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  Clayton turned his head towards the door. Everyone else had left the incident room. “I can get Bullard to join you if you like — he’s going to the hairdressers.”

  He saw her frown of disapproval. “Hairdressers? Oh yes, Parker’s clients. That’s OK, I’m on my way,” she said. He smiled, amused by their banter. She got to her feet and picked up her bag, then turned back.

  “And what’s a spit valve anyway? Is it what it sounds like?”

  He smiled again. “Yes, brass instruments have them so you can let out the spittle which builds up when you blow into them. Haven’t you noticed them doing it at concerts? Sometimes it leaves a little puddle on the floor.”

  “Yuck,” she said. “I don’t get out to concerts. Video games are my thing at the moment, thanks to Ollie.”

  “Well I can’t claim to be an expert in those,” Clayton said with a grin. “But if you want to know anything about brass bands, just ask. I was brought up on them oop north.”

  * * *

  Clayton went back to his office and called Kevin Fuller in IT.

  “I’m coming down, Kev,” Clayton said.

  At Clayton’s knock, Fuller pushed back his chair and peered at him through his thick lenses.

  “How are you getting on?” Clayton said. “Good stuff, is it?”

  “Well, yes and no,” Fuller said. “I’ve isolated calls to one of his contacts. It was easy, because the calls to this particular mobile number suddenly stopped.”

  Clayton’s heartbeat was almost deafening him. “Right. And what’s the name listed in the contacts?”

  Fuller picked up a sheet of paper and pointed to it. “See here, the calls to this person called Lauren stopped four weeks ago. I traced the phone number to a Lauren Garner. Mean anything to you?”

  “You bet it does,” said Clayton. “Good work, Kevin!”

  The techie gave a broad smile and turned back to his computer.

  “Anything else?” asked Clayton, looking over his shoulder at the screen.

  “Nothing special,” said Fuller. “I’ll let you have the printout. But I thought you’d be most interested in that.”

  “Spot on,” said Clayton, and thanked him.

  He returned to his workstation and looked up at the timeline. He added the name of Steve Carter at the bottom. Parker had been the first to die on 21 September, followed by Kristina Manning on 14 October, then came the attack on Proctor, and now Carter had become the latest victim.

  The phone calls from Braithwaite to Lauren Garner had stopped between the death of the trumpeter and the cellist. About the same time as the last sighting of Lauren.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “All set, lads?” said Clayton, rapping on the window of a waiting police car. “Let’s go.”

  He had the search warrant in his pocket. Three police vehicles were parked on Bethel Street round the corner from Braithwaite’s house.

  The door knocker echoed in empty space. One of the officers used a combination of tools to open the lock and lift the latch, and they were in. The house appeared to be deserted. The same fug hung in the air. Clayton slipped on protective gloves and shoe covers and went straight to the double bass case, while the others scattered around the house.

  He wondered whether he was about to make a fool of himself, trying to open the black padded bag while struggling with whatever else was inside. The last thing he wanted was a wrestling match with an inanimate object.

  “Julie!” he called out. She was in the kitchen, sifting through drawers.

  “Can you give me a hand? This is a bit hefty.”

  Julie stood behind the case to support the weight, staggering slightly. It towered over her.

  “You’re right,” she said, “this is heavy.”

  Clayton examined the bag. “It’s one of those new-fangled things with a double zip. It shouldn’t be too difficult to open.” He tugged gingerly on a zip. What would they find inside?

  The bag swung open, revealing its contents. A six-foot-tall double bass.

  “Now what do we do?” asked Julie. “How on earth are we going to get it back in there?”

  “Oh, just leave it on its side. It’ll be fine,” he said. He could scarcely conceal his disappointment. The two of them laid the instrument down, the bag still gaping open.

  Clayton wandered into the front room, which displayed the same youthful mess as before. He surveyed the bookcase for clues. He took out a DVD of Death in Venice, then put it back in its place. Maybe they were Mahler fans. There were no CDs. The kids probably streamed all their music.

