The Twisted Web (Detective Hannah Robbins Crime Series book 4) Read online

  Pasha zipped up her coat a little further. ‘Absolutely. Let’s see if they’re ghoulish or helpful.’

  Only a month ago I had talked to Pasha about my unease with her having joined the team in a place that was dear to my heart, a place that had been vacated due to the murder of a previous DC on the team, and how I had moved past it. She was a good worker, engaging well with the rest of the unit and more than solid in performance.

  ‘So, this young man,’ said Martin as he stepped closer to the male on the steps. ‘What is it you have to tell us?’

  I looked down at the small piece of card propped against the male with the hashtag in front of it. ‘My Kind of Thing? Isn’t that also trending?’ I asked Martin and Doug.

  ‘Great,’ grunted Doug. ‘That’s all we need. More attention than we already have. It’ll be a circus around here.’

  I looked across the large flat grey expanse of Market Square. ‘I don’t understand how he got here without the CCTV operators picking it up. That needs to be one of our first lines of inquiry, Martin.’

  He pulled his notebook out his pocket and made a note.

  I crouched in front of the male, who, for all intents and purposes looked like, as Doug had said, he had stopped for a nap. ‘How did you get here and what happened to you?’

  ‘Let’s have a look and see if we can get some answers, shall we?’ a voice from behind responded.

  Dr Fay Pride smiled when I turned. Her short grey hair was tucked behind her ears and she wore a chequered blue and green scarf wrapped tightly around her neck. ‘I know I said I liked working with you, DI Robbins, but that didn’t mean dragging me out this early in the morning.’

  I returned her smile. The pathologists rotated as we did at EMSOU – Major Crime. EMSOU was the East Midlands Special Operations Unit in which five forces collaborated and covered the area. Depending on which team was free to deal with a job when it came in, determined where they were sent. Our pathologists were now rotating in the same way, and Derbyshire, Leicestershire, Lincolnshire, Northamptonshire and Nottinghamshire pathologists now also covered the same ground. This meant we never knew who would attend a job. Whereas in the past we would always have had Jack Kidner, we now had an array of doctors to help us. We had worked with Fay a couple of times. I found her kind and compassionate. Helpful. Also generous with her time. And in a job like ours, that was a godsend.

  ‘I’m sorry, Fay, you’ve obviously been pretty wicked recently.’

  She laughed, twisting to make sure her back was to the horde of people watching. Laughing at a crime scene would not look good with no context if posted on social media, as it was likely to be. I was glad she was aware.

  She rubbed her hands together. ‘I’ve heard all about it already, obviously.’

  ‘You have Twitter?’ Martin sounded surprised.

  ‘Something you want to say about my ability to use a social media site, DC Thacker?’ She tried to keep a straight face.

  This time it was Martin’s turn to laugh. He walked towards the body on the steps. ‘Doug can’t see any visible injuries, but that’s not to say there aren’t any.’

  Fay pushed her spectacles up her nose then flicked her gloves on over the wrists of her Tyvek suit and moved closer.

  5.

  Fay stood from her crouched position over the body. Snapped off her gloves and bagged them. Then closed the medical bag and walked towards me.

  ‘Thanks, can you text me that. I’ll see you shortly.’ I ended the phone call to the office and turned to Fay.

  ‘What do you have for me?’ I asked.

  ‘You have a murder on your hands, I’m afraid.’

  ‘With a sick and twisted after-game, looking at what they’ve set up here,’ I said.

  ‘It’s not what I’m used to seeing. Well, it is, but it’s usually you guys who set it up.’

  I ran my hands through my hair. ‘I kind of had it figured for murder with the stains running down his jeans. I imagine it’s blood? What has happened?’

  ‘Stab wounds. Three of them in his abdomen. There seems to be an anger to the act. Obviously, this wasn’t the murder scene or it would be a lot more bloody. He’s been moved. You have a murder scene somewhere else. This is your dump site.’

