Family Reunion Page 8

  She was still fifty yards away when the bus sailed passed, already slowing for the stop where she would have been if she hadn’t had to see to him.

  ‘Oh no.’

  She started running, but knew she would never make it.

  Barry Norris watched, admiringly, as Lucy sprinted for the bus. Since he’d started going to the gym regularly – he was almost averaging twice a week now - he was certain she had begun to look at him differently. And why not, he thought? He wasn’t doing too bad for fifty three. It was just a damn shame her family circumstances meant there was never a chance to catch her on her own; it would have been nice to invite her in for a drink those weekends his wife was away at her mother’s. Still, he thought, you never know; if that miserable father of hers ever pops his clogs….

  About to get into his car he glanced across the road, and stopped. A man was there, looking off in the direction Lucy had just run. There was something about him Norris thought wasn’t quite right. But he wasn’t sure whether it was the pensive look in his face – as if he had just seen something he hadn’t expected to see - or the fact that for the time of year he was overdressed in a long, dark coat; a bit like that weird bloke in those Matrix films. But before he could decide whether it was just his imagination or something he should do something about – the latest Neighbourhood Watch letter had mentioned a couple of burglaries in the area over the past month – the man seemed to sense he was being observed. He turned towards Norris and for the first time Lucy’s neighbour realised he was ethnic. Definitely not white British, that’s for sure. But which part of the world he, or his family hailed from, Norris could not even begin to guess.

  The young man looked directly at him for several seconds in a way Norris found strangely unsettling, before he flashed a humourless smile, raised a hand in some sort of hello-goodbye gesture, and walked off down the street.

  As he backed his car off his drive, the thought in Norris’s mind was that maybe it was time he got round to fixing the window locks his wife had been nagging him about for weeks after all.

  CHAPTER 14

  The low truck was little more than an elongated golf buggy, but it was ideal for its environment. As it drew to a silent stop, the driver slid sideways out of his seat and stepped out, surprisingly nimble for someone clearly not built for jumping in and out of such vehicles.

  ‘This is it.’

  Carver looked about him, or tried to. Apart from the stretch of ‘road’ in front, still illuminated by the buggy’s headlights, everything else was black. Not dark. Black. Blacker even than that time he took Patsy and Jack on the space-ride-bubble thing at Alton Towers.

  Not sure which way he was supposed to go, he called across to his driver-guide as he stepped out. ‘Where? I can’t see a thing.’ Another strange thing. No echo. Given the surroundings, he had expected one.

  ‘Over here.’ The man’s helmet-light came on, revealing the heavy-duty wire-mesh fence he was already walking towards. It stretched between the two huge, square columns of salt either side that rose into the darkness. The sign above the gate set in the left-hand side of the fence showed only a unit reference, K/128; no mention of Police, nor what was kept there. Discreet.

  Switching on his hand-lamp - the one on his helmet took too much getting used to - Carver made his way round the front of the truck and joined his guide just as he threw a switch affixed to the left-hand column. The compound’s lights came on, spilling out through the mesh and reflecting off the surprisingly low ceiling to light up the surrounding area. Carver turned, and marvelled at what he saw.

  The mine seemed infinite in its vastness – like one of those secret facilities in films where sinister government agencies keep dead aliens or religious artifacts so dangerous they must remain forever hidden. The ceiling was only thirty or so feet above his head, though when the lights were out it could have been a hundred. But it was the thirty yard-square columns of salt, thirty yards apart and running in straight lines that gave the impression the mine was endless. A vast underground grid, over two hundred metres under the Cheshire plain. Not for the first time Carver thought that whoever first saw the potential for turning the vermin and UV light-free environment at the bottom of a working salt mine into a profitable storage enterprise, must have had a keen eye for a business opportunity.

  But following on from the wonder, and now that he was out of the truck, Carver felt another, weirder feeling taking hold. It was a strange mix of claustrophobia and agrophobia, no doubt triggered by the knowledge that, despite being unable to discern the lunar-like landscape’s boundaries, he was effectively entombed, buried under tons of millions-of-years-old rock salt. He shook off the thought that kept trying to form - of what would happen if any of the pillars – some were over one hundred and fifty years old according to his guide– were to collapse.

