A Place To Bury Strangers (Atticus Priest Book 2) Read online

  “Good morning,” he corrected her.

  Mack looked up at the clock on the wall. “You’re right. Good morning. For the purposes of the recording, I’d just like you to identify yourself with your full name and give us your date of birth.”

  He started to speak, but was overtaken by a hacking cough.

  “Are you all right, Mr. York?”

  He held up a hand to indicate that he was. “Sorry,” he said. “Something in my throat—I’m fine. My name is James Alexander York, and my date of birth is the ninth of September, 1957.”

  “Thank you. I’m Detective Chief Inspector Mackenzie Jones, and this is Detective Sergeant Nigel Archer. This interview is commencing at one thirty in the morning on the nineteenth of February. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you say may be given in evidence. Do you understand this?”

  “I do.”

  “Good—thank you.”

  York looked to Aikenhead and then back to Mack. “I want to make a confession.”

  Atticus sat forward.

  Mack did, too. “What do you want to confess to?”

  “The murders of Alfred Burns and Jordan Lamb.”

  Atticus’s mouth fell open.

  “And the murders of the five girls that you’ve been digging up at Imber.”

  Atticus stared at the screen in stupefaction.

  Mack was stunned, too, but mastered it quickly. “You understand what you’re saying, Mr. York? You understand the consequences?”

  “I do.”

  “And you’ve spoken to Mr. Aikenhead about this?”

  “He has,” the solicitor replied.

  “Why are you telling us this now?”

  “Because I’ve had to live with unbearable guilt for twenty years. And I don’t want to do that anymore. It’s ruined my life. It’s ruined my relationship with my daughter. It’s enough.”

  Mack turned her head to glance up at the camera, as if she might be able to check that Atticus was watching.

  “Start from the beginning,” Archer said.

  “It started with Alf,” York said. “Alfred Burns. I knew him from the army. We were both in the Green Jackets. Served in Northern Ireland together. Patrolled together. I got to know him pretty well. We spent a lot of time on OP duty.”

  “What’s that?” Archer said.

  “Static, overt surveillance. We’d both be in a sangar on four-hour stags, scared shitless but bored shitless at the same time. You get talking to the bloke you’re with in a situation like that and we talked about anything and everything. There was this one time when we were on stag together and the conversation turned to money. I asked him where he was getting all his, since he seemed to have so much more than me. He said he’d been moonlighting and that he’d earned enough to buy a brand-new Cortina. I didn’t have a pot to piss in back then—I was completely broke—and when he asked me if I wanted to earn a little extra, I was interested. He said he knew a bloke who knew a bloke who was selling drugs to kids in Londonderry. The IRA were kneecapping anyone they suspected of dealing, and Alf’s plan was to pretend to be them, kick our way into this bloke’s house and rob him.”

  “Just the two of you?”

  “To start with. It was just like he said. We went in, pointed our guns in his face, took his money and ran. I regret what happened now. It was a stupid idea, but when you’re stuck in a place like that, getting shot at most days, always wondering if you’ll make it through the end of a patrol without getting blown up or sniped… it’s a pressure cooker. An atmosphere like that can make you do things you’d never normally do. It’s not something I’d expect a civilian to understand.”

  “No,” Archer said. “I’m sure you wouldn’t.”

  “Just the one time?” Mack asked.

  He shook his head. “It was so easy that we agreed to do it again. Alf got information on another pusher. The word was that he had his stash hidden under his bed. He was a bit more of a serious proposition, though, not likely to give up the money without a fight, and Alf said he was worried enough about being robbed that he had a sawn-off shotgun. Alf said we needed a third man on the team, and he had someone in mind.”

  “Who?”

  “Richard Miller.”

  “The MP?”

  “Yes. He was an officer then. A captain.”

  Mack pretended to be surprised.

  York went on to recount the same story that Mack and Atticus had heard from Miller earlier that day. Mack took out the photograph that Atticus had found in Burns’s flat and laid it on the table.

  “You took this, didn’t you?”

  York nodded. “I did.”

  Mack scribbled notes. “What happened?”

  “The man had a woman living with him, and they both laid into us. The woman especially—she said that as soon as we left, she was going to tell her brother’s mates what had happened and that we’d end up getting shot before we knew it. Alf lost it. He shot the boyfriend, raped the woman, and then, when he was finished, he strangled her.” York shook his head. “I remember what Alf told me the first time we met. He said he was born with the devil in him. At the time, I thought he was just saying that for effect. I knew he was crazy, but what he did to those two was… I didn’t see it coming.” He paused. “We cleaned up and left the bodies where they were. We got back to barracks and waited for something to happen—it never did. The case made the newspapers, but they put it down to the loyalists. There’d been a murder the week before, and the man Alf had shot was supposed to have been involved. The police said it was tit for tat and closed the investigation.”

  “What about you?” Archer said. “You didn’t think to say anything?”

