PAIN HAS A PERMANENT ADDRESS - READ BETWEEN THE LIES

READ BETWEEN THE LIES - EPISODE THREE

10  Simon Puttock looked pathetic in death.  Dressed in pyjamas and an old striped bathrobe, he lay crumpled near the foot of the stairs among the shattered remains of a glass-fronted china cabinet.  Blood had dried in a wide pattern across the floor.  But there wasn't enough of it for him to have bled to death. His face was obscured by a tangle of grey hair, through which the slits of his bloodshot eyes were visible.  His head was twisted impossibly far to one side, almost resting on one shoulder.  Broken neck, I thought.  For no reason I found myself staring at Puttock's bare feet.  They were calloused and yellow, and the ankles that protruded from the pyjama bottoms were an old man's, thin and hairless. 

 I'm no stranger to either crime scenes or violent death, but this was different.  I'd been expecting to speak to Simon Puttock about the UFO sighting and the sight of him on the hallway floor caught me unprepared. 

 A curvaceous woman in overalls knelt beside the body, humming absently to herself, she took a reading from a thermometer.  The tune was a Motown classic, though I couldn't name it.  The white-gloved hands were as small as a child's, and although the face was all but obscured by a hood and mask, I recognized the fashionable glasses straight away. 

 "Nearly done," Debbie Laurie said without looking up. 

 I was surprised to see her.  I had forgotten she'd taken over from Kira as the local Home Office pathologist.  Her gaze was as bright and intelligent as ever. 

 "Hello, John.  Good to see you."  

 "Good to see you, Debbie," I said, truthfully.  "I'm not criticizing, but I would've thought the body would've been taken to the mortuary by now."  White's face was impassive as she stared down at the body.  "We had to wait for Dr Laurie to finish another job.  I wanted someone I knew working on this."   "Was he married?"  I asked.  Noticing no sign of a woman's touch inside the house at all. 

 "He's a bachelor," White said.  "But he has a cleaning lady, and she found the body this morning when she let herself in." 

 "Have you found anything?"  I asked Debbie. 

 The pathologist considered; the thermometer held aloft like a conductor's baton.  "First impression only.  Rigour mortis suggest he's been dead for between eight and twelve hours, as does the body temperature.  That puts the time of death between one and five o'clock this morning.  As I'm sure you can see for yourself, his neck has been broken, which at this stage seems the most probable cause of death." 

 "It would take a lot of force to do that," I said. 

 "Oh, undoubtedly.  For anyone to break a grown man's neck deliberately would have taken a huge degree of strength-" 

 "Thank you, Debbie, we won't disturb you any longer," White said.  "Please keep me informed." 

 "Of course."  The mask hid Debbie's expression.  "See you later, John.  

Good to see you back in the mix." 

I thanked her, but White was already heading down the hallway.  As soon as we were outside, she began stripping off her overalls, her dark uniform emerging from them like an insect from a chrysalis. 

 "Are there any witnesses?"  I asked. 

 "Unfortunately, not.  But I'm hopeful after the press release." 

"Do you think the two deaths could be connected?" 

 White snapped off her surgical gloves and dropped them into a large plastic bin already half full of other discarded forensic gear.  "I don't think we can speculate at this stage." 

 "But these men both saw strange lights over Oxmarket forest and the airbase. 

Surely, that can't be a coincidence." 

 "I don't know, but at the moment there's no firm evidence to suggest the two deaths are connected in any way,” White spoke angrily.  "Hopefully after the press release, we'll have some witnesses come forward.  Until then, I will not have needless scaremongering.  The last thing I need is for the press to start running with unfounded rumours." 

 "Hardly unfounded.  It's a matter of record that Puttock contacted the local constabulary when he saw strange lights over his garden and that Steele was part of the team that chased them through the forest.  The press is bound to make the connection before long." I unfastened my own forensic gear and threw them into the same bin. 

 "By which time we will hopefully have the perpetrators of these crimes in custody.  So, until then, or we have evidence to the contrary, I'll continue to treat these deaths as separate murder investigations." 

  I understood then.  For someone as PR-conscious as White, she had two unexplained deaths to deal with.  The last thing she wanted was for stories to circulate that the killer was either a psychopath or a blood-thirsty creature from another planet.  That was exactly the sort of publicity an ambitious ACC could do without. 

