DCI Culverhouse was incredulous at the slow progress of the investigation. Two bodies, one possible link to a cold case and two potential suspects. The only problem was that Gary McCann had, at best, a very weak motive for wanting Danielle Levy dead and Shane Howard had no reason to want to kill Bob Arthurs. He was sure, absolutely convinced, that the two must be connected somehow. The same MO, the same hallmarks, the same small town within hours of each other.
In Culverhouse's experience, it was extremely unlikely that the two murders could have been committed by two different people. Even if they had worked in tandem, or with some sort of connection, the likelihood of that happening was quickly approaching zero.
As he lay back on his sofa and closed his eyes, he tried to clear his mind of all extraneous noise and find some sort of purchase on his thoughts.
No fingerprints, no DNA evidence, and nothing to tell the families of the two victims. As much as Culverhouse cared little for the human race in general, he hated — absolutely loathed — not being able to give families closure and explain who had killed their loved ones and why. He knew how it felt to need answers and not have any.
This was it. This was the place she'd been told. She meandered up the short driveway, skirting the edge of the lawn, careful to avoid crunching the gravel underfoot with her heels. Being heard would do her no good.
When she had reached the front door, she stepped lightly onto the terracotta tiles and listened carefully, her ear pressed against the door. The only sound, and one which made her heart momentarily jump, was the sound of front door banging shut across the street. She stepped back behind the conifer to make sure she wouldn’t be seen.
There was no other sound. She tip-toed around to the front of the bay window and glanced furtively around the edge of the curtain. She had to position herself more perpendicularly than she would have liked, but she had to see for herself. The concrete felt cold through her shoes, hardening with every moment.
As she peered in through the bay window, she could see him there, hands lain across his chest, which heaved with every breath. Good, his eyes were closed. She could take a few moments longer. She crouched down and watched. Just watched. It was definitely Jack. And he had aged.