  ‘Don’t worry.’

  Carver turned to see the man looking at him, knowingly, and guessed why. He must have witnessed the same reaction many times, probably even been waiting for it. His next words confirmed it.

  ‘They take pressure readings every two months. The whole thing’s as stable as the day they first started mining. Or so they tell me.’ He turned back to the gate, rattling the large bunch of keys he had taken off his belt-loop. ‘Let’s get to it.’

  As Carver watched his guide’s ample frame huddle over the gate’s locks, chains and electronic-keypads, he wondered what sort of policeman would apply for a job that required him to work deep underground, looking after the force’s main Document and Property Archive.

  A three years-retired Community PC, Dave Sawyer seemed normal enough and didn’t appear yet to have turned into any sort of troglodyte. Nevertheless his little joke about the problem they’d been having with the worn winch-cable when the cage-lift suddenly lurched and juddered on their way down, evidenced a sense of humour that might be a little dark for some people’s tastes. But he clearly took his job seriously. During the ten-minute-plus drive from the lift shaft to the storage areas – Carver couldn’t work out how he found his way; he didn’t see a single direction sign or marker – Sawyer spoke like an enthusiastic tour guide, giving chapter and verse not just on the facility itself, but on the mine’s fascinating, two hundred-year history. By the time he finished, Carver didn’t feel the need to take up Sawyer’s offer to put his name down for one of the regular, VIP Guided Tours.

  With a buzz, a click and a clank, the gate to the compound swung open. They stepped inside.

  Everything was stored in uniformly-sized boxes arranged on rows of shelves that ran away down the length of the vast compound. The racks were of black metal and Carver remembered Sawyer’s words as they’d driven past an abandoned salt-digger. ‘Metal doesn’t oxidise down here. No water vapour in the air.’

  Sawyer booted up the computer on the desk next to the gate and spent a few minutes checking the database against the details Carver had given him. ‘Ah yes. I remember now. This way.’

  He led Carver down the far right-hand aisle, deep into the store’s bowels, switching on more lights as they went. After what Carver estimated must have been a hundred yards or more, Sawyer started checking shelf numbers and individual box bar-codes. Eventually he stopped, pointing at one of the shelves.

  ‘This is where the file was. Right where it should be.’ He read from the sheet of paper he had printed off from the computer. ‘Now the exhibits should be….’ He checked the shelf again. ‘Here.’ He indicated several boxes and between them they lifted them down onto one of the work tables that were spaced, intermittently, between the racks. As Sawyer brought the last one over he said, ‘That’s it. Check them out.’

  Carver lifted the lid off the first. It was full of sealed plastic bags. He started pulling them out, checking their labels, examining their contents through the clear plastic and ticking them off on the list he’d brought with him. Satisfied, he moved onto the next box. Halfway down he came across a pair of shoes, in separate bags but clipped together. They were whi
te, with straps inlaid with diamante, and high heels. Clubbing shoes. Even before he read the label the feelings of regret and bitterness started to rise. A sudden giddiness came over him and he had to grab the edge of the table to steady himself.

  ‘You okay?’ Sawyer said from a few yards away, concern in his voice. ‘Just breath slow and deep. It happens like that sometimes. Creeps up on you without you realising it.’ Carver didn’t bother telling him his stall had little to do with depth-sickness.

  As the feeling passed, he lifted the bag and examined its contents more closely. He had been right. They were the ones she’d bought from Manchester’s Arndale Centre – Dorothy Perkins - that last Saturday afternoon they all went out together, a few weeks before the Manchester bombing. He could even remember her trying them on, pirouetting as she checked how they looked in the shoe-mirror, trying to embarrass him by asking him what he thought. Like a boy of fourteen would have an opinion on his sister’s choice of footwear.

