Chapter 48
There was at least one other person who might be in danger from a killer who, since the discovery of Aleric Donnal’s body, desperately needed to cover his tracks.
Wesley hesitated before making the call, fearing that the recipient might be near their man and there was a danger he would overhear. But he had to take the risk.
Gerry listened in to the guarded conversation, breath held. ‘Well?’ he asked once Wesley had ended the call.
‘He’s at Sycamore House.’
The DCI grinned wickedly, showing the gap between his two front teeth, something he’d always claimed was lucky. Wesley hoped it would prove that way today. Luck was something they needed now more than ever, before someone else lost their life.
‘Back to the scene of the crime, eh,’ Gerry said before ordering a patrol car to follow them, instructing the officers not to use their blues and twos; the last thing they wanted was to put their quarry on his guard.
If he panicked and lashed out at some innocent bystander, the consequences might be unfortunate, if not tragic.
He told them to park at the end of the drive.
They’d be summoned when required – which Wesley hoped would be soon.
As they walked towards the house, Wesley saw Neil in the distance, digging in the chapel trench, which was now considerably deeper than it had been a few days ago, the heap of soil nearby growing in height.
He felt Gerry nudge his arm. But he didn’t need reminding that this wasn’t the time to yield to tempting distractions.
They might be about to come face to face with a particularly desperate killer.
When they reached the house, they saw Helen Jones’s new Land Rover Discovery parked on the gravel near the front door, but there was no sign of the vehicle they were hoping to see. However, Wesley could hear the noise of machinery in the distance.
He knocked on the door and Helen answered. She was wearing a skimpy dressing gown, and when she saw who had come calling, she looked mildly disappointed.
‘Are you on your own?’ Wesley asked quietly.
‘Ralph is at the estate agent’s and Chaz has gone to the suppliers in Neston to pick up materials. Honestly, it was so lucky that I persuaded him to come back after . . .’
‘You’re having more work done on your trees?’
‘A surveyor said one of the trees round the back needed to come down in case the roots damage the foundations.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘It’s costing a fortune, but it has to be done.’
‘Is Darren around?’
‘Yes.’
‘And his mate? George?’
‘The quiet one with the shaved head and the tattoos?’
‘That’s right.’
She pointed to the side of the house, where the drive swept round to the rear of the building.
As they walked towards the sound, Wesley was surprised at how nervous he felt about facing the man who’d killed his own sister because she’d rejected his advances, and then gone about eliminating all possible witnesses to his crime.
He didn’t yet know the full story, but there seemed to be something particularly cold-blooded and ruthless about the murders of the innocent victims.
They found Darren feeding branches into the noisy chipping machine, but there was no sign of the vehicle that had towed it there.
‘Where’s George?’ Wesley asked. ‘When I rang, you said he was here.’
‘He was. But just after you called, he said he was going into town. Said he had some unfinished business, whatever that means.’ Darren didn’t sound too pleased about being left to deal with the work on his own. ‘Want me to give him a bell?’
‘Did he say he was coming back?’
‘I bloody hope so.’
‘Suppose we should wait,’ said Gerry. ‘Wes, tell that patrol car by the entrance to keep out of sight, will you.’
Wesley passed on the message before asking Darren for the registration number of the pickup George was driving. Then he made another call, asking Traffic to keep a lookout for the vehicle.
As soon as he’d issued the request, his phone rang. He turned away to answer, but the caller rang off before he had the chance. When he saw Baker’s name on the caller display, he tried to call him back. But the phone rang out. He wasn’t answering.
‘I think we should get over there. Last time we spoke to Baker, I got the impression he was afraid of something, and if—’
Before he could finish his sentence, a call came in from Traffic. The vehicle in question had been spotted on the main road leading to East Burrington.
On their way out, Wesley stopped next to the patrol car parked outside the gates.
The pair of officers inside looked bored.
He suspected they’d been hoping for some action and had been disappointed by having to trail round after CID as they made routine enquiries.
When he told them where they were headed next, they nodded as though they were resigned to another fruitless journey.
Wesley understood their frustration. He’d been starting to feel like that himself.
But now he knew they were on the right track, and he felt uncomfortable about Jim Baker’s cut-off call.
‘Right then, Wes. Put your foot down.’ It seemed that Gerry had read his thoughts.
Wesley was normally a careful driver, but he pressed the accelerator, wishing Rachel was driving; being brought up locally, she knew the twists and turns of every lane and byway. But today the responsibility was his and his alone.
When they arrived at Baker’s bungalow, there was no sign of life.
The little zoo opposite looked equally lifeless now that it had been emptied of its animal residents and sealed off with police tape, which was flapping in the breeze.
There was no sign of a vehicle parked outside, but if, as they suspected, Baker was in danger, the killer might have parked elsewhere to avoid any cameras in the area.
Unfortunately for the police, he seemed to be aware of these things.
Wesley rushed to the front door and Gerry followed, his phone at the ready in case backup was needed. There was no sign yet of the patrol car that was supposed to be following them. Either they’d decided to grab a sneaky break or they’d got lost.
When Wesley placed a hand on the front door, it opened silently.
Someone hadn’t bothered to close it. His heart began to beat faster.
Something was wrong; he could sense it in the silence.
He turned to Gerry and nodded. He’d take the front room and Gerry would head for the kitchen.
The internal doors were all shut, and they burst them open, hoping to surprise whoever was in there.
But the place was empty, even the two bedrooms, still in the state Baker’s grandmother had left them in, with candlewick bedspreads and faded floral wallpaper.
In the front room, the unfinished oil painting of a fantastic creature, half lion, half bird, stood on the easel in the centre of the floor.
A paint-loaded brush had been placed beneath it, as though the artist had left his work to slip out for a few moments.
‘He’s not here. What do we do now?’ Gerry asked.
Wesley thought for a few moments, trying to put himself in the place of the murderer. Where would he go? Where would he take the last witness who could give evidence against him? There was only one answer to that question. He’d take him back to the place where it had all begun.