Demolition, page 21
‘IMHO?’
‘In my honest opinion. That’s what that means. I think.’
‘I know what IMHO means. So are you getting down and groovin’ with the kids now?’ Blackstone teased him. ‘You’ll be rapping next.’
‘Yo!’ Henry said.
Blackstone shook her head in despair and whispered mockingly, ‘Watch and learn, my arse.’
They were back at the MIR ten minutes later, where a lot of work was being done in relation to the recent murders by what amounted to a skeleton crew. In pre-Covid days, Henry would have expected to be overrun by detectives and uniforms, but that was now a pipe dream.
There were a few things to catch up on.
In Henry’s in-tray in the SIO’s office there was a message from the two detectives who had gone to London to interview Sue Daggert, saying that although she had good reason to fall out with Marcus Durham – Durham had gone into drug dealing with the Daggerts but had a bust-up with Sue over a £90,000 payout on a drug purchase – she could have killed him quite happily but didn’t because it was known she was under surveillance when the murder happened. She could have planned it and hired a contract killer, but she denied it and there was no evidence of it. The two detectives and the NCA were happy with her story and were sure she wasn’t involved in killing Durham. Henry called one of the detectives, thanked them for their efforts and told them to return as soon as possible.
Next, he caught up with the Support Unit search team trying to find the trail of the motorbike that may have been used as a getaway vehicle from the Twain murder scene by the intruder who’d taken potshots at Henry. They had found the probable route used across an adjoining farmer’s field and called in a CSI to take casts of the tyre treads in the soil.
Henry contacted the Support Unit sergeant by phone and thanked her for her team’s efforts.
The two actual crime scenes were still locked down and being analysed by CSI and forensics, so that side of things was still progressing.
By the time Henry had brought himself up to speed and was as satisfied as he could be, it was almost seven p.m., another day gone and no murderers arrested.
He got up, stretched and went to find Blackstone, who was still working through the files and paperwork seized from Twain’s and Durham’s offices, to see if there were any leads worth chasing.
When Henry suggested they call it a day, Blackstone scooped everything up, shoved it all into folders and declared herself ready to rock.
‘Did you manage to root out any files regarding unsolved rapes and murders from wartime up in the Lancaster area?’ Henry asked her. ‘If you didn’t, that’s fine, but if you did, I might just skim through them tonight if I get the chance.’
‘You mean if Maude isn’t waiting for you, draped across the chaise longue, planning to ravage you again?’
Henry gave her a leery grin and teased back, ‘You sound jealous.’
She almost rolled on to the floor in a fit of raucous laughter but managed to keep a grip on the desk. ‘Never will I be that desperate,’ she said, repulsed by the thought.
‘Good, because, as you know, I haven’t got a chaise longue. Did you manage to look into the archives or not?’
She gave him one of her piercing looks that, without saying anything, said, Duh!
Half an hour later, they were back at The Tawny Owl.
Henry looked at his phone as a text landed. It was from Damian Carter, the vicar of St Andrew’s. Good to his word, he’d sent Henry a list of the crew of the Heinkel, and Henry had been right in his boyhood knowledge: there were five of them.
Three were those who had been recovered from the crashed aircraft and whose names were listed on the war memorial on the village green. The names of the other two were the pair who had gone missing and whose fates were unknown and subject to speculation.
The vicar had included in the text a link to a website that was dedicated to locations of military crashed aircraft sites in the UK, and when Henry followed the link, it took him straight to the page about the Heinkel on the moors and showed several photographs of the crash site up on Mallowdale Fell. Some were very grainy pictures taken soon after the crash; others were more recent.
Henry winced as he looked at the images. Although it was clearly a crashed plane, it had disintegrated on impact, and the fact that two people might have survived was a miracle.