  He put them to one side, along with the rest and carried on rummaging. But after finishing the second box and moving onto the third, a frown began to break across his face. It deepened as he moved quickly onto the next. ‘Where’s all the…?’ By the time he finished checking the last box, the frown had become fixed. ‘This can’t be right.’

  ‘Problem?’ Sawyer said, appearing at his side, anxious in case the detective had unearthed a glitch in his carefully managed system.

  ‘There’s no under-clothing. Or swabs. The exhibit lists shows bras, knickers, that sort of thing, and swabs from all the victims but there’s none here. This is all just outer clothing and random stuff recovered from the scenes and during the investigations.’

  ‘Hang on.’ Sawyer checked his papers then went and searched the shelves again. He returned, shaking his head. ‘No. These are all the boxes listed.’

  ‘Does your system show what should be here?’

  Sawyer shook his head, regretful. ‘All I have is a case file number and its relevant storage references. The packaging is all done by area staff. We just take the boxes and put them into the system.’

  ‘Has any one else accessed any of this stuff?’

  ‘No one’s ever called for anything this old until you asked us to dig out the case-file a few weeks ago. I’d have remembered.’

  ‘So if anything’s gone missing it’ll have happened before it came here?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Damn.’

  ‘Is this a complaint investigation?’

  Carver thought a moment before replying. ‘Not really. Just reviewing some old cases. Intelligence cross-checking, you know.’

  ‘Never into that. I was a beat bobby.’ He said it the way some men, out drinking and meeting other men, feel the need to stress their hetero-credentials. ‘Anything else I can do?’

  ‘You can let me know if anyone else asks about the file. Or me.’

  ‘Will do.’

  Carver was still musing on the significance of everything that might have contained trace DNA being missing as he stepped, squinting and blinking, into daylight. He handed his helmet and utility belt back to Sawyer.

  ‘Thanks for your help.’

  ‘No problem.’

  As they shook hands Carver’s mobile rang. It was Jess.

  ‘Where’ve you been? I’ve been trying you for ages but all I could get was ‘unobtainable’.’

  ‘I’ve been undercover.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Never mind. What’s up?’

  ‘I’ve had a call from someone who says he met us at that Staff College lecture you dragged me along to last year. The one you gave on repeat-homicide investigation? He wants to speak with you but wasn’t sure where you are working these days. Says it’s urgent.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘A Doctor… Kahramanyan, I think he said his name is. He was ringing from Cyprus, but he’s from Armenia apparently.’

  Carver started. Cyprus? Armenia? Who the hell…? ‘What does he want?’

  ‘Wouldn’t say, but he wants you to phone him back as soon as you can. Says it’s a matter of life and death.’

  CHAPTER 15

  ‘Uh-huh…. Yes…. Right.’

  Carver was slumped over his A4 pad, scribing furiously as he kept up the stream of monosyllabic grunts and acknowledgements that had been the pattern for the past ten minutes.

  In a chair the other side of his desk, Jess was doing her best to follow his scribbles. Initially only mildly curious, her interest had risen as she saw the change in him once he finally got hold of the Armenian psychiatrist.

  To begin with, he was politely cordial. ‘Doctor Kahramanyan? Jamie Carver. You’ve been trying to get hold of me?’ But once the initial pleasantries were out of the way – Carver professed to remember him, though Jess doubted it – his eyebrows began to knit together. Catching the laden glance he threw her as he reached over for his notepad, Jess came on full alert. When he started blowing his cheeks out and ‘Good-God-ing’ down the phone, she took a seat and concentrated on trying to pick out key words that might give her a clue. So far she had, ‘asylum’, ‘escaped’, ‘butchered’, ‘Armenia’ ‘family’ and ‘Cyprus’.

  Now she was trying to read his notes upside down, having provided him with another pen that worked in response to his urgent finger-clicking. Thereafter, his grave looks dwindled until they stopped. He hadn’t glanced her way for several minutes now, concentrating on getting it all down. Eventually he finished scribing and sat up.