I drove in silence for a while. I knew Yazmin would be upset; I knew it was better to leave things unsaid for a while. The rain had all but stopped, but puddles had gathered on the roads, sluicing up a steady spray from the tyres.

Another car came up close behind us, its headlights dazzling bright. 

 "Are you okay?" 

 "Okay?"  She turned sharply to look at me.  "I was sent away like a naughty child." 

 "I'm sorry." 

 She sighed and shook her head.  "Oh, I know it isn't your fault.  First, there was the shock of Simon Puttock being murdered, and then . . . Then I hated being left out!  But I shouldn't take it out on you." 

 "Don't worry about it.  It's been a rough day for everyone." 

 "That's no excuse."  She put her hand on my arm, and suddenly, there was a feeling of electricity between us. Of unspoken physical attraction and desire.

It broke when Yazmin took her hand away.  "So, what happened in the house?"   I told her about Puttock and how I believed there was a connection between the two deaths.  "We need to speak to the two patrolmen who were with 

Charles Steele on the night they saw the UFO." 

"Good idea.  Neil Woolner and Alan Woodhouse.  They live off base, and I have their addresses." 

 Satisfied, I turned my attention back to the road ahead.  Suddenly, the inside of the car flooded with light as the car behind us closed the gap.  I squinted as its headlights dazzled me in the rear-view mirror.  They were only a few feet away, high, and bright enough to suggest they belonged to a 

4x4 of some kind. 

I clicked my tongue in annoyance.  "What the hell's this i***t doing?"  I slowed, pulling over to the side of the road to let the other car pass.  But its headlights slowed as well, staying right behind us. 

 "Fine, you've had your chance," I muttered, speeding up again. 

 The headlights kept pace with us, staying just behind the Peugeot.  I kept glancing at the rear-view, trying to see what was following us.  But the glare rendered everything through the rear window invisible, preventing me from seeing anything. 

 With a screech of rubber, the headlights abruptly swerved to the right.  I caught a glimpse of a black 4x4, its windows black mirrors as it tore past with a throaty roar.  The Peugeot was rocked by its slipstream, and then it was gone, its rear lights quickly disappearing into the darkness.  

11  Oxmarket Parva well signposted, but each marker directed us further from civilization.  The roads grew increasingly smaller until I found myself on a narrow single-lane road, hemmed in by tall bramble hedges.  Bare except for scraps of dead leaves, they towered above the car.   

 Two miles on, the hedges gave way to thickets of stunted oak. Just as I began wondering if I'd missed Oxmarket Parva, I rounded a bend and found myself

in it. 

 And out of it again, just as quickly.  I had to carry on for another half a mile before I found a spot to turn around.  

 I had a bad feeling.  I'd hoped for a pub or post office where I could ask where Neil lived, but there was nothing, but a few cottages and a small church set far back off the road.  I pulled up outside the church but left the engine running.  I felt ridiculous.  Even if I could find his house, turning up on his doorstep unannounced seemed like an overreaction. 

 But I was here now.  I sighed got out of the car, headed up the path leading to the church.  The path passed through a small cemetery of ancient gravestones with barely legible inscriptions and flat grave markers overgrown with turf.  The church door was wooden, black with age and hard as iron. I tried to turn the handle.  It was locked.  

 "Can I help you?" 

The accent was pure Suffolk.  I turned to find an elderly woman standing by the church gate.  She wore a quilted jacket, a tweed skirt, and an expression as watchful as it was polite. 

 "I'm looking for Neil Woolner.  I think he lives in the village?" 

She gave me directions and called after me as I got back into my car.  "He's normally out walking his dog about this time, but his wife should be there."  We followed the road out of the village and found Woolner's house about a quarter mile past where we'd turned around earlier.  

 I pulled onto the verge in front of the overgrown garden fence.  Dusk was approaching, and the lights inside were on. 

 A flagstone path led to the house through an overgrown garden.  A small orchard grew on one side, its scrubby apple trees bare of leaves and fruit.  The air smelled of woodsmoke.  As I pushed open the gate, I had a vague sense I was trespassing, and that feeling of embarrassment we'd come crept up on

me.    

 I knocked, and a pretty blonde woman opened the door. She had a hand cupping her swollen belly. She wore her pregnancy well. Lucky woman. 