  He photographed the few books on the shelves. What is it with young people these days? None of them seemed to read books or newspapers. They were like an alien species to him. Then again, so were women — his bullying mother and toxic sister for a start. Immersed in his thoughts, he became distracted from the task at hand.

  He heard footsteps on the upper floor where the search team was methodically working. He went up to the bathroom where he opened a cupboard under the washbasin. Whoever had lived here had cleaned up.

  He went downstairs again and into the back room, where Julie was waiting. “We could do with opening a window in here,” he said. “A bit of fresh air wouldn’t do any harm.”

  He noticed that the door leading to the basement was open.

  “We’ve got two officers down there,” she said.

  “There’s no room for more than that,” he said. “Braithwaite’s drum kit is bang in the middle.” As he spoke, a cymbal crashed beneath them. “Like I said.”

  “So, shall we let them get on with it?” she asked. “I think we’re done here, aren’t we?”

  Clayton turned towards the front door. At that moment, he heard a woman shout from the cellar. Her voice bore a trace of panic. “Oh my God, what the . . .?”

  Clayton ran down the steps, followed by Julie, who stopped halfway down, staring at the small space filled with clutter.

  The drum kit had been pushed aside, its cymbal lying on the floor. Beside it was a mountain of frozen food, mainly packets of vegetables. The search team had emptied the freezer.

  The woman officer stood white-faced beside it. The lid was closed. The other officer, standing beside her, said quietly, “There’s someone in there.”

  Unable to restrain himself, Clayton opened the lid wide enough to see inside. A body was lying on its side with the legs pulled towards the chest. It was fully clothed, and judging from the size, it was a woman with long blonde hair. She was covered with ice crystals. Clayton didn’t need to be told. They’d found Lauren Garner.

  Chapter Twenty

  “Christ!” he hissed. “We’ll have to get Fifi down here.”

  He remembered the last time he’d been in the cellar. He’d even peeked inside the freezer. Had the body been there then? He kicked himself for not being more curious. But who would have suspected that there was a body under all that food?

  He went back to the car with Julie, questions pummelling his brain. Had Braithwaite murdered that sweet girl? Who else could it be? She was in a freezer on his property, after all.

  Could Lauren have been involved in Parker’s death? Did that mean that she’d been stashed in the freezer for weeks? If so, then someone else had to be behind the later murders. But who? Braithwaite? Proctor had mentioned two attackers. And what about the dead violinist? Maybe two of them had overpowered him as well.

  He stood by the car and called Bligh.

  “We’ve just put out a press release about the two other deaths,” she said drily. “I think that’s probably enough for one day.”

  “Also, ma’am, it might make sense to keep this to ourselves for now while we’re looking for Braithwaite. Just for the time being. He might return to the house if he doesn’t think we suspect anything.”

  “It’s a possibility, I suppose,” she said. “It’s a crime scene at the moment of course. I’ll have to see how long forensics need. Then I’ll have to get a watch put on the house. But we can’t affo
rd to have news of it leak out uncontrolled. I don’t want people to panic.”

  Now there was an understatement.

  They returned to the office. Julie hit the phones. Clayton did some breathing exercises before returning to the accounts of interviews which were still pouring into the system. Yet again, he began to sift through their priorities. This case was swallowing him up.

  What if the DNA on the trumpet was Braithwaite’s? That could be the breakthrough they needed. But in any case, they’d have to widen the search to Mercer’s place, and get a swab from him too. And from Jake Easton, the percussionist.

  He realised that he’d been so deep in thought that he’d practically chewed off the end of his pen. He spat out a chunk of plastic and swept it off the desk and onto the floor. Then he leaned back in his chair and stretched out his feet on the desk.

  He checked the data from Braithwaite’s phone again. There had been a flurry of phone calls in the summer. Clayton wondered whether that could be related to Proctor firing Lauren. They’d have to check those dates.