  ‘So,’ I turned back to the male on display. ‘He was placed here for dramatic effect?’

  Fay tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘It would look that way. But those kinds of summations are for you.’ She started to walk. ‘I’ll leave you to find out why someone would do something quite so odd.’

  ‘Do you have a time of death?’ I asked as the clang of a tram bell broke through the air and the rails thrummed as it rolled into view. Time of death was the first question we always wanted the answer to. It was a jump off point.

  ‘From body temp and air temp, body weight and clothing, I can provide you with an estimate of five to seven hours ago.’

  ‘What do we know about our scene within a scene victim?’ I asked of the incident room once we were back inside.

  With a green tea steaming at the side of me, I was ready to work through this. I had DCI Kevin Baxter and Detective Superintendent Catherine Walker standing at the rear of the room, both with a stern look on their faces, Catherine with her arms crossed. Baxter, hands shoved deep into his pockets.

  ‘Who is he for starters?’ I clarified, closing the question down a little.

  ‘The ID in his pockets has him as Sebastian Wade, thirty-two years of age.’ Pasha read from the notepad on the desk in front of her.

  ‘And what do we know about Sebastian? Do we have his address yet? Occupation? Has he been reported missing?’

  ‘He was reported missing last night by…’ She checked for the name. ‘Nick Henson. His civil partner.’

  I rubbed my hand through my hair. They always had to be someone’s son, partner, father, brother. The victim was rarely a lone person who had failed to imprint on the world. The impact of a murder was far more wide-reaching than just the person who would end up on the slab of Fay Pride. There were ripples out from family, friends to colleagues and associates. One death permanently changed the life of many people.

  Those affected by a murder often felt as though their life had also been taken once a loved one had been snatched so ruthlessly. But a court, should a murder ever go to trial, only ever counted one life. The media only counted and reported on the one life. Investigating the murder, you soon came to realise it was a hell of a lot more than one life. You don’t live in a vacuum. You are more than yourself in the world.

  Inside the police, we felt the repercussions of the many lives affected and now we had to go and inform Nick Henson that his life partner would not come home to him again.

  I took Pasha with me from the office and drove over to see Nick Henson. Even though we had family liaison officers it was necessary for the SIO to visit the bereaved and touch base with them, assure them that we were doing everything we could. While I was there we could get some answers from him as it was so early in the investigation.

  The apartment stood on a beautiful tree-lined street in Mapperley and was set off-road with plenty of room for cars to park on its spacious circular driveway. Pasha and I stood in front of the slightly shabby door and waited. A dog barked from somewhere inside the next-door ground floor apartment. A warning to visitors that his domain was guarded.

  Then the door in front of us was yanked open and a man in his thirties, with a dark head of hair that stood up and who had as much hair again on his face, stood in front of us, barefoot, in jeans and a T-shirt. His face was pale, and as rumpled as his hair. Creased and lined. His eyes dark and hollow. You could sink into them and lose yourself, they were haunted. The missing report had been made late last night and looking at him, this man hadn’t slept since.

  He spoke before we had time to introduce ourselves. ‘You’ve found him?’ His voice was rushed. Pleading. He had made us as police. Last night he had been dealing with uniformed officers and today we turned u
p on his doorstep. The three words out there in front of us, between us, were loaded with fear, with a barrier, a wall, a demand for us not to tell him anything other than we’d found him safe and well.

  ‘Mr Henson,’ I spoke gently, ‘I’m Detective Inspector Hannah Robbins and this is Detective Constable Pasha Lal.’ She inclined her head in acknowledgement. ‘Do you mind if we come in?’

  Henson didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He looked from me to Pasha and back again. The darkness clouding his eyes intensified. Deepened.

  The dog continued to bark in muted tones behind its wall.

  ‘Mr Henson?’ I took a step closer, to bring this man back to us, to what was happening.

  ‘No.’ The sound was brittle. Hard. Suddenly he moved back and the door was closing in our faces.

