Flesh and Blood

Book 5: DCI Mark Lapslie

by Nigel McCrery

Genres: Hard-Boiled; Police Procedurals; Crime Fiction; Psychological Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

The truth was buried along with their bodies . . . until now. FROM THE CREATOR OF BBC DRAMA SILENT WITNESS, COMES A GRIPPING AND SINISTER THRILLER THAT WILL HAVE YOU ON THE EDGE OF YOUR SEAT. During the murder investigation of a teenage boy, DCI Mark Lapslie's methods come under fire and, as a result, his prime suspect walks free. Meanwhile another body is discovered and Lapslie and his team quickly find themselves on the trail of a voracious serial killer. One year earlier, dedicated young journalist, Josie Dallyn stumbles over a chain of very similar cases. Whilst she is digging deeper and deeper into the truth behind the mysterious deaths, she is getting herself into more danger than she could have ever anticipated and her life is being threatened by some very dark forces. Perfect for fans of Angela Marsons and MJ Arlidge. *********** SEE WHAT EVERYONE IS SAYING ABOUT NIGEL MCCRERY AND THE DCI MARK LAPSLIE SERIES: ' DCI Mark Lapslie is Nigel's finest creation. . . Immaculately constructed and beautifully observed ' Daily Mail 'What a brilliant book. I thoroughly enjoyed every part of this book, an interesting start and an ending to end all endings ' Amazon Reviewer 'Had me gripped from start to finish ' Amazon Reviewer 'Not for the feint hearted' Amazon Reviewer 'There is no way I'd ever have guessed who the killer was ' Amazon Reviewer 'Highly original . . . one of the best crime fiction books of the year ' Amazon Reviewer ' Gripping ' Daily Mirror ' Perfect holiday book for all crime lovers out there!' Amazon Reviewer 'One you won't want to put down. My first Nigel McCrery book, but won't be my last. Highly recommended, but not for the feint hearted' Amazon Reviewer 'First time reader of this author and this book was outstanding' Amazon Reviewer 'A wonderful story. Beautifully crafted ' Amazon Reviewer ' One of the most memorable monsters in modern crime fiction' Daily Express

Release date: December 14, 2017

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 400

Sample

Chelmsford Crown Court, EssexJune 2014

Barrister Toby Sinclair moved back and forth in front of the witness box, eyes shifting with his thoughts, for a moment drifting to the public gallery before resting back resolutely on Chief Inspector Lapslie for his next question.

‘So you are telling this court, Chief Inspector Lapslie, that it was five full days before you started searching for young Ben Tovey?’

‘Yes, that’s correct.’

‘A lot of time for vital leads to go cold. For the real perpetrator to cover his tracks.’ Sinclair paused after emphasizing ‘real’ hopefully to let it hit home with the jury. ‘Or indeed try to shift or plant blame on others.’

‘Yes, I suppose. But that was the first moment we were informed of his disappearance.’

Sinclair continued as if he hadn’t heard the answer, or at least chose to ignore it. ‘What is it the police say about a disappearance or suspected murder?’

‘In what way?’

Sinclair smiled thinly. He was sure Lapslie knew full well the context he was implying, since his lead-up had mentioned ‘five days’, but was just playing cute. ‘About the first forty-eight hours of any enquiry, Chief Inspector.’

‘Oh, I see. Yes. We maintain that the first forty-eight hours of any investigation are crucial. After that, it becomes more difficult to track down clues.’ Lapslie returned Sinclair’s smile tightly. ‘But as I say, it wasn’t until after five days that we were informed of Ben Tovey’s disappearance.’

Sinclair decided to home in on the comment now. ‘And why was that?’

Lapslie saw the trap, too late; no way of sidestepping it now without appearing obstructive. ‘B-because he’d gone missing before.’

‘Oh, I see. And how many times was that?’

‘Uh, four or five times before . . . his parents weren’t sure.’

‘A young boy gone missing, and his parents aren’t even sure how many times it has happened.’ Sinclair’s eyes narrowed. ‘Not exactly the ideal parenting situation, is it?’

Lapslie didn’t respond to the mostly rhetorical question, resisted even a perfunctory nod. He doubted most jurors saw travellers as ideal parental role models in any case, so few points would have been scored.

Sinclair continued. ‘And on any of those previous occasions when Ben had gone missing – however many that might have been – were the police contacted?’

‘No, they weren’t.’

‘Or social services?’

