Morse and Lewis made it to the scene in record time, but there was little that they could do as they waited for the forensics team to finish crawling over, under and through the small mobile home. Morse watched as a steady stream of evidence bags came out of the van; he noted several sharp kitchen knives, a roll of black bags, a collection of cable ties, and other ordinary paraphernalia that, when added together, built a grim picture.
"Who called it in?" he asked.
"Highways agency," Lewis replied, checking his notepad, "an officer on a bike found it parked on the verge like this. It looks like it's been abandoned."
"He probably knows that we're after him," Morse said, and nodded to a white-suited SOCO who waved him the all-clear to enter the van, "either that, or for once we've got lucky and he was planning to come back. Come on – let's take a look around."
The two of them stepped up into the cramped van. There was a driver's cabin at the front, and behind that, a small kitchen area, bench, and, to the back, a shower unit and single bunk bed. It was cramped, but oddly habitable, and Morse was struck by the similarity to the canal boats Jackson had used previously.
"We've removed dozens of plastic sheets, covered in blood," reported one of the SOCOs from outside the van, "sir, if you look in the shower unit…"
Morse, careful not to touch anything, peered into the shower unit. He curled his lip – the shower stood over a square basin set into the floor – not exactly a bath, but certainly big enough to fit a body into while you cleaned it down… he swallowed his revulsion, and gestured for Lewis to have a look, as he stepped out of the van to get a breath of fresh air.
"Arrange to have it impounded," Morse ordered one of the uniformed response officers nearby, "and tell forensics I want it going over with a fine tooth-comb – twice, do you hear me?"
"Yes sir," the man said, quickly, and went off to make some calls, and generally to escape the fierce Chief Inspector.
Sergeant Lewis stepped down from the van, and rejoined Morse.
"I can certainly see how he did it," he said, glancing back at the van, "not why, though."
"The main question, Lewis, is where he is now," Morse replied, glancing at his watch, "come on. Let's go and have a drink – there's nothing we can do now but wait for the forensics report."
~*~
A day passed, and then two, and then three. The forensics reports that filtered through were comprehensive, and damning – Jackson's hair and fingerprints were all over the inside of the van, along with traces of Sandra Nelson's and Emma Sheriff's blood, copious amounts of which had been found on plastic sheeting that had been stuffed into a box beneath one of the seats. No jury could fail to convict Jackson on the weight of this evidence. It was exactly what Morse had been hoping for, and yet…
"There's something missing," he said, aloud, suddenly, making Lewis jump slightly and look up from his desk curiously, "what is it?"
Lewis shrugged, sensing that the question wasn't really directed at him, and went back to writing out the report that he was working on. Going on the assumption that they would catch Jackson, he was already preparing the evidence for trial in relation to each of their two victims, a painstaking process. Last time, they had been rushed to trial and the evidence had been shaky, based only on their oral testimony, and that had been rather sketchy at best – Lewis, who had been ill at the time, recalled spending most of his time on the stand fighting to stay conscious and coherent. He would not allow a similar shambles this time around.
He turned to the computer and began to type out his reports and the instructions to the Crown Prosecution Service, anticipating Jackson's imminent arrest. He was just detailing the links between the jewellery taken from a previous victim and placed with a subsequent victim, when he hesitated, something tickling his mind.
Morse, who found the noise of typing quite irritating, noted the sudden absence of the sound, and glanced up from his own work. He was hand-writing his report, which one of the secretaries would later transcribe for him. It was how he preferred to work. He could see a slight crease of a frown of concentration on Lewis's face, as he re-read something he'd typed into that infernal machine of his.
"What is it?" Morse asked, at last, breaking the silence.
Lewis jumped slightly, glanced across at him, and frowned, a half-formed thought in mind.
"I was just…" he pointed at the screen, frowned, and then clarity hit him like a bolt of lightning, "Sir! The jewellery!"
"What about it?" Morse asked, curiously, leaning back in his chair.
"Dr Russell's second pathology report says that Emma Sheriff's mother mentioned a gold necklace given to her by her grandmother," Lewis reminded him, "forensics didn't mention finding it in the van…"
"You're on to something there, Lewis," Morse frowned, "he must have taken it with him… He's not on the run… he's gone hunting!"
~*~
Lewis went home that night bone-weary and running on sheer desperation to keep going. Lynn and Jack, his kids, seemed to sense his sombre mood, and isolated themselves in their rooms. Val tried to reassure him, but it was a tense atmosphere that hung over the house.
"You'll catch him, love," Val assured her husband, "I know you will."
"I know, pet," Lewis replied, as they climbed into bed late that night, "I just hope we catch him before… well, you know…"
Lewis never talked about his work at home, but it was hard to avoid this case; it was too personal, smeared across the pages of all of the local newspapers and several national ones, with televised press conferences and appeals for information leading to an arrest. It was no wonder Val was worried – Jackson knew their address, and the presence of an unmarked car outside the house did little to ease her fears.
Lewis had just about managed to doze off when the bedside phone rang with a shrill scream. He snatched it up before it could ring again, catching sight of the bedside clock – 5:43am.
"Lewis," he mumbled into it.
A voice on the other end of the telephone told him that he had better get up quickly, as a body had been discovered in a field, and this was the address, please could he get there quickly? Lewis muttered that he would be there in about half an hour, and was already getting out of bed reluctantly.
Dressing quickly and combing his hair into place with his fingers, he got into his car, switched on the lights, and, gunning the engine, pulled away quickly. The two officers in the unmarked patrol car watched him go curiously.
"Where's he off to at this time of the morning?" the first, a sergeant, wondered aloud.
Her colleague, a young DC, smirked; "Maybe his wife's in the mood and he's off to find a late night chemist?"
The female sergeant gave him a disgusted look; "I wish I'd never asked."
They went back to their silent vigil over the house that sat in darkness.
~*~
Lewis eventually located what he thought was the correct field. He was next to a row of holiday cottages, both empty for the winter season. He wondered what anybody was doing up here at this time of the year – it was miles from anywhere, pitch dark, and freezing cold. He left the car engine running and the lights on, as he got out of the vehicle and had a quick look around. He must be in the wrong place; he would have expected patrol cars, or at least a response officer on a bike, anything – not to be standing on a dirt track on his own in the early hours of the morning. His spirits lifted slightly at the sight of another set of headlights winding up the road, and he waved it down, recognising Dr. Russell's car.
"Sergeant Lewis!" she greeted him with a mixture of cheerfulness and confusion, "what's going on? I got dragged out of bed with an urgent report of a body – is there any reason why my night shift colleagues can't deal with it?"
"Your guess is as good as mine," Lewis shrugged, "I thought I must have taken a wrong turning, but these cottages are definitely the address I was given…"
"Any sign of a body?" Russell asked, reaching into her car and picking up a torch from inside the driver's door, "I really hope this isn't somebody's idea of a joke…"
Lewis was about to reply, when a slight noise behind him made him turn. A figure seemed to materialise out of the darkness behind him. Lewis opened his mouth to shout a warning, but a gloved fist lashed out. The impact cracked across his temple, and Lewis went sprawling. Groaning, he distantly heard Dr Russell's terrified shout, and then a dark shadow loomed over him.
"I'll be watching," Jackson grinned.
Lewis tried to speak, but Jackson curled his hand into a fist, punched him again, and Lewis blacked out.
~*~