  I pushed my foot forward and blocked the door before it clicked into the frame at the last moment.

  ‘No,’ came the shout from behind the half-closed door. ‘Go away. I don’t want to talk to you. Don’t come back until you have Seb with you.’

  I looked down the street, caught the confusion on Pasha’s face. I gave a brief smile of reassurance. We could do this.

  She would have given death messages before, but by the look of her, this was the first time it had been less than straightforward. Where grief was concerned you could never expect a specific reaction. People handled it in diverse and contrasting ways. All we could do was adapt as the situation dictated.

  Luckily we didn’t have an audience, as my quick glance round confirmed but we were pretty closed off here.

  I put my palm up to the door and applied some pressure. ‘Mr Henson, Nick, we need to come in and talk to you. You don’t need this on your doorstep. Just let us come in, we can make a call and get a friend or family member to come round, but we really need to speak to you.’

  He didn’t put up a fight. I don’t think he had the energy. The door slackened and I stepped forward with the momentum of his move away.

  We were in.

  And now I had to tell this man the news he so desperately did not want to hear.

  He turned his back to me and walked away, bare feet silent on dark stained hardwood flooring. We followed him into a well-lit living room, lined with bookshelves, floor to ceiling. On one wall there were photographs of the couple together and with others, family or friends. Different locations around the world, in restaurants, at home, laughing, enjoying their life together. Their eyes sparkled. Their smiles lit up the images. This was a couple who enjoyed life. The sun that filled the room came from the huge windows at the front of the property. Large bay windows that filled the wall floor to ceiling. They were stunning. The whole set-up was beautiful. It was a space that was loved. A space that was a home.

  Nick Henson sunk into the sofa. I took a single chair close to him. Leaned forward. ‘I’m sorry we had to come to see you this morning.’ I had to get straight to the point. He had made the leap himself. ‘You reported your partner, Sebastian, missing last night. I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but it’s extremely likely that we have found his body.’

  Henson didn’t move.

  Pasha was still standing, towering over Nick. I indicated she should sit. She moved over to where he was seated and sat at the other end of the sofa. He didn’t look as she shifted position.

  I inched to the edge of my chair. ‘I’m sorry, Nick.’

  He shook his head. It was a slow purposeful movement. As though he was feeling his way through each motion. Searching for pain.

  It was there. You could see it in the lines within his face. The droop of his body. The way it sagged under the weight of his grief.

  ‘He’s only been gone since last night. It can’t be him.’ Henson’s voice was quiet, subdued. Questioning the truth of the information I had given him.

  ‘He had his driver’s licence in his pocket.’ I pushed the truth towards him. ‘We will, of course, need you to identify him…’ I tried to get eye contact. Henson refused. ‘To confirm it is indeed him. And then–’

  ‘So, there’s a chance it’s not. It could be someone else. They could have stolen his licence and then got into trouble. It might not be Seb. He could still be alive.’ Now he looked at me. Straight on.

  Determined.

  ‘I’m sorry. I was…’ I couldn’t say at the scene, it all sounded so official to relatives, ‘there. With Seb. I think he was carrying his own licence.’ How to say the person on the ground was the person in the image? ‘I am sorry, Nick.’

  Death messages broke my heart. They were harder than seeing the actual death and loss of life. The human element of death.

  ‘We need to ask you some questions, if you’re up to it?’

  Again he was immobile.

  Pasha stood. ‘Shall I put the kettle on?’

  I flicked my head towards the kitchen in acknowledgement.

  ‘Before I do,’ I continued, ‘is there anyone you want me to call?’

  ‘No.’

  At least we seemed to have moved past the denial. I hoped.

  ‘You said you saw him?’

  This was also what I hated. This next question. I steeled myself. Took a deep breath.

  ‘I did. Not too long ago.’

  ‘How did he die? Was it an accident? Is that why he didn’t make it home last night? Please tell me he hasn’t been laid by the side of a road all night, alone and injured, and cold and dying and I could have done something if I’d found him. Please tell me he didn’t–’ His voice cracked and broke off as the truth hit him. His hand went up to his mouth and he let go of all he had been holding in. He folded in on himself as a deep moan escaped and tears started to fall.