‘No . . . not as far as I’m aware.’ Lapslie took a fresh breath. ‘A lot of these people live outside of the system – the “grid”, as they term it – so social services find it hard to keep track of them and intervene, so—’

‘I’m quite aware of the politics of just why travellers live outside of the system and what problems social services might have with that,’ Sinclair cut in. ‘What puzzles me, though, is why on those previous occasions of young Ben’s disappearance – a number, indeed, when he was much younger – his parents chose not to contact the police, but on this occasion they did?’

‘Because on those past occasions he’d returned quite quickly, within a day or two.’

‘I see. A day or two? Is that what you maintain?’ Sinclair looked at Lapslie sharply before turning to his files on the bench.

Lapslie’s stomach sank because he knew what was coming. ‘Except on one occasion,’ he added swiftly.

Sinclair appeared to ignore the comment as he leaned over his files. He’d started moving back and forth more agitatedly as his questions gained momentum, and his hands too would move more excitedly against his gown, with a slight flapping motion. He often took on the appearance of a menacing bird circling its prey, and his hook nose and sharp blue eyes had gained him the moniker ‘the Falcon’ in legal and police circles. Some judges would ask him to calm his movements if they became too distracting, but most let it ride; as today, with judge John Cleveley presiding. Sinclair prodded with one finger as he found the reference in his files.

‘Yes, indeed. And on that one occasion Ben was, in fact, missing for four full days – and still no contact was made with the police.’

‘There was a reason for that.’ Lapslie sighed. ‘Which also partly led to the delay this time around.’

‘Yes?’ Sinclair raised one brow, a faint smile evident, as if he knew already he was going to enjoy this explanation.

‘Previously, when Ben was away for four days, they’d heard he might have gone off to see his uncle, but it took them a while to check. This time, at first, they thought the same thing might have happened – that he’d gone off fishing with his uncle in Norfolk.’

‘Fishing or poaching?’

‘Best you ask the uncle directly. As you can appreciate, with a murder investigation, we had bigger fish to fry.’ Lapslie smiled patiently; some points had been scored back against Sinclair.

But Sinclair seemed unfazed. ‘And why the delay each time in making contact with the uncle?’

‘First time around he didn’t have a mobile and they could only leave messages in a local pub. Second time he did have a mobile, but hadn’t renewed his credit or recharged it for almost a week.’

Sinclair nodded thoughtfully. ‘So the initial stages of the investigation were fraught with problems and irregularities.’

‘I suppose you could say that,’ Lapslie conceded after a second.

‘But those were by no means the only problems and irregularities with the investigation, were they?’

‘No, they weren’t.’

*

They’d arrived at dusk at Everdale Farm – a play on words on ‘Emmerdale’ and the time one of its founders had proclaimed to the press they intended to stay; though now, thirty years on from that date, it wasn’t looking like an empty prophecy.

The encampment on the edge of woods and farmland, six miles from Epping Forest, had expanded threefold since then. A motley collection of trailers and more permanent wooden sheds and yurts closer to the woodland edge, it looked like a cross between a trailer park and a Mongolian refugee camp.

Woodsmoke, combined with the more acrid fumes of rubbish burning that obviously included a number of plastic water and milk containers, hung heavy in the air. Lapslie inhaled the stench of it as he stepped from the car. Whatever smells his synaesthesia might engender would no doubt be overlaid by that.

‘Seems familiar,’ he commented to Detective Emma Bradbury.

‘Yes, sir. We came here about three years ago.’

In her late thirties, Emma Bradbury had been Lapslie’s assistant and colleague for six years now, but their working relationship went beyond what would normally be forged by such a timespan. Part of that was due to Lapslie’s synesthesia, so she’d find herself allowing for that in practical terms – ensuring noise-levels were low in venues – as well as making allowances for his mood swings when he was affected. She also had one foot herself outside of normal police conventions by having an ex-villain as a partner, something which Lapslie had railed against in the past. Many of the extra shades in their relationship had therefore been gained through it being part caring, part combative.

Lapslie looked at her more directly. ‘And what occasioned that?’

‘That was an enquiry where the circumstances were the other way around: a young boy of nine had gone missing not far away, and some locals suspected the travellers here might have been responsible.’

‘Ah, yes. I remember now.’ Lapslie had in fact recalled from the outset, but Bradbury might have remembered it from a slightly different perspective, provided an extra slant. Travellers regularly got the blame for any local mishaps, so it had been in part a routine enquiry. ‘And, as I recall, we did for a while focus on one possible suspect for the boy’s disappearance.’

‘Yes. Davey Kimball.’