  And what had Sarah Cooper said? That she’d last seen Lauren ‘a few weeks ago’ in Norwich. Braithwaite had told them that Lauren had left a few weeks earlier. That all fitted together.

  They were back to square one, so the sooner they caught Braithwaite, the better.

  * * *

  “Boss?”

  It was Julie, her lips curved upwards into a smile.

  “It’s about Alex Parker and Braithwaite.”

  “And Braithwaite?” Clayton asked. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, absolutely. His wife said the family knew about his allergy. Apparently, it wasn’t just aspirin but also ibuprofen. She said he had to be very careful not to take any of that stuff.”

  “OK. But what’s the connection with Braithwaite? I mean, they’d know each other from the orchestra, wouldn’t they?”

  “Yes, but when I mentioned Parker’s friends and the possibility that some of them might have been aware of his allergy, she started to think about who, and remembered that he’d been good friends with Braithwaite, starting from a few years ago. In fact she said he was kind of like the son they’d never had.”

  “How come?” Clayton had stood up and was pacing up and down in front of the whiteboard.

  “They played together at a jazz club — ‘Dudes.’ I don’t know if it’s still there. Anyway, she said she remembered someone called Mark from those days, and that they’d been good friends until Alex joined the NFO. She didn’t know what happened after that—”

  Clayton interrupted her. “Because Alex Parker took Proctor’s side against Lauren, that’s what happened.”

  “How do you know that?” asked Julie.

  “It’s what Proctor told me.”

  “I see. May I?” Julie sat down. So did Clayton.

  “OK. Let’s recap. What you’re saying is that whoever killed Parker had to have known about his allergy. Not only that but they would have needed access to his instrument in order to contaminate it with the crushed aspirin.”

  “Correct,” she said. “And that could be Braithwaite, according to what we now know.”

  “Or Lauren. If Braithwaite told her what he knew about the aspirin allergy. Look, Julie, we’ve got to find out more about Proctor’s supporters. It could be that they’re the ones that are being targeted by the killers. I’m worried that they might not have finished pursuing their bloody vendetta.”

  “But where does Lauren fit in? Because it looks like she died after the first murder,” said Julie.

  She always asks the inconvenient questions. She’s good.

  He picked up his dog-eared pen and chucked it into the rubbish bin.

  “No idea,” he said, with a grin.

  * * *

  Clayton returned home that evening as tightly wound as a barista’s man bun.

  He trailed round the house, trying to distract himself. He picked up the paper, hardly noticing that it was an old copy until he got to the football scores. He chucked it back onto the pile on the floor. Then he investigated the fridge and took out a beer. Was it going to be another ready meal for dinner?

  His phone buzzed. He let the call go to voicemail. Luke Martin was the last person he wanted to talk to.

  He popped the cap off his bottle and, carrying his drink, went upstairs to the study. He picked up his guitar and strummed for a while, gazing out at the back garden, watching the falling rain. Usually he found watching raindrops relaxing, but even that failed to calm him tonight. His mental image of the woman skewered by a cello spike had now been replaced by the snow queen in the freezer.

  He wondered what Melissa was up to. Should he call her? It was half past seven. He shook his head. Oh, leave it.

  He picked up the guitar again. Focus, Clayton. He looked through his sheet music for something suitably difficult and lit upon the Bach ‘Gigue’ from the Lute suite in E minor. That’d do the trick. He set the music on the stand and had just begun to tune the guitar when the phone rang.

  It was Melissa with an invitation to dinner at her place. Fifteen minutes later, he was knocking on her door, holding a bottle of wine.

  “Look at you,” she said. “Don’t you have a brolly?”

  “Don’t like brollies. Anyway, a bit of rain never did anyone any harm. It might make my hair grow back,” he said, stepping inside. He felt an urge to begin shaking his wet jacket like a dog but hung it up obediently instead.