  I crossed over to him. Put my hand on his knee. ‘Is there anyone I can call for you?’

  He shook his head and the tears continued. His body shook with wracking sobs.

  ‘I went out and I looked for him. I did. But I couldn’t find him. Please, don’t let me have left him alone in the cold.’ The words were ragged and torn through his grief.

  A fluffy grey cat slinked through the room before it wrapped itself around Henson’s legs in a figure of eight. The contact pulled him back to the here and now a little. His tears, still present, subsided somewhat. I grabbed a couple of tissues out my bag and handed them to him.

  He took them, scrunched them into a ball and wiped at his face. ‘There’s no one to call. Well, not family. None that I want here, anyway. And to be honest, I’m not sure I want the company of friends right now.’

  I nodded, though I wasn’t sure this was the right move I understood where he was coming from. The desire to be alone was high at times like this.

  ‘So, how?’

  I hadn’t answered his question but I had to. I couldn’t leave without doing this. I still needed to ask my own questions.

  ‘We found him on the steps of the council building this morning.’

  Puzzlement crossed Nick’s face. ‘I don’t understand. I presumed it was an accident. What was he doing there?’

  ‘I was online this morning, asking for help looking for Seb and the only thing people were talking about at the council building was…’

  6.

  Pasha handed Nick the mug of tea. She’d put three sugars in it, regardless of whether he took them or not. Nick needed it right now as he struggled to grasp what it was we were telling him. That his partner was not only dead but that he had been murdered and he had been left out in the open for members of the public to come across, and photograph and share on social media like an exhibit in a museum.

  Any colour that he may have had in his face was well and truly gone. I wasn’t sure I had seen a living person as pale as he was. If sugar was the answer, then I was all for piling his tea up with it.

  ‘What time did you last see him?’ I asked after all the questions from Nick had subsided.

  ‘He went out about seven p.m. and was due back about ten – ten-thirty p.m.’ He looked into his tea as if it would hold the answers. ‘I didn’t
look at the images properly. That’s why I didn’t realise. I wasn’t there to catch up on the local news I was there to try and raise awareness about Seb. Plus,’ he pleaded at me guilty for not recognising Seb in the image, ‘there wasn’t a real clear shot of his face. His chin was on his chest.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ I said. I needed for him to focus again. I could only imagine how it must feel to not only lose a loved one but to lose them in such tragic and public circumstances. I tried to manoeuvre him back to the questions. ‘And where did he go?’

  ‘To book club. He only went out to book club. But it drags on. They’re a bunch of old gossips. Plus, they like a drink afterwards. Seb won’t stay too late because he has to get up for work in a morning. So, when he wasn’t home for eleven-thirty p.m. I started to worry and phoned a couple of people. Then obviously called you at half past midnight.’ He pulled at his eyelid which was looking sore at the corner.

  ‘I’ll need details on the book club, obviously.’ I looked at my notes. ‘Did he walk or take a car?’

  ‘He walked. It’s only a ten-minute walk, it’s held at the Copper Café bar, on Woodborough Road. They just grab a couple of tables and have a chinwag about whatever book they’ve read that month. Have a drink, maybe order a bit of food. Generally have a good evening between them. It’s their thing. They focus on non-fiction with a leaning to true-crime, which is why Seb went,’ Nick continued.

  I turned to the bookshelves on the wall and for the first time noticed the titles. They were mostly true-crime reads. I realised this fascinated a lot of people. Seb was amongst those intrigued by it.

  ‘Anyone he has any problems with? Or have you noticed anything of concern recently? Have you had any problems?’

  Nick shook his head. ‘No one would want to hurt Seb. I know everyone says this.’ He turned to Pasha. ‘Please, you have to believe me, no one has a bad word to say about him. He’s loved.’