Gibbs growled. ‘Yes, you were right, guv. Revealing his mother was waiting for him outside loosened his tongue quite a bit.’
Travis smiled. ‘I met her. I’m not surprised. I’d be more frightened of her than court, if I’d been in his shoes.’
‘Still waiting for a decision from CPS on the Turner rape case,’ Johnson offered, from the second row. His attempts to hide a prematurely receding hairline were not wholly successful.
Travis’s mouth tightened. ‘Chase them again, I don’t want him back on the streets any time soon.’
Johnson nodded.
‘Okay, homework time,’ Travis said. ‘And it’s back to Gibbs.’
‘The land where the body has been found is leased by the Cowley family,’ Gibbs said. ‘Which consists of father, Jeff; daughter, Fiona, and son, Billy. Originally leased around thirty years ago by Jeff Cowley’s father.’
Travis nodded and turned to the only other female in the room.
‘Lynda?’
‘The Preece family own the land and have done for fifty-seven years. Robson Preece is head of the family and has one daughter, named Mallory. She has two sons, Bartholomew and Dale. All live together at Donnay Hall.’
‘Does Mallory have a husband?’ Kim asked.
Travis threw her a murderous look, as Lynda turned to answer.
‘Killed in a boating accident years ago.’
She nodded and closed her mouth, as Travis turned to the guy with ginger curls being held back by a Union Jack bandana.
Kim swallowed her irritation. Clearly she was not allowed to speak.
‘Penn?’ Travis asked.
‘Started compiling a database for missing persons. Working backwards until we have some idea of time frame and description.’
Kim was impressed. That was one hell of a task to start with no physical details of their victim.
‘Okay,’ Travis said, picking up the pot plant. ‘Wilma goes to Penn today for his proactive thinking.’
He strode across the room and placed the purple flower on the edge of Penn’s desk.
A murmur of good-natured dissatisfaction rumbled around the room as Penn performed a mock bow to his audience.
‘Okay,’ Travis said. ‘Focus is on learning everything there is to know about these two families. We have to rule them—’
‘Yeah, sorry to interrupt, guv,’ Lynda said, looking at her screen. ‘Just had a report come in about an attempted abduction.’ She continued to read the information on the screen. ‘Apparently some guy tried to haul a woman into a van on the Worcester Road.’
‘Well, as our newly appointed Detective Sergeant, Lynda, I suggest you get on it. We don’t have the luxury of working one case here at West Mercia.’
Kim smarted at the misinformed arrow that was aimed at her and wondered how long her mouth would obey her brain during these briefings.
‘Will do, guv,’ Lynda answered, chirpily.
It was as Travis began reallocating tasks that she felt her phone vibrate in her pocket.
The text message was short, direct and from Doctor A.
Get here, now.
ELEVEN
Bryant hated the smell of Russells Hall hospital. Or any hospital, for that matter, but this one in particular. The ever-present aroma of disinfectant always tugged at his memories, and he had lost too many people in this damn place.
His father had died in the ambulance outside the building when a second heart attack in twenty minutes had pushed his heart beyond repair. His mother had lost her life to breast cancer in the Intensive Care Unit, and it was where he and his wife had lost the two baby boys that should have been born before Laura.
It was those two losses that came to mind every time he stepped into the building.
And today, as he walked silently beside Dawson to the Surgical Ward, was no different.
The six-mile journey from the station to Russells Hall had also passed without conversation. It was woefully obvious they had never worked together closely before, and their working practices could probably not have differed more. Bryant knew his methodical, logical approach was viewed as ‘slow and boring’ by his younger colleague. And he himself didn’t ascribe to the gung-ho style of investigation adopted by Dawson. He had already wondered if he would spend all his time carrying out mental risk assessments.
Dawson’s methods often bordered on impetuous, and normally that would be the guv’s problem. But right now it felt like his.
Dawson spoke into the intercom at the entrance to the Surgical Ward. He had called ahead and the staff were expecting them.
They approached the desk, and Ward Sister, Jane, smiled.
‘You have five minutes. He’s still in pretty bad shape,’ she said, firmly.
‘How bad?’ Dawson asked, offering her a charming smile.
‘Better now he’s back in the land of the living. He’s in a lot of pain from the seven broken bones in his legs and arms.’
‘Seven?’ Bryant clarified.
She nodded. ‘There’s a lot of soft tissue damage as well so he’s going to be hurting for a good few weeks.’
‘Thank you,’ Bryant offered.
‘Bed two, bay three and your time starts now.’
Bryant immediately altered his walking pattern to reduce the sound of his shoes on the floor. Dawson did not and strode into the bay before him, his heels heralding his arrival.
‘Jesus Christ,’ he said, as the man slowly turned towards them.
The face was swollen and bloated, as though parts of it were being inflated at different speeds – and it appeared to have been coloured in by children daubing his stretched shiny skin with shades of red, purple and black.
Bryant could make out a row of about seven stitches above his left eye and another railway track along his jawline. His left arm and right leg were encased in plaster.
‘Henryk Kowalski?’ Dawson asked, although no clarification was needed.
He nodded and winced.
Dawson introduced them both and took the easy chair to the man’s left.
‘I won’t even ask how you’re feeling,’ he said, quietly. His sympathetic smile and lowered tone caught Bryant by surprise.
‘Can you tell us anything about what happened to you, Henryk?’
If it was up to him, Bryant thought, he would be asking short, direct questions to get as much information as possible in the time they had available. Additionally, the effort required by this man to answer open-ended questions was too much.
‘Henryk, how many people hurt you?’ he asked before Dawson’s follow-up.
He shook his head and held up one finger, two fingers then a shrug.
A few yes or no questions would have served them better.
‘Did you know them?’ Dawson asked, assuming there had been more than one.
He moved his head to the left slightly to indicate no.
‘Did they say anything while they were hurting you?’
He nodded.
‘Can you manage a few words, just to give us an idea of the kind of things they were saying?’
He swallowed three times.
‘Polish… bastard… scum…’
Bryant was puzzled. ‘They knew you were Polish?’
He nodded.