Also on the website were black-and-white photographs of the five young men who had crewed the plane – five lads really, posing proudly yet shyly against their plane in their flying suits – grainy photos that seemed especially poignant to Henry; five young guys embroiled in a war and who had never been allowed to grow old. He felt fortunate that his own father had made it home from the war to have a family, a career and a fulfilled, ordinary life. Although he didn’t get to a ripe old age, he’d had a good life beyond the army.
Henry looked at the photographs, zooming in on their faces.
From the accompanying caption, he saw the two ‘missing’ crew members were called Ernst Muller and Wolfgang Achen. He looked closely at them, wondering sadly what had become of them. The other three had been accounted for, their bodies recovered and given decent burials, and at least their families had some sort of closure. His own heart seemed to miss a beat.
‘Soft arse,’ he chided himself. ‘Getting emosh’ – as Blackstone might have said – ‘over long-dead people.’
But Henry knew what this feeling was about. The same thing that had driven him when he had been a ‘real’ SIO, the thing within him that wanted to fight for the rights of the dead. The thing that drove him to bring some sort of closure for families and now seemed to extend to two German airmen who had gone missing so many years ago, despite the mission they had been on.
He moved around the photograph of the airmen, trying to focus on details. There seemed to be name tags sewn on to the left side of the chests of the flying suits, although he couldn’t be certain. In the end, he sighed with annoyance and gave up, came out of the website and texted a thank you to the vicar who responded with a thumbs-up emoji and asked why he was interested.
Henry said he would come and see him in a couple of days to explain.
Another thumbs-up came.
With a grunt, Henry returned to what he’d been doing before the vicar’s text had landed, which was looking through the unsolved files for murders and rapes during and a few years after the war. Henry had taken about half the files, Blackstone the other half.
She was currently in the guest bedroom, and Henry was working at the desk in his lounge.
The number of unsolved rapes terrified him – almost thirty cases over a period of only a few years, although the number of unsolved murders was less of a worry with only two in that period, both of which looked to be standalone, stranger murders.
That left Henry looking at fifteen rapes. For various reasons, such as method, it was easy to discount ten, leaving five to analyse more deeply.
He managed to filter out two more.
Three left.
One in the village of Caton, two in Lancaster city centre, all with similar MOs: lone females targeted on quiet side streets. A male offender, a big guy, who dragged the victims into back yards and raped them and then threatened them with death if they reported the incident, which fortunately they had the courage to ignore, even if the end result from the police was less than satisfactory. The offender wore a rough jacket, maybe tweed, and smelled of what each female described as ‘meat’, whatever that might have meant.
On each occasion, the man had stolen something of value from the victim, although this nugget did not quite fit with what Veronica had told him about her terrible experience. Had Grundy taken anything from her? Henry did not know.
Henry read the three files again, annoyed at what seemed a pitiful yet half-expected response by the cops back then. He looked at all the similarities and was convinced it was probably the same offender on each occasion, although there was nothing to say any of the crimes had a connection with Eric Grundy.
But it did seem there was a serial rapist at large in the forties, which was probably a phenomenon the police back then would not even have heard of, let alone be equipped to deal with. Henry knew that serial criminals were thought of mostly as a modern phenomenon even though they had always existed.
He read the files again.
The ones he was looking at were definitely connected.
Rubbing his weary eyes, he rose from the desk, took the files across to the sideboard and helped himself to his first JD of the night before crossing the hallway and lightly tapping on Blackstone’s door.
He heard a grunt from behind, and a few moments later she opened the door, already in her night things. ‘You need to stop coming to my door at strange times.’
Henry ignored the remark and held up the files. ‘How are you getting on?’
She held up some files she’d been holding behind her back. ‘Swap.’
They did and retreated to their respective rooms.
Ten minutes later, Henry was tapping on her door again.
‘What did I tell you about knocking on my door?’ she demanded.
He held up the two files she had given him, and she held up the ones she’d taken from him.
Both smiled. A little victory, maybe.
‘Thoughts?’ Henry asked.
‘First one: he’s a trophy hunter.’