 "Can I help you?"   

 "Hi, my name is John Handful, and I'm looking for Neil Woolner. I'm a private detective, and this is Yazmin Nash, from the Oxmarket Mercury.  We'd like to ask Neil a few questions about the alleged UFO sighting over near the airbase."   "Not that again" She sighed.    "I can call his mobile if you like me.  See how much longer he'll be and if he wants to speak to you."  

 She took out her mobile and put it on loudspeaker.  ‘Hi, you've reached Neil. 

Please leave a message.  

 She left a message to call and hung up.  She looked worried.  I was starting to feel uneasy as well. 

 "Where does he go too normally?"  I asked.    

 "Over the fields and through the forest."  She pointed over my shoulder.   "Shall I go and look for him?" 

 "Would you?  It is so unlike him to be out so long." 

 "What sort of dog is it?" 

 "A black Labrador.  Sam." 

 "Okay, I'll go and see if I can find them," I said.  "Yazmin will keep you company while I'm gone.  Won't you, Yazmin?" 

 "Of course," she said.  "Come on, we'll have a cup of tea while we wait."  I set off along the muddy track, following the path that Mrs Woolner had suggested.  The terrain grew boggier as I headed further out: patches of viscous black mud pooled with oily water.  Several times I detoured where it was too thick to cross, muttering under my breath as I slogged about in my walking boots.   I left the track and trekked through the eastern edge of the forest.  I'd gone about a hundred yards when the hairs on the back of my neck stood out. 

 I wasn't alone. 

 I wheeled about but saw nothing.  Still, I couldn't shake the feeling there was something – someone -nearby.  

 You're just tired.  You're imagining things.  I set off again. 

 I heard a twig snap. 

I spun around but saw nothing. 

 I kept going but stopped at a clump of bushes. 

 "Jesus!"  I'd stumbled across the body of a black Labrador.  Blood matted the fur on its crushed skull.  I dropped to my knees.  

 I checked the tag. 

 Engraved on the small disc was one word. 

 SAM. 

I left the scene untouched and hurried out of the forest until I could get a signal on my phone. 

 "Oxmarket Police Station." The voice was familiar.  

"Hello Pat, It's John. I want to report a missing person. Neil Woolner, a patrolman from the airbase. He's been gone a couple of hours, two at most." Sergeant Higgins laughed.  "It's a bit soon to say he's missing if he's only been gone a couple of hours." 

 "Ordinarily, yes.  But he'd taken his dog for a walk, and I've just found the dog with its skull smashed in." 

12  We found a bloodstained steel bar lying near the Labrador's body, and the muddy ground around dog was churned with evidence of a struggle.  None of the footprints was distinct enough for casts. 

 Of Woolner himself, there was no sign. 

 "We don't know what's happened to him," Assistant Chief Constable Angela White admitted.  "We think all the blood on the metal bar is from the dog, but until it's been to the lab, we can't be sure." 

 We were sitting in the Assistant Chief Constable's office at the local police station.  Windowless and small, it could have belonged to an anonymous business.  We had come at the ACC's request, although no one had broached the actual reason for the meeting. Though, we were all aware of what it was. 

The tension was palpable in the small office. 

 "You must have some theories," I asked her.    

 "It's possible Woolner was the victim of a random attack," White said, "but it's still too soon to say.  We're not ruling out anything at this stage."  

 "In that case, where's his body?"  I said exasperatedly. 

 "We're still searching the area.  For all we know, he could have been injured and wandered off.  The dog was found half a mile from the main road.  That's a long way to carry a grown man, but there's no other way anyone could've got Woolner out of there.  All we've found so far are footprints and cycle tracks." 

"Then maybe he was forced to walk out himself at gun or knifepoint."  White's chin jutted stubbornly.  "In broad daylight?  Unlikely.  But like I said, we're considering every possibility." 

"Assistant Chief Constable, if you want me to help, I would appreciate it if you didn't talk to me like I am a complete idiot." 

 "That isn't fair!"  White shot back, her face darkening.  "I asked you here today out of -"  

 "Come on, you know as well as I do!  You can't seriously believe it's a coincidence that Woolner's gone missing when the investigation into Charles

Steele's death has been reopened.  And there's also Simon Puttock to consider. 