  “I was there,” York protested. “I’d been involved with Alf for six months by that time. I knew what would’ve happened if I’d said anything—Alf would’ve said it was me, and not him, and it would’ve been his word against mine. Alf knew I’d been in trouble when I was younger, too.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “A girl I was seeing before I enlisted accused me of assault. It wasn’t the way she said it was, but I got a record for it. I joined the army to put it behind me.”

  Atticus noted down that they would need to check that.

  “And then?” Mack prompted.

  “The Ballykelly bomb. I just got cuts and bruises. I was lucky compared to Alf. They had to take his leg off.”

  “Miller was there, too, wasn’t he?”

  “He was. The roof fell on top of him. They shipped the two of them to Musgrave Park to recover. They patched Miller up okay, but it was obvious that Alf was done. He got a medical discharge six months later, and I thought that would be that. I didn’t think I’d ever see him again. I certainly had no plans to.”

  Atticus was rapt. York coughed again and took a sip of his water.

  “I got out of the army in 2000 and took over my dad’s farm. I met my wife, and we had our daughter a few years later. I hadn’t seen Alf for twenty years—I’d almost forgotten about him.” He chuckled humourlessly. “That’s the thing with people like him, though. You can never get away from them completely.”

  “When did you see him again?”

  “Just after Christmas in 2001. I was in Sainsbury’s car park in town. I tried to get away, but I had a trolley full of shopping, and he’d already seen me. He came over and started chatting, telling me about what he’d been doing since he’d got out, asking about me and what I was up to. He said we should go for a drink, but I made an excuse and managed to get away from him. I put it down as a lucky escape until he turned up at the farm the next day. He said that we really did need to catch up properly, and that he wasn’t going to take no for an answer. I told him I wasn’t interested, and then he threatened me. He brought up what we’d done in Londonderry. I remember what he said: ‘Wouldn’t you love to see those pictures of what we used to get up to in the good old days?
’ ‘The good old days.’” York swore under his breath. “Anyway—he said he had something that I needed to see, and I had no choice—I had to go with him there and then. I got into his car, and he drove me out to Imber. Alf worked for the Ministry of Defence after he was discharged. He was in charge of the range there, and he had keys for all the buildings. There was a cottage near to the graveyard where you’ve been digging. Alf opened it up and took me inside.”

  Atticus had stopped writing. He stared at the monitor, fearful of the direction he suspected the confession was about to take, yet doubtful of it at the same time.

  York took a sip of his water and then straightened his posture.

  “And?” Mack said.

  “Alf had a girl there. Couldn’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen. He’d tied her to a chair. Dead. He said she’d been there for three days and that he needed someone to help him get rid of her. I knew that wasn’t why I was there. There was nothing to her—even with his leg, he would’ve been able to get her into his car and take her wherever he wanted.”

  “So why did he take you there?”

  “He told me later—he wanted a partner. That was the way he always was, the way he did things—he took me out there and got me into the same room as the girl. He knew how easy it would have been to say that I was involved. He knew I already had the assault on my record, and he could have brought up what had happened in Londonderry, too.” He sighed. “He told me that we had to bury her. He’d had the idea to put her in the graveyard. I remember what he said: ‘No one’s going to notice another body in there, are they?’ Probably fair enough. It was dark. I carried her across the road, and we dug a grave for her and put her in it.”

  Atticus could see the tension in Mack’s posture, even from above and behind. “What was her name?”

  “He didn’t tell me.”

  “You didn’t ask?”

  “What would’ve been the point?”

  Atticus gripped the edge of the table.

  “She was someone’s daughter, Mr. York.”

  “She was already dead.”

  There was a moment of silence, interrupted by the hiss of static from the microphone.

  “Okay,” Mack said, her voice taut with suppressed anger. “We’ll have more questions about that, but I’d rather press on. What happened next?”

  “I didn’t see him for another couple of weeks, and then he turned up at the farm for the second time. He told me that I had to go to Imber with him again. I did. We went to the same cottage as before, and there was another girl there. This one was alive. Alf said I’d been loyal to him and she was his gift to me.”

  “And?”

  York looked away. “And the same thing happened to her as happened to the other one.”

  “Who killed her?”

  “Alf did.”

  “But you were involved this time?”

  “I was.”

  “How?”

  He breathed in and was silent for a moment. “I’d rather not say anything about that.”

  “You raped her?”

  York paused and then nodded.

  “For the benefit of the tape, Mr. York is nodding,” Archer said.

  Mack looked down at her notes, her disgust evident.

  Archer took over. “How many times did this happen?”

  “I’m not sure. How many bodies have you found?”

  “I’d rather you answered the question.”

  “I can’t remember. At least five.”

  “You think more?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  Atticus listened and watched as York answered Mack’s questions. York was right-handed, yet he was emphasising his points with his left hand. That was an unnatural gesture for him, and he made it after he had delivered his points rather than at the same time. His mind was too busy telling the story, assessing whether or not it was being believed, and then adding to the story depending on that. It was artificial and, although he was good—well rehearsed—Atticus could see the effort that was required to manufacture a sense of credibility.

  “You said you killed Burns,” Archer said.

  “That’s right. Alf was arrested and charged. They found porn on his computer.”

  “Images of young girls,” Mack said.

