Fire and water, Taylor thought. What the hell is going on here?
“If you don’t mind, I have an appointment in half an hour. I’ll have the reports sent over when I’ve finished them.”
“Thank you,” Taylor said. “Thank you for making things even more complicated than they already were.”
“Always a pleasure.” Finch offered his hand. “I’m not usually this forward,” he added, “but if you should need any more information, I’d be happy to discuss it over a drink or two.”
He took out a card and handed it to Taylor.
“My mobile number’s on the back,” he said, “should you decide to take that risk. I’m quite harmless.”
“I’ll give it some serious consideration,” she replied.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
“Murder?” Killian sank his head in his hands. “Are you saying Dennis Albarn and the man found in the fishing nets were both murdered? Are you sure?”
“Positive. Dr Finch is very thorough,” Taylor said.
“What else did he give you?”
“The man the fisherman found had been dead for almost a week when he was thrown into the sea, and Albarn had no smoke in his lungs. He was dead before the explosion.”
“What the hell is going on around here? First it’s Milly Lancaster and now these two. We’re going to be working around the clock from now on. Who else knows about this?”
“Just Dr Finch.”
“Let’s keep it that way for the time being. Once the press get hold of it, and they will, all hell is going to break loose. I need time to think things through before the hoards start phoning in, demanding to know what’s going on.”
“Do you think the three murders are connected?”
“I have no idea. What can possibly link them together?”
“Fire and water. And possibly air. Milly Lancaster’s car flew through the air before she hit the rocks below Merryhead.”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“Just thinking out loud,” Taylor said. “Earth, fire, water and air. The four elements, in all kinds of different belief systems.”
“Are you suggesting there’s some maniac out there killing people and disposing of the bodies in ways corresponding to these elements? In Cornwall?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know what to think. And frankly, Cornwall’s probably more likely than Scotland.”
“We may have our share of alternative types but they’re mostly tree-huggers, not murderers. What else do we know about these three?”
“They were roughly the same age. And Milly Lancaster and Dennis Albarn knew each other.”
“Everybody knows everybody else around here. It’s a small community.”
“Do we know anything more about the man found in the fishing nets?” Taylor felt it was her turn to start asking questions.
“No positive ID as yet. It’s still a mystery.”
“What about dental records, like Albarn?”
“Dental records only work when we’ve got something to compare those records to. We had a pretty good idea it was Albarn already. The only thing I can think of is to get a team together and start trawling through missing persons. See if anybody matching the man’s age and appearance has been reported missing in the last few weeks.”
“That’ll take forever. We once spent two weeks on it in my last team, and we still drew a blank.”
“Well, we’ll have to start the process. Do you have any better suggestions?”
“Actually, I do. I saw the face. It’s bloated and discoloured, but you can vaguely make out the features. I reckon a good police artist can give us an idea what the poor man looked like before he died. Then we get that image out as widely as we can.”
”That’s a very good idea — but we can’t say we’re looking for the ID of a man who was murdered, cut in half and dumped in the sea. We’d have panic on our hands.”
“Shark attack, of course. Everybody still thinks it was a shark. We’ll let them keep thinking that for the time being. We’re looking for the ID of the victim of a tragic shark attack.”
“And I know just the artist.” Killian took out his phone. “Kathy Bradfield’s talents are legendary.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Eddie Sedgwick was a man of habit. He put it down to his days in the air force. He enjoyed routine. At seven on the dot, he opened his eyes, looked at Barbara on the single bed next to his and got out of bed. He went to the toilet and went to the kitchen to make some coffee. He scowled when he saw the newspaper wasn’t yet on the mat by the front door.
“Bloody paperboys,” Eddie said, “they keeping getting worse and worse.”
He opened the door to the back garden and breathed in the cool morning air. The click of the kettle told him it had boiled. On the way back, he picked up the red pen attached to the calendar with a piece of string and crossed out the previous day’s date.
“Another one bites the dust.”
Eddie had been crossing off days for as long as he could remember. Barbara had said he was like a man waiting to die, counting the time he had left, but Eddie insisted it was the opposite. He was celebrating the days he had lived.
He made coffee and took it through to the conservatory. A pleasant breeze blew in through the open door. Alice Green’s hollyhocks had always smelled sweeter than his. Eddie still did not know her secret and Alice would never tell him.
Eddie was lost without his morning newspaper. The first coffee of the day with an unread newspaper to take his time over was one of his greatest pleasures. He thought about phoning the newsagent to complain that the paper was being delivered later and later. Soon his wife would wake up and his solitude would be ruined. Barbara always had to talk while he was reading the newspaper.
The familiar sound of the Trotterdown Echo landing on the mat spurred Eddie into action. He made another cup of coffee and took both it and the paper to the conservatory.
The front page was mostly taken up by a massive photo of Dennis Albarn’s house after the explosion. There was not much left of it. The words ‘deadly inferno’ were written in bold black letters above the photo.
Poor man, Eddie thought. He had never had much time for Dennis Albarn when he was alive but Eddie still thought it was a horrible way to die. He read the article and was slightly disappointed by the lack of details. Eddie already knew most of it anyway, thanks to the local gossipmongers who’d been working nonstop since the blaze. He gave up and turned the page.
He spat coffee all over his pyjama jacket at the sight of the picture on page three. “Barbara,” he shouted to his wife, “come and look at this.” He could hear her slowly getting out of bed. “Quick. Look.” She shuffled in and he thrust the paper at her. “Who does that remind you of?”
“That’s Stanley. Stanley Green. What’s he done?”
“He’s dead. He was the one they found in the fishing nets. The one who was attacked by the shark.”
“Oh my.” Barbara sat down. “I wonder if Alice knows about it yet.”
“If she’s read the paper, she knows,” Eddie said. “That’s Stanley Green all right, no doubt about it.”