  ‘Okay, I think I’ve got it all. That’s one hell of a story, Doctor.’ He stopped again as he listened. ‘I will, you can count on it.’ There was another lengthy pause, during which he slumped back into his chair. ‘I’m not sure about that, but it rings some bells. I need to do some research this end. Yes I think you should. Let me know when you will be arriving.’ The conversation was winding up. ‘And thank you for contacting us…. I will, as soon as I can.’ He hung up and sat staring at the phone.

  Jess had seen it before and waited. After a minute’s silence he came to and looked up at her. All he said was, ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘What was the name again?’ Jess called across the room.

  Carver didn’t slow in his searching. ‘Durzlan. It was next to your Met guy’s desk with a load of others.’ As he spoke, Carver continued shifting plastic packing-cases containing box-files from one pile to another, double-checking the names-sheets against the contents, in case they had somehow missed it. Down the other end of the office Terry West, the Merseyside DCI Jess had said was beginning to show some regrettable traits and Alec Duncan muttered to each other as they searched through another stack. The Scotsman’s distinctive burr drifted down the room.

  ‘What was that, Alec?’ Carver called, hopeful.

  ‘I said the next time the lassie asks me if I want a job, I’m going to pass. I should’a known the only reason she got me here was so’s she would’na hae to ruin her nails rummaging through boxes.’

  ‘I’m looking as well, Mr Duncan,’ Jess countered. ‘In case you hadn’t noticed.’ She stood up so he would see the redness brought on by her exertions. About to resume her searching, she just caught Carver’s disappearing wry smile. ‘Something amusing?’

  He threw her a glance. ‘No.’ Then added. ‘I didn’t realise you still did het-up.’

  She turned to make sure the others weren’t listening. ‘Up yours, Chief Inspector. And this is hot, not het-up.’

  ‘Ah.’

  A triumphant shout forestalled any further point scoring. ‘Got it,’ West said.

  A few minutes later they were gathered round Jess’s desk, examining papers, studying photographs and checking lists of witness statements. The Duke had joined them. Carver was going through the report headed, ‘Report of Investigating Officer’, reminding himself of the gruesome facts.

  ‘My God,’ Jess said.

  Carver looked up. She was holding a set of photographs in one hand, the other up to her mouth. The Duke stood nex
t to her, looking grim. As the others gathered round to see what had drawn her reaction, similar expressions of shock emanated as they caught their first glimpse. Carver remained seated. He didn’t need reminding. The images of the Durzlan murder-scene had been indelibly etched in his memory long ago.

  It was getting on for five years since he’d last perused the case-file that was among the first that came to him during his stint at Chain-Link, the National Crime and Operations Faculty’s first attempt at linking undetected murders. But of the hundreds he reviewed during that period, the slaughter of the Manchester-Armenian family was the one that had stuck most in his memory as the most disturbing. Clearly the work of a seriously warped mind. Back then, the Durzlan case was destined to be classified as a one-off. Nothing else amongst all the cases Chain-Link reviewed ever hinted at a connection. Not that it would have needed analysts of any great profiling ability to spot one. The distasteful and, especially for those with families, distressing characteristic of the killer’s MO, doesn’t feature often in the annals of repeat homicide investigation, not in the way it did in the Durzlan Case at any rate. As a result it remained on the, ‘Unlinked-but-Potential’ list, one of several cases that had sufficient ticks against the relevant boxes to indicate that its pattern must, surely, show up again somewhere. But despite the analysts’ expectations, no matches were ever found. Not, that is, until Doctor Mikayel Kahramanyan’s phone call offered up the tantalising prospect of an explanation none of the so-called experts on Chain Link – Carver included – had ever considered.

  Now, as he saw the look of horror on Jess’s face, Carver stopped trying to work out the apparent problem with the dates – it was something for another time – and turned his attention to the matter in hand. But before he could start, Jess chimed up.

  ‘Is this the same as what this Doctor Kahra-whatsisname is talking about?’ Her eyes were glued to the photograph album as she leafed through.