.

  He got out of bed before her, which was unusual. He popped some porridge in the microwave and ate it at a snail’s pace while staring out of the window at the small box garden. The green grass was slowing down for the year, saved from the onslaught of the lawnmower for another few months. God, Brian hated winter. But he sure didn’t miss using that lawnmower, that’s for certain.

  After he’d finished his porridge and rinsed out the debris-coated bowl, he called in work to inform them that he was taking a day off sick. The person on the other end of the line didn’t let on to any knowledge of Brian’s apparent looming suspension, which boded well. All he needed was a day to chat with Darren Anderson. All he needed to do was hear Darren’s interpretation of events at Pendle Hill when the massacre had occurred. The police had already spoken to him, but they could easily have missed a lead. It was all change in the Preston Police Department, so it was almost forgivable.

  Relocating to the lounge, Brian turned on the television to be greeted by a familiar sight‌—‌a rolling news report on the subject of the Pendle Hill Massacre, as it had been unofficially coined by just about everybody. Dermot Murnaghan was on Sky News interviewing some expert on local history, Cody Ballenthine. The guy was wearing a greeny-beige suit jacket, and had wispy hair and thick, dark-rimmed glasses.

  “…‌And the way the bodies were found seems incredibly similar to an old method of seventeenth-century witchcraft, whereby the heads were removed from the body to prevent any spirits coming back after death…‌”

  “You okay, Bri?”

  Brian swung around, jumping slightly as Hannah appeared at the door, dressed in nothing but her thick blue dressing gown. “Ah, morning, dear.” He pecked Hannah on her cheek and made for the kitchen as the discussion of witchcraft nonsense continued in the background.

  “Time you working today? Up earlier than usual.”

  A gripe nagged in Brian’s chest as he reached for his coat. Hannah looked at him, wide-eyed, so innocent and unknowing. He really should tell her. Just get it over with and tell her about his interest in the case and potential suspension.

  “In bright and early today. Some end-of-month thing I agreed to with Scott. Should be all done by lunch though, so I’ll be able to get back and give you some company a little earlier than usual.”

  Hannah grinned with a sexy, seductive face and shimmied towards Brian, lowering the shoulder of her dressing gown. “You go do your job, officer. I’ll see you around.”

  Brian bit his lip as his sexual cravings defeated his guilt. He gave Hannah another playful kiss before turning to the door. “Oh, and, I’m gonna take the car. If that’s okay?”

  Hannah narrowed her eyes. “What’s wrong with the bus?”

  Brian shrugged, already halfway into the car. “Changed timetable for the day. I’ll see you later.” He closed the door of the red Fiesta before Hannah could get another word in.

  She waved Brian off as he reversed out of the driveway and accelerated to the main road.

  A trickle of guilt worked up inside him as he avoided his usual left turn and headed to the right, towards Beech Drive, towards Darren Anderson, towards some kind of answers.

  He’d get something out of Anderson, deliver it to David Wallson so he had a fruity enough story, and then he’d get that proof that he wasn’t solely responsible for Cassy’s death. Proof that Robert Luther was Nicola Watson’s real killer. Proof that, despite trying his best to fight the urge to obsess over it, still haunted his every move to this day.

  Around five minutes after setting off, Brian arrived at Carnel House on Beech Drive.

  He closed the door of the red Fiesta and headed towards the small, black gate of the house. The road was lined with trees, which were beginning to lose their leaves with the onset of autumn. Birds tweeted somewhere up above as he walked down Darren Anderson’s pathway, nervous excitement swimming around his stomach. He knew he shouldn’t be doing this. He really shouldn’t be doing this.

  But he had to. Besides, it was only a little chat with a fellow member of the public. He wasn’t doing anything against the book.

  Not technically.

  He raised his hand and knocked on the white painted door. The garden was big but overgrown. A greenhouse sat in the far corner of the garden, filled with plants gone wayward. Moss sprouted from its roof. It didn’t look like the place had had a good scrub for quite some time.

  After a few seconds’ wait, a silhouette moved behind the frosted glass. Brian breathed in deeply and tried to stop his hands from shaking. He had to be confident. If he gave off any signs of lacking confidence in any way, then Darren Anderson would not trust him. He might even call the police. Shit. Couldn’t allow that to happen.

  The door opened and Darren Anderson eyed up Brian with a nonchalance; a glassy-eyed detachment. He was quite a short man, with light-brown hair and an unusually large gap between his yellowing teeth. He must have been in his late thirties, but he certainly didn’t seem to be ageing all that well.

  “Mr. Anderson?”

  “No need to go all ‘Matrix’ on me,” Darren said. “What do you want?”

  Brian cleared his throat. Darren’s little joke had made him a bit calmer. “I was hoping I could have a word with you. About…‌About Pendle Hill. About what happened.”

  Darren shook his head and started to close the door. “I thought I m
ade it clear enough? No journalists. I do not want my fuckin’ face all over the news in some sympathy repor‌—‌”

  “I’m not a journalist. I’m a detective.” Brian lifted his old badge from his pocket. He was hoping he wouldn’t have to get that out. He was technically breaking the law by impersonating a police officer.

  But Darren stared at the badge. Held the door in stasis. His eyes moved from Brian’s face to the badge. “I thought I’d told you all I needed to tell?”

  Brian’s heart pounded. He needed to get his story straight. “With the location of Pendle Hill, we’ve got different police departments working on different things. Compartmentalising. Sorry for the inconvenience. But it won’t take long. I just want to ask a few simple questions in the comfort of your home, that’s all. A few questions that could…‌” Brian considered his motives. Aid the media? Closer to the truth than he liked to believe. “Well, they could really help the investigation.”

  Another few seconds passed and Darren Anderson remained completely still. Then, flicking out of his trance, he pulled the white door open and gestured towards the kitchen area. “Sit. I guess if you’re just trying to help then it can’t do much harm.”

  A bit of the heat‌—‌just a fraction‌—‌that engulfed Brian’s body disappeared as he brushed down his coat and stepped into Darren Anderson’s kitchen area. He pulled aside a white-painted wooden dining chair and perched himself onto it. It creaked under his weight. Fuck‌—‌good job he wasn’t as fat as he used to be or it’d have crumbled away by now no doubt.

  “So,” Darren said, holding out a glass of water for Brian. “Do you want to start with the sudden gunshots and head-fucking screams, or seeing my best workmates’ heads in a pile?”

  Brian held his half-empty cup of water in hand. Darren Anderson sat opposite him at the dining table, sporadically crunching from a bowl of stale-looking crisps. Every few moments, he turned and glared at Brian, as if he were weighing him up. There was a silence about the room. A deathly silence.