Chapter Forty-Two
Using Joanna’s wedding ring, the lock of her hair and a hairbrush taken from the Neals’ apartment, Forensics finally confirm the blood and hair found at the murder scene matches Joanna’s DNA. There is no doubt now that Joanna Neal was murdered in her own home.
But some of the blood found in the garage and kitchen doesn’t match her or anyone in our database. That suggests she must have fought back against her attacker, hard enough to injure him. But we’ll never be able to tell Daniel Neal exactly what happened on the day his wife was killed.
Forensics indicate that the pattern of blood splattered up the wall points to a brutal beating.
The blood that can be seen pooled around her head in the crime-scene photo seems to confirm that, but without a body, we can’t be sure of anything.
We have drained local rivers, combed the woods and issued public appeals. But – nothing.
Only one person has come forward: a utility worker who says he went to the house to read the electricity meter.
‘The guy who opened the door was sweating a lot,’ he said.
‘Like he’d been exercising. He had loud music on.
Seemed a bit anxious, but I didn’t think much of it. You see all sorts in this job.’
He couldn’t recall the man’s face well enough to give us a description, just remembered that he was well built and possibly in his early forties.
It wasn’t much help. The house is set back from the road, and none of the neighbours noticed anything unusual.
We’ve dug up the back garden but found nothing.
Dario has a theory that the killer dismembered Joanna and fed the remains to the pigs on a nearby farm. I shudder. ‘It’s happened before,’ he says. I can’t bear to think about it.
We check all hospital records for emergency admissions around the time of the murder, hoping the killer has sought treatment. Everyone we identify has a solid alibi.
Our first suspect, naturally, was Daniel Neal.
Statistically, most victims are killed by someone they know.
But Daniel has an alibi. He was at work, and his secretary confirms he was still in the office at five-thirty p.m. on the night Joanna disappeared.
The restaurant has corroborated his claim that he called to change the dinner booking that night, and Nicola confirmed the time he arrived home.
CCTV from Lockwood and Holland’s car park shows him leaving work, and security footage captures his arrival at the apartment block.
Joanna had no enemies.
Desperate, I revisit the case of the abused child whom Joanna helped. I remember it well; I was one of the investigating officers.
‘Jo insisted on reporting the parents herself,’ Gil tells me. ‘She detailed every injury, and you know the parents were sent to prison. But maybe someone in their family… Maybe they thought she owed them.’
This brings a brief surge of hope at the station, but it is short-lived.
The parents are still serving time and have no living relatives in England.
The prison confirms they’ve never had any visitors.
Officially, that leaves no one to track.
Still, something about the case still doesn’t sit right.
Cases like that often leave angry shadows behind.
But if anyone holds a grudge, they’ve vanished too.
By now, news of Joanna’s murder has swept the country. Every national paper has run it on the front page. Social media has exploded.
Surgeon Found Murdered in the One House Police didn’t Search.
Burrow was livid at that headline. ‘Bloody media,’ he muttered.
We conduct a second full-scale search for Joanna’s body. Still nothing. So we turn our focus to Neville Logan.
***
Logan Builders’ yard sits on a quiet estate in Carterton. Gravel crunches underfoot as we approach. Sacks of cement lean against a small outbuilding. A blue van sits outside; Logan Builders is scrawled on the side in worn paint.
Dario pauses at the entrance to the office, taking in the dust-covered racks and the smell of old sawdust. Inside, a man is rifling through desk drawers. A cigarette burns low in an ashtray.
He turns as we enter, startled. ‘Well, the last thing I expected was the police,’ he says.
‘Mr Logan?’ I ask.
He laughs. ‘No, miss. But I’d like to know where he is.’
‘What do you mean?’ I ask.
‘We show up for work one morning, and everything is shut. No boss. We kept coming back for a week, then realised he was gone. The place was still locked up.’
‘Did you work on the house on Millwall Lane?’ Dario asks.
He nods. ‘Last job we did. Good one, too. I saw the story on the news. Terrible business.’
‘Do you remember the basement?’ I ask.
He gives me a strange look. ‘Of course. I helped renovate it.’
‘Was it furnished when you left?’
‘Furnished? Nah. It was meant to be a gym.’
‘No bed or couches?’ asks Dario.
‘Don’t tell me they turned it into a brothel,’ he says, and chuckles, his voice raspy from too much smoking.
‘Were all the keys returned?’ Dario asks.
‘Oh yeah. The wife was funny about that. Had them all counted. I heard she changed the locks afterwards, too.’
‘Do you know where we can contact Mr Logan?’ I ask, coughing from the smoke.
‘No idea. After the Neal woman disappeared, he paid us and vanished. Maybe they ran off together. Stranger things happen. Have you found her body yet?’
‘We ask the questions,’ I say. ‘When did you last see him?’
He scratches his head. ‘Must’ve been when he paid us. Haven’t seen him since.’
‘Do you have his address?’
‘Never needed it. So no.’
Dario glances around. ‘So why are you clearing the office?’
‘I’m not. I’m looking for my CV and references. I need work now. I’ve got a key, don’t worry, I’ll lock up.’
‘We’ll wait,’ Dario says. ‘Then we’ll take the key.’
The cigarette stench is unbearable, so I step outside. After a few minutes, Dario joins me.
‘We need a warrant,’ he says.
***
We trace Logan to a one-bedroom flat in Cowley. But he has gone and the flat is now available to rent. The landlord says Logan hasn’t paid his rent for the previous month and is now uncontactable.
‘He broke the lease. Haven’t seen him in weeks. Maybe he moved back in with his ex,’ he suggests.
‘Do you have her address?’
‘Yeah, it’ll be on the contract.’
‘Let’s pay her a visit,’ says Dario.
***
Carol Logan lives in a semi-detached house in Kidlington. She opens the door to us and visibly pales, clutching the frame as if needing support.
‘Oh my God, it’s Nev, isn’t it? Is he alright?’ she asks.
‘We were hoping you could tell us.’
She leads us into a tidy lounge. She offers us some herbal tea; Dario accepts. I decline.
‘I have been worried,’ she says. ‘I’ve thought about reporting him missing.’
Dario raises his eyebrows. ‘What makes you think he’s missing?’
‘He’s always been behind on child maintenance.
Then, out of nowhere, he showed up and paid in full what he owed me.
He promised to take the kids last week, but he never came.
His phone’s always off. I called his office but got no reply.
I didn’t know what to think. I was going to call the police today – and now you’ve turned up. ’
‘Did he ever mention a house on Millwall Lane in Wootton?’ Dario asks.
Carol frowns and turns white. ‘Not the one where the murder happened?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ Dario says.
She sinks into a chair. ‘You don’t think Neville has anything to do with that?’
‘We’re just gathering information,’ I say. ‘If you hear from him, let us know right away. Ask him to contact us so we can eliminate him from our inquiries.’
‘Of course. That poor woman…’
‘Do you know his car registration?’ I ask.
She shakes her head. ‘It’s a green Micra. That’s all I know.’
***
In the car, I turn to Dario. ‘What now?’
‘Someone else must have had access to the house.’
‘Alice, the interior designer, claims she never had a key, that she only visited with Joanna. She insists the basement was never touched.’
‘But what if Joanna furnished it herself? Maybe she wanted to surprise her husband.’
‘Could be. But the steel door? That’s not DIY.’
***
The warrant for Logan’s office comes through. We search it thoroughly, but find nothing useful.
Just another mystery. And I have that sinking feeling this would be one of those cases, the kind that never finds an ending.