He claimed to see something strange on the same night, and now he's dead." 

 "Until there's proof I'm not going to jump to conclusions." 

 "And what if Alan Woodhouse goes the same way as the rest?  Will that be jumping to conclusions, too?" 

 I stared at her.  White didn't strike me as the type to be easily browbeaten, but I wasn't going to budge either.  

 "All right, it's possible there's a connection.  But it isn't that simple.  

Woolner has had mental health issues since the incident." 

 I thought about how Woolner had sounded so frightened on the DVD. 

 "So, you think he pulled a vanishing act?"  I asked. 

 "Like I said, we're considering every possibility.  Woolner's mental health issues made his behaviour a bit erratic.  He had been on sick leave from the RAF since the incident. With his wife due to give birth any day now, it might have all got a bit much for him, and he saw this as an ideal opportunity to disappear." 

"Even so, killing his dog?" 

"People have done worse for less.  And you might as well know, we found a clear set of fingerprints on the bar used to kill Woolner's dog.  When we ran them, we got a match with an RAF airman called Roland Swale.  He'd been arrested for an affray in a local pub and for grievous bodily harm." 

 "If you've got a suspect, then why aren't you looking happier?"  Yazmin asked.  She had been sitting silently the whole time during the meeting and when I had glanced at her earlier, she had looked as uncomfortable as I felt.  "Swale's offences have all been drink related.  And for another, he's away on a top-secret operation, according to the Base Commander." 

 "Convenient," I muttered. 

 "I agree," White said.  "But until Mr Swale comes back from his secret mission there is nothing I can do." 

 "Should we be worried?"  Yazmin suddenly asked.   

 "I don't know what you want me to say, Miss Nash.  I cannot read the killer's mind.  I don't know what he's going to do next.  I wish I could.  But even if he is responsible for Woolner's disappearance it doesn't mean anyone else working on the case is in danger.  I'm as sorry as hell about Woolner and I will put a twenty-four-hour guard on Woodhouse, and until some other evidence comes up, that's all I can do." 

 "Then we should just carry on like nothing's happened?"  Yazmin pressed. 

 "Within reason, yes.  I don't think you or Mr Handful are in any danger. Provided you take reasonable precautions.  I'm sure there's no reason to worry." 

"Reasonable precautions?"  I said.  "What does that mean?  Don't take sweets off strangers?"   

"It means don't go walking dogs in the woods by yourself," White retorted.  "Don't go down dark streets alone at night.  Come on, Mr Handful, I don't have to spell it out." 

 No, you don't.  I thought back to Isabella and Cowan Carter and their highly trained killer dogs, who had terrorized Oxmarket only twelve months ago.   "All right.  Reasonable precautions it is," I said.  "So, what do you think the chances are of finding Woolner?" 

 "We're putting our full resources into it," White said, her guardedness returning. 

 I didn't press.  We all knew exactly what Woolner's chances were. 

 Our meeting was interrupted by the shrill of White's desk telephone.  "Excuse me," the ACC apologized and picked up the receiver.  As she listened to colour bloomed on her otherwise impassive features.  The blush reflex is a hard one to control.  For someone who cultivated such outward composure, I imagined it must be infuriating. 

 She replaced the receiver and sat there in silence for a few moments.  "We've had rather a strange development." 

13  Salt spray stung our faces as the Rigid-Hulled Inflatable boat heeled over to one side.  I wiped my eyes, gripping the edge of my seat as we skimmed over the water.  The boat juddered as its bow smacked into successive waves, each one sending a curtain of cold spume into the open cockpit. 

 The smell of plastic from the boat's hull mixed with diesel fumes and salt-soaked rope.  A marine unit sergeant stood at the controls, riding the waves easily as he gripped the small wheel.  I sat behind him with Yazmin, Assistant Chief Constable Angela White and two other life-jacketed officers from the marine unit.  The boat was cramped.  The six of us shared it with a trestle table, a large box of forensic equipment, and two piles of aluminium stepping plates. 

 I jerked in my seat as the boat hit a wave head-on.  Yazmin gave me a smile. 