Lapslie nodded as he watched a burly sergeant accompanied by two constables get out of the car that had pulled up behind them. They’d gone with backup, because a police visit to a traveller camp could turn hostile. But it was quiet today, with no sign of agitation; no doubt word had spread that they were there to help find out what had happened to young Ben Tovey, now missing for five days.

‘So Kimball will be one of the first on our list to question.’ Lapslie took a fresh breath. ‘After we’ve spoken to Marianne and Donovan Tovey.’

Mrs Tovey had been named after Marianne Faithful and Mr Tovey after sixties star Donovan – so it was a marriage made in heaven or hell, depending on how you viewed that era. In the course of the Toveys sharing that trivia, they’d explained that there was nowhere else they could think Ben might be now that they’d discovered he wasn’t fishing with his uncle.

‘No other relatives he might be with?’ Lapslie pressed.

‘No.’ Marianne Tovey shook her head. ‘The only family member we still have contact with is my mum in Battersea. And I spoke to her two days ago.’

‘And apart from the time before, when Ben had gone off with his uncle,’ Bradbury asked, ‘did he have a habit of drifting off much?’

While Bradbury noted down the details of the four or five times Ben had gone missing for a day or two, Donovan Tovey held one hand out helplessly, half a dozen brightly coloured wristbands jiggling with the motion.

‘He’s an inquisitive boy, that’s all. Not really into mischief or anything. And he only went off at holiday time – he was good with attending school.’

‘That hasn’t always been the case with all of them,’ Marianne offered. ‘But with five of them now, it hasn’t been easy.’

Lapslie nodded in understanding. Married now for fifteen years, the Toveys had had their children at almost set eighteen-month intervals; Ben was their second eldest, and their youngest was due to attend primary school next year. Unlike many travellers, the Toveys had elected to get their children into state school – although, with five of them, perhaps educating at home hadn’t been a practical option.

In many ways, Lapslie felt for them. London property prices had been out of young people’s reach for decades, and now that blight had spread to parts of Essex. It seemed as if they’d been forced out of the system as much as opting out, perhaps partly due also to Donovan Tovey’s career choice of casual farm and construction work combined with music. Now they’d paid the ultimate price for that freewheeling lifestyle – they’d lost a son.

‘So will you be able to find Ben?’ Donovan Tovey ran one hand over his long wavy hair, and Lapslie noted that his Aztec Indian headband matched a couple of his wristbands. ‘I’m sure he’s okay out there somewhere.’

Lapslie noted the present tense and the tone – Donovan Tovey was obviously full of hope that his son was still alive – though from bitter past experience, he knew that after five days the chances were slim.

‘I’m sure we will,’ Lapslie said, experiencing a bitter almond aftertaste at his own lie. ‘To which end, we’d like first of all to question some others here at Everdale. Some of them might well hold clues to where Ben is now.’

Bradbury flipped back a couple of pages in her notepad. ‘Amongst them, Davey Kimball – if you can point us to his current trailer?’

Donovan and Marianne exchanged a look.

‘Davey was off-site for almost a year,’ Donovan said. ‘Then he turned up again just a couple of months back. But I haven’t seen him around much these past days.’

‘How many days?’ Lapslie pressed.

‘Four or five.’

*

After almost three hours of questioning around the Everdale site, Lapslie and Bradbury finally got a lead and, two days later, tracked down Davey Kimball to a travelling fairground which had downed pegs that week at Banbury, Oxfordshire.

Kimball looked less than impressed as they explained the reason for their visit. He wiped oil from his hands with a rag after seeing to a linkage joint on a Magic Carpet ride.

‘So is this to be the nature of things every time a boy goes missing anywhere near Everdale?’

‘No,’ Lapslie said on the back of a sigh. ‘And why should that be a concern of yours? After all, you were found innocent in that enquiry. No connection to the missing boy – and no harm had come to him, in any case.’

Kimball arched one brow. ‘Exactly. So more the wonder of why your visit now?’

Lapslie grimaced patiently. ‘Yes, but while you were cleared of any wrongdoing with that particular boy, you weren’t exactly innocent on all fronts with young boys, were you?’

In their last questioning of Davey Kimball, they had discovered his almost Dickensian-style habit of procuring boys between twelve and fourteen to assist him on fairgrounds and building jobs.

‘And young Ben Tovey is now thirteen.’

‘So you think I might have got him here as my helper?’ He finished wiping the oil from his palms, but made no move towards a handshake.

‘It struck us as a distinct possibility, given your past form.’ Lapslie smiled tightly.