‘Question is, though …’ Henry began.
Blackstone finished for him: ‘Is it Eric Grundy?’
‘Only one way to find out,’ Henry said.
FIFTEEN
Next morning, before doing anything else, Henry visited the scene of Lucas Grundy’s murder in Thornwell with Blackstone.
He parked at the front of the remains of The Swan’s Neck and, using a map hand-drawn by one of the detectives (now long gone from this world) who’d originally investigated the murder, he traced the route Lucas Grundy had taken from the pub that night back in 1941. As well as the map, which he had taken from the file that Blackstone had snaffled, Henry also had copies of the murder scene photographs. They were not the originals but photocopies, and the images in them were blurred, even though it was apparent what was in the photos. Henry assumed the originals would be impossible to track down.
Blackstone trailed him, regaling him with the timeline.
‘So, about nine thirty on that December night, Lucas Grundy left the pub where he’d been with his brother, Eric. That is the extent of the eyewitness evidence, which comprises a statement from Eric and one from the pub landlord. The two brothers had been drinking. According to the landlord, they had no disagreement and were laughing and joking. This was the day after the bombs had hit the village and the bomber itself crash-landed up there somewhere.’ Blackstone gestured towards the rising moors. ‘We don’t know if the bodies of the aircrew had been recovered at that point, but it’s an assumption we might make. So … the Grundys lived on a smallholding – still do – two miles from the pub. Lucas sets off in complete darkness, no streetlights in those days, especially in wartime, but it’s probably a journey he’d done numerous times: up the main road for half a mile, then left into Partington Lane and another mile and a half, on a rough track in those days, to the house.’
With the map and the photographs held in front of him, Henry began to retrace that final, fatal walk.
The pair reached Partington Lane, which was now a tarmacked single-track road with passing places, yet still with drainage channels either side to catch water coming off the fields. They turned and walked up.
‘Hard to say how much this has changed,’ Henry said. ‘Road surface, yes; otherwise, not that much. What do you say, Debs?’
She shrugged and almost collided with him as he stopped suddenly in front of her.
‘According to the police report, Lucas’s body was discovered one hundred yards up the lane in the drainage channel on the right and his rifle, a twenty-two, was found with him, so round about here. Looks like he’d been disarmed, shot in the back of the head somehow. Strange,’ Henry mused, trying to imagine how this might have happened. He peered at the photocopied pictures of Lucas, face down in the drain with his rifle thrown diagonally across his back; there were other ones taken from different angles and more of the body once it had been recovered from the drain and laid out on the track. Even though the images were not clear, the wounds to the back of his head were very visible.
‘Learned anything?’ Blackstone asked.
‘That we need to track down the original photos,’ he muttered, then shrugged. ‘Ambushed walking home from the pub, but I can’t quite work out how he was disarmed, then shot in the back of his head … unless he handed over his weapon willingly …’
‘To someone he knew?’
‘Yep.’
‘Eric, maybe?’
‘One hundred per cent. Even though his story is that he walked home drunk from the pub later in complete darkness, did not see Lucas’s body – which I admit is possible – fell asleep in his bedroom, found him next day after a search and called the police.’
‘And I say again, Eric, maybe?’
‘One hundred per cent,’ Henry also said again.
When they arrived back at his car, a Support Unit personnel carrier was waiting with half a dozen constables and their sergeant, all kitted out in dark-blue overalls and boots, eager to assist in any way.
Henry briefed them quickly before he and Blackstone got into his car and drove up Partington Lane to Eric Grundy’s home, a smallholding called Under t’Meadow. It was also now a cattery, a kennels and a dog-sitting business, with a number of outbuildings housing these activities surrounding the main house, which was a large, double-fronted bungalow with an extension at the back.
‘Busy shop,’ Blackstone noted as they got out of the car and heard a cacophony of dog howls and cat shrieks. A broad man with a hefty chin, dressed in a thick check shirt, jeans and wellingtons, and with an ancient-looking golden retriever hobbling behind him, strode over. Henry could see the family resemblance and guessed this could well be one of Eric Grundy’s grandsons.
