Cold Blood by Jane Heafield (great books to read txt) 📕

As he stuck a hand into his pocket, bell number two sounded. This one was his ringtone. His phone started ringing as his fist closed around it.

It was Detective Superintendent Sutton. The man he’d been about to call.

‘Sutton, perfect timing, I’ve got–’

‘Wait, Liam, I just got some lovely news from Sally Jenkins’ autopsy. Not cause of death, but an injury that says quite a lot.’

‘You’re going to like this more. I’ve got a real good clue as to who killed the film crew.’

Sutton’s reaction to the name Bennet gave wasn’t shock. ‘I already know, Liam. I’m preparing a team to hit the house. You want in? Arrest and interview. I’ll swing it for you, my treat, but we’re on the road very soon. I’ll tell you more en route. How quick can you be at the scene?’

With the line still open, Bennet grabbed his shoes, coat, keys, yelled upstairs to Patricia and Joe, and charged for the front door.

Stepping in the car to stepping back out: twenty-three minutes.

64

Bennet’s car met the armed arrest team’s van at the end of the street. The van led the way, Sutton’s vehicle following, Bennet’s car at the rear. But the gun-toting men in riot gear weren’t needed. The truck of heavies guarding Ronald Turner’s gates was still there, but only one guy remained. Seeing police, he shifted the vehicle and drove away, nice and casual. Bennet saw the man on his mobile, probably warning Turner.

Sutton, Bennet and another detective who’d ridden with the DCS rushed to the gate. Sutton used the intercom to call for Turner to open up. He barely gave the councillor time. At Sutton’s wave, the van gave the gate a nudge and bust the lock. It parked inside, in front of Turner’s car, but nobody got out. They weren’t needed this evening.

Sutton’s DC raced for the front door and rapped it hard. Police, open up. No reply.

Bennet and Sutton moved around the back, where Bennet saw a security light was on over the back door. Sutton tried the door, and it was unlocked. He flung it open and yelled for Turner to show himself. No reply. He vanished inside.

Bennet had seen this security light flick on once before and knew it meant someone had passed the sensor recently. He cupped his hands around his face to peer in the dark window of the surgery. No sign of Turner. And when he tried the door, it was locked. So his attention turned to the field.

Just in time to see the light in the stable office turn off. Bennet jogged through the dark.

The stable was unlocked. Bennet opened the door slowly, silently, and flicked on the light. Empty. He slammed the door behind him. It seemed like a cheap trick, but it worked. He heard a scrape from nearby. And below. There could be only one hiding place.

Bennet squatted before the trapdoor. The handle was a recessed wooden ring almost invisible against the floorboards. He yanked the door open. There, in the dark recess, sunken in junk and wires, knelt Turner, naked apart from tracksuit bottoms. He stared up like a terrified child.

Bennet said, ‘You know, after his downfall, they found Saddam Hussain hiding in a hole.’

65

‘Sunday, 2145: last known sighting of any of the film crew alive, when Francis Overeem checked out of the Panorama hotel. 0147 Monday morning: Keys meeting, at which a vote was passed to evict the film crew. 0245: reassembly of the Keys to discuss what to do with four dead found at Crabtree’s ranch. Accounting for journey times for all parties, this offered a four-hour time frame: 2218 until 0215. In that period, four beating hearts at that ranch became five. Then four, three, two, and one. Then none. Agreed?’

‘I would agree. How elegantly put.’ Councillor Turner was slouched in the chair across the desk from Bennet and one of Sutton’s DCs as if bored. His solicitor was in the station, but waiting in another room. Turner had chosen, at least for now, to be interviewed alone: he had nothing to hide. And he’d prepared: when escorted from the stables to his house to get dressed, he’d washed his face, brushed his teeth, and selected a grey suit.

Bennet leaned back in his chair, smiling. Interrogating suspects was usually something he left to trained constables and sergeants, but he missed the thrill of going face to face to strip the shield off a lie. Especially against this bastard. ‘0245: reassembly of the Keys to discuss what to do with four dead found at Crabtree’s ranch. But we know all about that already, so we’ll put it aside. Why’d you call that 0147 meeting? Why so late?’

‘The film crew left the Lion. Everybody thought that was the last of them, that they’d finally left our village. Then we heard they were camped out at Mr Crabtree’s ranch.’

‘Their location was kept quiet, even from Mr Crabtree. How did you know?’

Turner paused to take a sip of water. ‘I don’t recall. I hear things.’

Bennet’s phone was on the table. He clicked and scrolled and turned the device so Turner could see. On screen was a paused video. ‘This video was taken inside Mr Crabtree’s ranch at 2018 on Sunday. We think it shows a rehearsal for a confrontation with an unknown man.’

A habit of Bennet’s was to outline his entire interview in chronological order, then shuffle the notes before facing his foe. The resulting jigsaw was clear in his own mind but would tip a suspect off balance. Turner’s confused face broadcast the success of this tactic.

Bennet tapped the play button. Turner leaned forward to watch the short film, his expression blank throughout. Bennet had watched the video many times and could see without seeing: Overeem walking into the ranch kitchen, past the table with its fan of papers, to stand against the far wall; Lorraine following, but remaining on the door-side of the table; both then planning to retire, re-enter, repeat.

When it was