the other Son

Chapter 24

Doctor Frandsen's autopsy report arrived in the late afternoon. The victim had been identified via his dental records – Colm Stewart, thirty-six, employed at a callcenter, single. Against all odds the cause of death was indeed suffocating on that gravel, Frandsen had found small stones in his stomach and trachea too. And since Colm Stewart had been high as a kite on meth he likely hadn't put up much of a fight.

Lesza felt a wave of exhaustion sweep over him.

They had so many leads, so many hints and breadcrumbs strewn all across the coastline but nothing led them anywhere, just more information that didn't fit in and pulled them in another direction. The Why was as elusive as the culprit behind all of it.

He stared at the board on the wall where Colm Stewart had joined Martin Guttman. A bit more than two weeks separated their deaths – Lesza hoped the murderer didn't continue at that speed otherwise they would find a third victim soon.

What happened behind that door?

Sorcha had spent an unholy amount of time trying to find out who owned the building in the first place, navigating through a maze of front companies and property managers and sub-companies and uncooperative employees – Lesza had never seen her so fed-up. At least it was certain there was something shady going on in that warehouse.

Sorcha had gone off to visit a friend in another department, hoping to acquire some information over a cup of coffee. Colm Stewart had been on drugs so maybe they were dealing with some sort of distribution point in Ramsgate and the department for organized crime on the first floor knew something about it. Lesza didn't believe in an explanation that easy. And why was Martin Guttman killed then?

The metallic gleam drove into him and he gasped, almost surprised. Hot blood poured over the front of his white shirt.

"Remember what you've done to her!" The man brought the metallic gleam down again and he tried to get him off of him, weakly pushing at his scrawny shoulders. His hands were slick with dark blood.

Remember what you've done to her.

Her.

Line Sander? A jealous boyfriend? Though Line Sander hadn't been a victim of assault or rape and even mentioned liking Martin Guttman. Again, a jealous boyfriend who couldn't stand her liking a client?

He scribbled down a note to ask her about it, her or one of her flatmates. He had an inkling Line Sander might be inclined to lie to his face whereas her flatmates had no reason to.

-the figure loomed over him, illuminated by street lights in the distance.

"Please-" His own voice was foreign, garbled.

Shivering slightly, Lesza adjusted his white shirt, fiddling with the collar. Would he see more than a hooded figure in Colm Stewart's memories? A dark, angry figure forcing gravel into his mouth until he couldn't breathe anymore, a gruesome death?

Lesza ran a hand over his face. It was a risk, had been a great risk the first time. He still flinched when he remembered the trembling circle of salt and oak leaves and the violent shadows longing to tear into his flesh. For agonizing seconds he'd been sure he'd die - the certainty still haunted him.

Even Dusan – a man who very firmly believed in learning from one's mistakes and thus had watched Lesza add the wrong herb, drink the concoction and ultimately puke his guts out for three days straight – would tell him to get his head straight and discard the idea immediately.

Furthermore, how was he supposed to explain this to Sorcha? He couldn't arrest someone with virtually no justification other than something straight out of Harry Potter. And what about his superiors, Smith and Silvertsen? He couldn't really tell them "Hey, I extracted a dead man's memory - this is his killer." Getting kicked off of the police force would be the least of his troubles in that case.

In his peripheral vision he saw something metallic gleam. Was it-

"Sir?"

Lesza waved Begbie in and hoped the Constable didn't see how much his hand shook.

Begbie hesitated and finally sat down at Sorcha's desk, nervously glancing at the door as if expecting her to appear out of thin air and take revenge.

"S-So, uh, I concentrated on the time between the first victim and yesterday evening," Begbie explained while his fingers flew over the keyboard. "I figured the murderer must've come back to look for his next victim."

Lesza Rose from his seat and walked around the desk to look over Begbie's shoulder. "What did you find?"

The street in Ramsgate filled the screen. It was really just an alley, rot and decay everywhere.

"There's plenty of, uh, regulars?" Begbie ducked his head. "Many reoccurring customers? Quite a few of, uh, them were in our system and I managed to identify them. I think, uh, you know, it might be, uh, a b-business like Polly Anderson is running, a, uh-"

"A brothel."

Begbie blushed all the way to the tips of his ears and nodded quickly.

"Did any of those regulars catch your eye?"

The Constable shook his head. "Their previous convictions vary but I didn't find any connection to Martin Guttman or Colm Stewart, apart from their, uh, leisure activities."

"What about the ones you couldn't identify?"

"They usually stay for one or two hours and I didn't see anyone arguing or getting into a fight with one of our victims. They go in, come back out and go their way. Some buy a beer at the shop afterwards. I can show you the unidentified, uh, visitors."

"Yes, please," Lesza agreed with a nod and leaned forward with curiosity, resting his hands on Sorcha's desk.

Begbie clicked through an abundance of short clips showing a variety of customers – some were dressed prim and proper like Martin Gutman, others skirted around the door in dirty shoes and ripped pants, movements equally as jerky as Colm Stewart's.

"Stop!"

Begbie jumped and quickly paused the recording.

"Rewind." Lesza's eyes were glued to the screen showing another rainy scene. A figure in a long, black coat stood just outside the fish-and-chips shop, a can of beer in his right hand. Long minutes passed. Lesza's pulse was racing.

The man dropped the beer into a trash can without drinking any of it and crossed the street. He entered the building, the door fell shut and Lesza huffed out a breath.

"Can we see his face anywhere?"

Begbie threw him a confused look but shook his head. "No. He keeps his head down. That's why I couldn't identify him."

Lesza pressed his lips firmly together. He didn't need some software to tell him who this was. The height, the dark hair trimmed short at the back and the sides – a haircut that wasn't particularly popular at the moment – and the way he moved. Lesza would've bet money that this was Tristan fucking Kinlaw.

"Send me that clip."

Begbie furrowed his eyebrows. "Uh, just this one?"

"Yes." Lesza returned to his side of the office and angrily glowered down at the file on his desk.

Tristan fucking Kinlaw.

There had to be something about him and Lesza was sure the guy had more than a little bit of dirt on his hands. Cornering him would be difficult though, especially since DS Silvertsen had told Lesza to stay away from him. Some CCTV footage showing him entering a brothel – illegal or not – was by far not enough to treat him as a suspect.

He needed to find some sort of connection between Kinlaw and both victims. Because there was one. Kinlaw had said so himself.

No one is innocent.

Especially not Tristan fucking Kinlaw.