"You all right, there?"  she shouted above the noise of the wind and engine.   "I'm fine," I said.  I'd sailed when I was younger, and normally the choppy ride wouldn't have bothered me.  It wasn't helping the vaguely washed-out feeling that came from lack of sleep, but I tried to put it from my mind.    I stared over the RHIB's blunt bow as we reached the deeper water in the middle of the estuary and headed out toward the sandbanks.  They lay dead ahead, a natural barrier stretching almost from shore to shore.  They'd been isolated by the rising tide, but they were still exposed, smooth brown humps emerging from the water like a pod of beached whales.  Beyond them, where the estuary met the open sea, were three sea forts, built by the army and navy along the coast during the Second World War to keep German ships out of the estuaries. 

Strange structures that rose from the sea, but from the pitching boat, they looked like square boxes perched on pyramidal stilts. 

 It became blessedly quieter as the RHIB throttled down, slowing to make its approach easing it through the sandbanks.  They rose up like small islands all around, the waves lapping at their smooth sides.  It wouldn't be much longer before the rising tide covered them and made the estuary all but impassable.  It was hard enough negotiating them even when they could be seen above the surface.  Hidden by the high tide, they'd be treacherous. 

 "There it is." 

 White pointed at something ahead of us, but I couldn't see past her.  Then the RHIB slowed and came around, and I saw why we'd been brought out here.   Something lay at an obscure angle covered by a dull green tarpaulin.    The marine unit officers laid down stepping plates on the sandbank, making a path up to the tarpaulin.  The metal plates sank under their weight, water squeezing up around their edges.  They were soon smeared and slippery, but it was better than trying to walk across the wet sand.  Yazmin and I stood back while they worked. The plastic sheeting rustled in the wind and I glimpsed something smooth and metallic beneath. 

 "What do you think it is?"  I said to White  

 "We've no idea, but we'll have to be quick.  Another few minutes and it will be underwater." 

 She was right.  Waves were already snapping at our heels; in the time it had taken to lay the stepping plates the water level had kept pace with us, rising more than halfway up the sandbank's slope. 

 Careful not to slip on the muddy plates, we picked our way up to the tarpaulin. A gull hopped towards it, leaving arrowhead-shaped prints in the wet sand.  It launched itself into the air and flapped away, cawing in protest as we approached.  More of them wheeled above us in the zinc-coloured sky and paid no attention to what lay on the sandbank.  In front of the tarpaulin was a trestle table laden with masks and protective gear.  

 The ACC looked at me doubtfully, she was only now aware of what she was asking.  "You sure you're OK to do this?"  

 "I've been in worse places."  I'd already opened a pack of disposable overalls and zipped into them, pulling on gloves and disposable overshoes.  When we were all ready, the ACC was handed a torch by the marine unit sergeant, and we crawled underneath, one by one.  A hush enveloped us, as though the world outside had been abruptly cut off.   

The ground beneath the tarpaulin was dotted with small flags, like an unkempt putting green, each marking a separate discovery.  I had no idea what I was looking at. 

It was the size of a small car, rounded at one end like a torpedo.  Beneath the tarpaulin, it seemed sleek, black, and glossy like wet liquorice.  I couldn't see any break in the smooth surface, but it reminded me of a large coffin. 

 I crouched down for a better look.  

 With the palms of my hands, I felt all over it.  There wasn't a single flaw or crack on its smooth surface.  Then, I felt something.  An indentation, invisible to the eye. 

 "Anything?"  White asked. 

 I nodded.  "I think so.  There's a little blemish here." 

 I gently pressed it.  There was a low groaning sound, as though someone far away had been disturbed in their sleep. 

 "What have you done?"  White whispered. 

 Slowly, the black cylinder came apart.  There was a series of low electronic hums and the object split into panels, each folding back like the shutter on a camera. 

 White raised the torch and let the beam flood over the contents of the cylinder. 

 The curved interior was fashioned from cloudy, inky-coloured glass, obscuring, and distorting what were banks of instrumentation.  A single high backed seat like a throne faced the focal point of the room – a complicated crystalline lattice.  The convoluted strips and tubes of the opaque glassy material reached across to an intricate visor and helmet fixed to the head-

Rest. 

 I asked White to focus the torch on the head-rest, where dried blood was caked around the helmet and blackened the seat below it.  There was also evidence of brain and bone matter inside the helmet. 

 "I think we might have found our Unidentified Flying Object."