Bradbury added, ‘And at least if that was the case, it would mean that, thankfully, Ben would be found unharmed.’

Kimball looked from one to the other, as if unsure for a moment how to process the accusation combined so quickly with a back-handed compliment.

Kimball’s gaze fixed on Lapslie. ‘A couple of things you appear to have forgotten, Chief Inspector, from that past form. First, I never got those helpers without first asking the parents’ permission – so if Ben was here with me now, Marianne and Donovan would know about it. Secondly, I only asked boys who were able-bodied and reasonably strong. And at last sight, Ben Tovey was small for his age and slight.’

Lapslie nodded. ‘So you maintain that Ben Tovey isn’t here with you now and you have no knowledge of his whereabouts?’

‘No, I don’t.’ Kimball looked to one side for a second, as if struck by another thought. ‘Though it seems not everyone uses the same rule of thumb when it comes to young children.’

Kimball went on to explain that, the day before heading to Banbury, he’d seen a van similar to his not far from Everdale with its driver leaning out and talking to a young boy by the kerbside.

‘How old?’

‘Nine or ten. Eleven at most.’

Lapslie nodded thoughtfully. With his slight build, Ben Tovey could easily have passed for a ten- or eleven-year-old. Not old or strong enough to fend off a potential abductor. ‘A white van, you say?’

‘Yes. But what made me suspicious, like, was that as I approached and slowed down – curious as to what might be going on – the van driver quickly straightened up and sped off again, as soon as he became aware of me.’

‘Any idea as to the make of van?’ Bradbury enquired.

‘Not a Volkswagen like mine. Maybe a Ford or Peugeot.’

Lapslie wasn’t hopeful. How many Fords or Peugeots were there in Essex? And it was probably just a ruse to offset blame – make Kimball’s habit of procuring young boys for work seem not so bad, given that comparison.

‘But I recall part of the registration number, if it might help,’ Kimball said. ‘HEX O-something. Its first three letters stuck in my mind.’

*

Lapslie focused back on Toby Sinclair in the courtroom.

‘So let us all get this clear, shall we?’ Sinclair took a fresh breath. ‘Your only seemingly tangible lead was indeed supplied by a main suspect—’

‘But in those few days of tracking down Davey Kimball we had exhausted scores of other possible leads,’ Lapslie interjected.

Sinclair rode over the last of it, as if it were of little relevance. ‘Then it turns out the main reason for that recall was the suspect’s background – part Romany gypsy – and therefore what those three letters from the number plate sparked off in his mind.’ Sinclair looked towards the jury with incredulity before staring back at Lapslie. ‘You have to admit, Chief Inspector, it all becomes a somewhat difficult story to swallow.’

‘It just happens to be the truth. And it’s what occurred on this occasion.’ Lapslie didn’t have the patience to explain to Sinclair the many strange incidences he’d seen in twenty years of policing; how half a policeman’s off-duty time was spent swapping just such strange stories. But now wasn’t the time or place for it, so all of his experience was boiled down to, ‘And I’ve seen stranger things over the years.’

‘I daresay you have, Chief Inspector. But that wasn’t the only thing to occur in this catalogue of strange events, was it?’

*

It took them seventeen hours to whittle down the list of possibles, combining a white van with the start of its registration number HEX O, until they were left with only one strong likelihood: a white Peugeot van registered to Alistair Tulley of Danbury, six miles from Everdale.

Within another hour, they were at Tulley’s door. Lapslie purposely left a uniformed officer in front of Tulley’s door, while another waited in a marked car in front. In Lapslie’s experience, there was nothing like a visible police presence to get the neighbours talking, start noticing things which might otherwise have gone unnoticed: ‘It’s funny that you should have called to see him, because just last week I saw him do something that I thought was odd . . .’

A nondescript semi-detached in the better part of Danbury, away from its council estate, Lapslie noticed the white van in the driveway as they approached the house, but still one of his first questions was to confirm with Tulley whether the white van parked in front was his?

‘Yes . . . yes, it is.’ Tulley was a second slow in responding, as if first weighing up the implications of his answer. He had lank black hair that looked well past its wash-by date. He swept back a few stray matted strands from his forehead with one hand. ‘Why? What’s this about?’

Bradbury commenced by mentioning that Tulley had been seen in his van, stopping to talk to a young boy of a similar age to one who had recently gone missing in the area. ‘So we have to ask – why were you stopping to talk to that young boy?’

Tulley looked momentarily perplexed, stroked his forehead again. ‘And when was this?’