Blackstone did the introductions, then handed over to Henry, who’d decided that the best way in was via the thin end of a wedge: polite, then less so.
‘I’m in charge of the investigation into the murder of James Twain,’ he began.
‘Oh, that twat,’ was the man’s initial dull response, but which pleased Henry because there was nothing better than strong, negative feelings towards the victim; such emotions often provided a portal into the mindset of a possible murderer.
‘Why do you say that?’ he asked sweetly.
‘’Cos he tried to get us to sell up and we told him where to stick it. He wanted to demolish this place and rebuild it as part of a housing estate. Nasty git. Glad he’s dead.’
‘Really?’
‘And as far as his plans for The Swan’s Neck, he was just out to screw all the locals and make a ton of dosh for himself.’
‘Any idea who burned the place down, just out of interest?’
‘Probably him … a good arson job usually speeds things up, doesn’t it?’ The man grinned, and Henry could see he had a distinctive underbite to his jaw. ‘Anyway, I’m Tom Grundy … what d’you want?’
‘We’d like to have a chat with Eric Grundy.’
‘My grandad? Why would that be?’
‘We’re speaking to all the members of the Save Our Necks Action Group,’ Blackstone said.
‘About Twain’s murder?’ Tom asked, highly amused.
‘What’s so funny?’ Blackstone asked, deadpan.
‘Well, if you think any of them could have done it, you’re pissing in the wind.’
‘Meaning?’ Henry asked.
‘They talk. They blow hot air. They plan, but they do sod all; none of ’em’s capable. They’re all well-old gits … only one could have, I suppose – that one who used to be a scenes of crime cop or summat, but even he’s a wimp.’
‘Maybe one of them contracted someone to commit the crime for them,’ Blackstone suggested, eyeing Tom up and down, weighing him up as a potential hitman.
‘What are you suggesting?’ Tom squirmed uncomfortably.
Blackstone gave him a pointed look, and Henry said, ‘Whatever, we’d still like to chat to Eric about it.’
‘You do know he’s a hundred years old, don’t you? He’s had a message from the queen.’
The queen’s message was mounted in a picture frame and displayed proudly on the mantelpiece over a wood-burning fire.
‘Do you mind if I have a look?’ Henry asked politely.
‘Help yourself,’ the old man said. This was Eric Grundy’s seventy-five-year-old son, Benjamin, who had replaced Tom once Henry and Blackstone had been shown into the bungalow. Eric was apparently in the extension, a small, self-contained apartment with all mod cons and where the old man lived. He had been told there was someone to see him and said he’d be through shortly.
Henry crossed the room, which was very dated and depressing, with old furniture and fittings, the walls brown, smoke-stained and covered in woodchip wallpaper. As he read the royal message, he wondered if he would ever be the recipient of such a thing.
Obviously, getting to a hundred was the first hurdle.
Next was if the royal family still existed by then. Henry thought they were hanging by a thread as it was.
‘You say you’re speaking to all SONAG members about Twain’s murder?’ Benjamin asked.
‘We are. Routine,’ Blackstone answered. She was sitting on a big, wide, old leather armchair, so soft it seemed to envelop her within its cushions, like a Venus flytrap. She felt like a character from Alice in Wonderland.
Henry’s eyes took in every trinket on the mantelpiece, all sorts of everything on the wide surface, from porcelain figurines to an old clock, to brass models of war planes, one at each end, a Spitfire and a Heinkel, two deadly enemies facing each other. He then looked slowly around the room. The walls were full of paintings of all sizes, 3D display frames with medals in them, photographs in frames, plus a selection of animal heads on shield-shaped mounts, including a huge stag, a couple of foxes and a badger. None of them looked particularly new or well-maintained; nor did the two rifles mounted on the wall on a gun rack.