  He followed her into the living room and gave her a hug, rubbing her back.

  “So how did it go with your daughter?” he asked, knowing that Melissa’s daughter had been on one of her regular visits from London. He hadn’t yet been invited to meet her. Maybe Melissa was waiting to see how things developed. He couldn’t blame her for that.

  “I knew exactly when she was coming because deliveries in cardboard boxes started to pile up a couple of days before she arrived,” she said with a smile. “I didn’t see too much of her, actually, what with work and everything. She seemed to spend the whole time at that video gaming café while I was out.”

  “Well, she’s young. How old is she now?”

  “She’s still twenty.” As in, the same age as when I last told you. Melissa went into the kitchen. Clayton followed her.

  “Does she like unicorns?” he asked.

  “Unicorns? What are you smoking?” she said.

  “Oh, just wondered,” he said. “It seems to be a trend among young people these days.”

  She laughed. “And you’re an expert, I suppose.”

  He grinned.

  “Did you take her out to the coast?” Clayton was struggling to remember the daughter’s name.

  Melissa scrunched up her nose. “It wasn’t the weather for it, was it?”

  “When did she leave?”

  “Last night.”

  Clayton looked round the kitchen but saw nothing except a fruit bowl containing two bananas on the counter.

  “So what’s for dinner? Did she leave you with anything?” he asked.

  “Whatever I can find in the fridge, I’m afraid.”

  “Well, whatever it is, it’ll be a lot better than what’s in mine,” he assured her.

  Melissa bent down and started pulling things out of the fridge. He watched her deftly slice an onion and chuck it into a frying pan. Diced peppers and carrots followed. He busied himself with taking out the cutlery and setting the table.

  Within minutes, Melissa had produced a sizzling Thai stir fry with rice.

  “Dadah!” she said, putting down the plates with a theatrical flourish. They clinked glasses.

  “So what’s happening with you?” she asked. “I read about Steve Carter being found dead. That’s awful.”

  “Yeah,” he said, looking down at his food. He shovelled up a forkful. “This is delicious,” he said. She acknowledged the compliment.

  “You didn’t know him, did you?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “No, not personally, but I knew the na
me. He’s the dishy one, right?”

  “Well, if you say so,” said Clayton, remembering the swollen and discoloured face of the body in the bedroom.

  “To tell you the truth, I’m getting a bad feeling about this. It could be a serial killer.” As soon as the words were out, he regretted saying them. But it was too late. Melissa’s eyes widened. “The killer might start on the choir next,” he said, in a clumsy attempt at levity.

  “Very funny.”

  “How are the rehearsals going?” he asked.

  “We’ve got one tomorrow night. You can guess what everyone will be talking about. This has put the wind up everyone, including me,” she said.

  He reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “Yes, I know.”

  “Why can’t you find the person who’s doing this?” she said, unable to conceal the anger and worry in her voice.

  “We’re narrowing it down, love. But we can’t go and arrest someone for murder just like that, you know. We’ve got to have evidence that will stand up in court.”

  “I know that,” she said. “But three dead in the same orchestra, in Norwich of all places? It’s horrible!”

  “We don’t know about Parker yet,” he said. “I mean, whether he was murdered or not.”

  Clayton finished his rice, wondering how much he dared tell her. He didn’t want to worry her even more by mentioning how much they knew about Parker, never mind the body in the freezer.

  “There’s something you might be able to help us with, if you want to? Just a thought,” he said. She waited.

  “Well, you know Mike Proctor? It turns out that he didn’t resign but was forced out of the orchestra after dismissing a couple of players.”

  “Oh,” she said, “I hadn’t heard that.”

  “Anyway, the players ganged up together and passed a vote of no confidence in him, and that was why he left. We’re trying to find out how

  many people supported him — and who they were, of course.”

  He paused. “I’m not sure if you’re in a position to find that out . . .?”

  “Well, I might be. I can try, anyway.”