Bradbury consulted her notes and read out the date recalled by Davey Kimball.

Tulley nodded after a second. ‘Ah, yes. I was asking some directions then.’

‘Where to?’ Lapslie cut in sharply.

‘Uh . . . Fyfield. A small village near Epping Forest.’

‘I see.’ Noting the hesitation, he was sure Tulley was lying, but had no way of proving it. ‘And why didn’t you ask directions from grown-ups rather than a young boy?’

‘There weren’t any grown-ups nearby at the time.’

Lapslie looked down. It was something they should have checked in their questioning of Kimball. But he doubted Tulley would know one way or the other. He decided to run with the bluff.

‘I’m afraid that’s not true. Adults were seen passing nearby, witnessed by the same person who observed you stopping to talk to the young boy.’

Tulley flushed slightly, pulling a taut grimace. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t see them.’

Lapslie kept his gaze steady on Tulley. Difficult to tell whether he’d answered that question honestly, or had read the bluff and simply decided to discard it in short order. But one thing he was certain of: Tulley was lying overall. Not just from his hesitation on certain questions, but the telltale bitter almond aftertaste assaulting Lapslie’s palate as soon as Tulley had started answering. But suddenly it was overlaid with another smell; one that he knew only too well from attending countless crime scenes and autopsies. His eyes drifted up to the source of the smell. He stood up sharply.

‘We need to check on something.’

‘But, sir, we don’t—’

‘Mr Tulley – if you can lead the way,’ Lapslie cut in on Bradbury, his tone that of instruction rather than request. If she mentioned warrants and permission, Tulley might dig his heels in. And by the time they returned with the paperwork, he’d be able to cover up any evidence.

‘I . . . I don’t know.’ Tulley’s eyes darted hesitantly between Lapslie and Bradbury. ‘Not without first speaking to my solicitor.’

Lapslie contemplated Tully stonily. ‘Are you being purposely obstructive? Trying to impede an officer in the execution of his duty?’

‘No, it’s not that. It’s just that—’

‘Mr Tulley,’ Lapslie cut him off brusquely. ‘From information received, we have reason to believe you’re holding vital evidence on these premises. And we’re duty-bound, in the course of our investigation, to check on that.’

Lapslie headed into the hallway and started up the stairs without waiting for a response. Bradbury dutifully followed, with a now perplexed, red-faced Tulley two steps behind her.

Lapslie opened two doors before finally homing in on the room which he was now sure was the source of the smell. Nothing obvious as he walked in: a single bed, the bedspread slightly ruffled, as if it had been made in a hurry or someone had been sitting on the bed. Drab floral wallpaper, dark beige curtains half-drawn. Looked like a spare bedroom, one of three in this suburban semi.

Lapslie focused on the wardrobe at the side of the room. As his senses became attuned, the smell seemed to be coming from there.

As he went to open the cupboard, he noticed Tulley, now looking on from the doorway, stiffen with apprehension; and for a moment, Lapslie feared being confronted with a full corpse. But at first sight, there was nothing. Just five jumpers, a grey anorak and a sheepskin coat. Perhaps a backup winter wardrobe for Tulley.

Then, sifting through, Lapslie noticed the fifteen-inch-long package wrapped in brown greaseproof paper at the bottom of the wardrobe. Like someone’s takeaway fish and chips or kebab.

Lapslie bent down and started unwrapping it. Even if he hadn’t been sure what would confront him, he’d have known from Tulley suddenly bolting back down the stairs.

As Lapslie heard the scuffle and the unmistakable sound of Tulley being creamed by the front door – Lapslie always made sure to put his best rugby-trained or unarmed combat men on door duty – he uncovered the package’s contents: a young teen’s hand and forearm, cut eight inches above the wrist.

Stratford, east LondonSeptember 2013

Obsessed.

Josie Dallyn wasn’t sure whether to take the term as a compliment or a criticism.

Certainly in her profession, journalism, an intense dedication was invariably needed to see a difficult story through to the end, to work it to the point where it was ready to ‘break’. And the line between dedication and obsession was often thin.

That dedication or obsession had managed to gain her a first-rung journalist spot at a leading London newspaper at the age of only twenty-six – having spent five years with a provincial newspaper in Plymouth – but it had cost her in terms of relationships. She’d had only three semi-serious relationships in those five years. She used the term ‘semi-serious’ because none of them had lasted more than four months. In her mind a relationship had to go over the six-month mark to be termed serious sans semi. So now it was ju. . .