Chapter Forty-Seven
Afriend accompanies Neville Logan’s ex-wife into the morgue. Her steps are unsteady. She clings to the other woman’s arm for support. Her eyes are swollen from crying, and her hands tremble as she accepts the tissue Dario offers.
Her face is pale, her expression caught between fear, grief, and disbelief.
‘It might not be him,’ her friend murmurs gently.
I lead her into the cold, sterile room. She pauses, inhales deeply, trying to steady herself, but the tears come anyway. They’re soon streaming down her cheeks.
‘We didn’t have a great relationship,’ she says, her voice cracking. ‘But I loved him, in my way.’
The sheet is drawn back. She gasps. Her knees give slightly, and Dario moves quickly to catch her.
‘It’s not Nev,’ she says, and sobs.
***
Dario and I wait for the forensic and post-mortem reports. I’ve called Geoff to let him know I’ll be late. He didn’t argue. Dario, who has nipped off to find food, returns with fish and chips for me.
‘I went rogue,’ he grins, ‘and got sausage and chips.’
‘Oh, shut up,’ I mutter, tossing a chip at him.
‘If that wasn’t Neville Logan in the van, then who was it? And where the hell is Logan?’
He pulls out a large piece of cod from the box on his lap. ‘You liar,’ I say.
He laughs. ‘Honestly, I’m off pork for life. Those poor pigs. I’ll never touch bacon again.’
‘See? You’re a softie.’
He waves it off. ‘Logan probably didn’t want to get pulled into the Joanna Neal mess. He might have bailed and gone abroad to lay low.’
‘That’s a stretch. We still don’t know who the man in the van is. He could be linked to Logan.’
Time drags. The wall clock ticks like it’s mocking us. I’m half asleep when Diane from Forensics finally walks in, clutching the report. ‘I can smell fish and chips,’ she says, yawning.
‘All gone,’ I reply.
‘Greedy bastards. Right.’ She flips through her notes.
‘The man in the mortuary died of a heart attack, just as I thought. His weight was likely a factor. Estimated time of death – three to four days ago. The blood on his clothes matches Joanna Neal’s DNA.
He also had his own blood on his shirt, probably from the head injury.
We pulled glass fragments from his scalp.
Looks like someone hit him with a glass object.
The blood spots inside the van are also Joanna Neal’s.
’ She pauses. ‘My guess? He had a heart attack while disposing of the body. We’ll never know for sure, of course.
We ran his DNA. His name was Stuart King.
’ She starts to walk away, then stops. ‘Almost forgot. There were additional bloodstains on his trousers. Not his blood, or Joanna Neal’s. ’
‘What?’ Dario asks, straightening.
‘I’m just the messenger,’ she says with a wry smile, and leaves.
I open my laptop and type in Stuart King’s name. ‘He’s got a record,’ I say. ‘Two convictions for extortion. Arrested once for raping an underage girl, but the victim was too afraid to testify so it never went to court. Done time for aggravated assault on an ex-girlfriend.’
‘No angel, then,’ says Dario.
‘No family, either. Bit of a loner.’ I close the laptop with a sigh. ‘I’ll write it up in the morning. We need to inform Daniel Neal.’
‘What about the unknown blood?’
I shake my head. ‘No idea.’ Theories churn through my brain. ‘He must have gone to the farm to get rid of the body. Probably planned to dump the van there, too, then the heart attack hit before he could leave.’
As I drive home through the silent streets of Oxford, one thought keeps surfacing. What’s Stuart King’s connection to the Neal family?
***
‘And you’re sure it’s him?’ Daniel Neal asks.
I nod. ‘He was found in a white van, the same one used in your wife’s abduction. Her blood was on his clothes. His name was Stuart King. Does that name mean anything to you?’
He frowns. ‘No. Doesn’t ring a bell.’ He hesitates, his voice barely audible. ‘Did you find Jo’s…?’
I pause. ‘I’m sorry. But we’re not giving up. If you remember anything about Stuart King, please let us know.’
‘Yeah, of course.’ His gaze drops to the floor. ‘Where did you find him?’
Shit. ‘On a track near a pig farm,’ I say quietly.
His eyes widen. ‘A pig farm?’
‘We shouldn’t jump to conclusions,’ Dario interjects.
‘No,’ Neal murmurs, looking lost.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I say.
He nods.
‘The investigation’s ongoing,’ I add. ‘We’re following every lead.’
Another nod. As we walk down the carpeted hallway toward the lift, Dario leans in.
‘Jesus. Did you have to say “pig farm”?’
‘We don’t know for sure. Her body might still turn up.’
‘Yeah. In bacon rashers.’
I swat his arm. ‘Shut up.’
I press the lift button in a bid to close the doors before he can get in, but he lunges and manages to squeeze through.
‘So childish,’ he mutters.