C.W.
Stafford’s frown went deeper and he began to read the chapter, The Body in the Barn. His eyes widened as he delved deeper into the tale. A short time later he gasped. ‘Christ!’ he said. He went to the door and called Styles in.
‘What’s the matter, boss, didn’t they leave you a receipt so you could change it?’ he said, smiling. His smile faded quickly when he saw Stafford’s serious expression.
He handed the book to Styles. ‘Get me everything you can on this Body in the Barn case. Looks like we’ve got ourselves a copycat killer on our hands.’
‘Copycat?’ said Styles, poring over the book. ‘You serious?’
‘The two cases are just too similar. Check it out. Someone read this and took it on themselves to repeat the same kind of murder eighty years later. The symbol on the wall, the dismembered body, the arrangement of the limbs, even the quick lime — everything matches.’
‘Except that it says here the victim was a man called Jimmy Tate. Ours is a woman. Slight deviation.’
‘Maybe it’s a coincidence,’ said Stafford, thinking aloud. ‘I mean, there are only so many ways to commit murder. But it’s too much of a coincidence for my liking. I want you to do a detailed check on everything you can — this Inspector Rayne guy, anything you can lay your hands on.’ Styles made as if to go. ‘And Styles,’ he added, ‘keep it under your hat for now, OK?’
‘Yes, sir,’ he said, dashing from the office.
Stafford couldn’t help but dwell upon the last line of the chapter. It drew attention to the fact that the case became known as Rayne’s curse, partly because the man never solved it, and partly, he supposed, because of his tragic exit from the service whilst working on it.
Well sod that, he thought; I never did believe in curses.
‘So who am I talking to?’ said Stafford at 6pm precisely. Styles was sat on the edge of Stafford’s desk. He nodded to confirm the call was being recorded. For a moment there was silence at the other end of the phone. Then the sound of someone breathing. ‘Who is this?’ he asked. ‘I got the book you sent.’
Finally a man’s voice replied, ‘No one else knows about this?’
Stafford looked across at Styles. ‘Just you and I. What’s your name?’
‘Carl Wood.’
‘Well, Mr Wood, we both know what this is about. I think you ought to explain, don’t you?’
‘Not over the phone.’
‘The Body in the Barn case — you obviously know there’s a similarity between that and the murder of the woman we’re investigating. What I’d like to know is how you came to know it. Given that very little detail has been released you seem to be quite knowledgeable. Did you kill the woman?’
‘What? No! Of course not!’ came the reply.
‘My guess is that only the killer and the police know about those kinds of things. If you’re not the murderer then how is it you know so much?’
‘There is much that I have knowledge of; things that are dangerous to know. Inspector Stafford, my life is in danger. He is getting closer and I am certain he will send someone to kill me.’
‘Who is getting closer?’
‘Doradus,’ he said.
‘Doradus?’ Stafford repeated. He saw Styles raise a questioning eyebrow. ‘Who is Doradus?’
‘Not over the phone. We have to meet. I am giving a lecture tomorrow afternoon at the Apollo Conference Centre in Birmingham. Meet me there, alone, at 4pm.’
‘A lecture?’
‘That’s all I can say for now. Goodbye, Inspector, I will speak with you tomorrow. Remember: come alone.’
The line went dead. ‘Right,’ said Stafford to Styles, ‘get online and check out the Apollo Conference Centre in Birmingham. There’s a Carl Wood giving a lecture there. Find out everything you can about who he is.’
Styles nodded. ‘Do you reckon he’s our man?’
‘He sounded afraid of someone,’ said Stafford. ‘That someone might be our man. Who knows? I’m meeting him at the Apollo tomorrow. He wants to meet alone.’
‘Is that wise, sir? I could tag along, keep a low profile.’
He nodded. ‘Probably makes sense.’
He was just thinking how he was still faintly distrustful of computers, even after all this time, when a knock at his office door disturbed his efforts to catch up on paperwork. Not that he couldn’t use them; they were everywhere these days and you couldn’t escape them. You just couldn’t manage without them. No, not that. It was just that he felt all this technology was still something of an interloper in his world. He remembered having to work things out in the head or on paper, not crunch the numbers into a keypad. He remembered having to type things up manually or get one of the typing-pool women to do it. He remembered having to nip into a phone box whenever he needed to make a call, or he’d have to send a letter. Three channels on the box. Needles to play albums. A visit to a cinema to see a film in colour. Too many other things that had once made up his life and had been wiped away. Improved, they said. Improved, my arse, he thought.
Naturally he’d accepted change, to a degree, but why did he partly feel like he was being swept helplessly along by the rush of it, to a destination not of his choosing? Why, on some days like today, did he simply wish to swim to the bank, clamber out of the flow and let it all gush on by?
‘What is it, Henderson?’ he said, realising he sounded brusque and tempered it with a softening of his features. Henderson was a good guy.
Henderson closed the door after him. He looked decidedly uneasy. ‘Well, sir, I’m not sure how to say this…’
‘Say it as it is. I ain’t got the time.’
‘He coughed lightly into his hand, took up a seat opposite Stafford’s desk. ‘It’s about Styles, sir.’
Stafford whipped off an email and put his hands on the desk, slowly knitting his fingers together. ‘What about Styles?’
‘Thing is, and it’s not just me — a couple of the men have noticed it — well, have you? I mean, don’t you think there’s something odd about him?’
He screwed his eyes up fractionally. ‘Odd?’
He sighed. ‘Yeah, odd. Little things. Office procedures he doesn’t get right when he should, his lack of basic knowledge about things, which for a man who’s supposed to be in line for a DCI is a bit mystifying. Yet he produces the goods, faster at times than anyone else, like he knows where to look.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘That’s just it, sir; I don’t know what I’m saying exactly. But something doesn’t feel right with the man. If it was just me I’d put it down to imagination. But it isn’t just me.’ He paused, Stafford’s hard stare causing him to squirm.
‘You’re speaking about a fellow officer here. You’d better be careful what it is you’re implying.’
‘I’m not implying anything, sir. Just making an observation.’
‘And your conclusions to this observation?’
Henderson shrugged loosely. ‘I guess I don’t have any.’
‘I’m surprised at you, Henderson. It’s not like you. If you’ve got something to say about an officer in my team then make sure you get something substantial stacked up beforehand. I’ll pretend this conversation didn’t happen. Don’t piss on my day with idle gossip and I’ll hang the next man who walks in here spouting crap.’
The man got up from his chair, nodding contritely, tight-lipped, a sheepish glance from under his brows. Stafford watched him silently as he went out of the office. What really disturbed him weren’t Henderson’s loose observations.
He’d already noticed it about Styles himself.
27
D.I. Styles flipped open his notebook. Steadied himself as Stafford braked heavily. ‘No wonder they say you wear out your brake pads faster than anyone else,’ he observed. Stafford hit the gas pedal and the car lurched into motion again. ‘Your feet are too big,’ he said, ‘that’s the trouble. Too big and clumsy for the pedals.’