  “I remember Alf’s reaction when it happened. He thought it was hilarious. ‘If only they knew,’ he kept saying. Over and over, he kept going back to that. ‘If only they knew.’”

  Atticus bit down on his lip so hard that he drew blood.

  “But then he had the trial and he got off. He told me he had to leave the country. Thailand, he said, for obvious reasons. It didn’t matter that he’d been found innocent, he said. The stink would stay on him. He was worried that what we’d been doing in Imber might be found out, too. He had no money—that was the problem. He asked me, but the farm was doing badly, and I didn’t have anything to spare. He went to his brother, I think, and then he left. I thought that might be the last I saw of him.”

  He shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

  “Don’t stop,” Mack said.

  “No,” he said. “I need a break.”

  78

  Mack came into room four and took the seat opposite Atticus.

  “Holy shit,” she said.

  “I thought something similar.”

  “What do you make of it?”

  “It’s hard to say from here.”

  “Is he telling the truth?”

  “I’d need to be in the room for that, Mack.”

  “Your educated guess, then.”

  “His body language is consistent with telling the truth. Not much grooming, no playing with his hair or touching his lips. He doesn’t sound uncertain or vague. Most people are light on details when they lie, and he’s been the opposite. It’s either the truth or it’s a story that he’s had time to cook up.”

  “What would you do?” she asked him. “To tell whether it’s the truth?”

  “There’s one technique you could try.”

  “What?”

  “Go back in and ask him to recount the story in reverse. Lying is more mentally taxing than telling the truth. Make it more difficult for him. Increase his cognitive load and see if he trips up. I’ll watch for behavioural cues—he’ll be less able to suppress them.”

  She said that she would. “What do you make of what he said about Burns?”

  “You mean, is Burns capable of murder?” Atticus said. “Definitely. I always said so. That’s why I didn’t stop working his case. But I would’ve said that he was building up to it rather than already having done it… Still, much as I hate to admit it, it’s not impossible I was wrong. You know what he was like when we had him in here—very hard to read.”

  Atticus saw movement on the screen, and first Aikenhead and then York took their seats again, setting two fresh plastic cups of coffee down on the table. “They’re back,” he said.

  “Right.” Mack stood up and smoothed out her shirt. “I’d better get back to it.”

  “Make him tell it backwards,” Atticus said. “I’ll text you if I think he’s lying.”

  Atticus put his phone on the table and opened a text to Mack. He watched as Mack and Archer took their seats opposite York and his solicitor once more. She started the recording again and then asked York to repeat what he had just said, but, this time, asked him to work backwards. Atticus watched carefully, still frustrated that he was having to make an assessment remotely, but hopeful the camera might reveal the body language that might indicate the truthfulness of York’s testimony. A liar would exert much more mental energy toward controlling his behaviour and evaluating the responses of the person to whom the lie was being told.

  York was a little slower in the retelling, but not dramatically so. His hands fluttered a little more than they had before, but Atticus couldn’t tell whether it was just from an increase in stress from the interview itself, or whether he was having greater difficulty in keeping his facts aligned. Atticus watched
the interview as his phone’s screen faded off; he didn’t do anything to keep it awake.

  “So,” Mack said, “you said Burns went to Thailand.”

  “That’s right. He was gone for months. I’d almost forgotten him, but then he called me. He said he’d come back again because he’d run out of money. He wanted me to give him some. I still didn’t have anything to spare, so I told him no. It didn’t make any difference. He said that I was lying. He told me that I should sell some land. ‘You’ve got enough of it,’ he said. ‘You can spare some to help a mate.’ When that didn’t work, he threatened me again. He said he’d follow Molly to college and tell her what we’d been doing. The girls at Imber. I was out of my mind with worry.”

  “You thought he’d do something like that?”

  “Of course I did. Look at it from his perspective—his life was over. He had nothing more to lose.”

  “Did you pay him?”

  York took a moment to breathe and then continued. “I didn’t have anything left, and, even if I did, I knew he’d keep coming back. I told myself it had to stop. I told him to come to the farm.”

  “When was this?”

  “Two months ago. December. It was dark—five-ish. He turned up. I had a bag that I’d filled with newspaper. I told him it was the money he wanted and gave it to him. He bent down to look at it, and I used my stun gun on him. I took a bolt gun that I use for euthanising cattle, put it against the back of his head and pulled the trigger. He wouldn’t have felt a thing. I knew I had to get rid of him, so I put him in the Ranger and drove to Imber. There was no one around, so I dug a grave, buried him and drove home. I burned my clothes, cleaned out the car, showered, and then had a drink. I thought that might finally be it. I just wanted it to be over.”

  He took the plastic cup and sipped the fresh coffee.

  “At first,” he continued, “it seemed as if everything was fine. Burns has a brother, but no other family and no friends. No one came to ask if I knew where he was. Why would they? I didn’t think anyone knew that I knew him. I tried to forget about it, but…” He stopped and drew the back of his hand across his eyes as if wiping away tears; Atticus couldn’t see whether he was crying or simply embroidering the moment.