by Isaac, Jane;
‘What do we know about the husband?’
‘We’ve done all the usual checks. He was working nights and claims he was at home asleep on the day Sinead was murdered.’
Jenkins looked past Helen and out of the window. ‘Who actually visited Yvette on the night of Sinead’s murder?’ he asked eventually.
‘Spencer, Dark and me.’
‘Okay, we’re going to have to play this carefully. We can’t be seen to be investigating Yvette’s death or treading on the toes of any potential IOPC investigation. But we do need to check on the messages and any possible link.’ He looked through the blinds and out into the incident room beyond. ‘Send DC Dark. Dress it up as a welfare visit. Make sure she’s discreet and Mr Edwards knows we are not investigating Yvette’s death. She can ask him about Yvette’s relationship with Sinead and the messages on the day she died. Even ask for her phone if it hasn’t already been seized. Take it gently.’
***
Helen stepped out of her office to find DC Dark at the filing cabinets, a ring of officers around her, broad smiles plastered on their faces. Pemberton was drooling over a large box of doughnuts on the table beside.
‘Rosa got engaged,’ Spencer said to Helen, helping himself to a doughnut. ‘Are you going to eat one or just stare at them?’ he asked Pemberton.
‘There are no calories in looking.’
‘There’s no fun either,’ Spencer said.
Helen smiled. ‘Congratulations, Rosa.’
Dark beamed and lifted her left hand to reveal an emerald set on a band of gold, the stone clustered by tiny pinprick diamonds.’
‘That’s unusual.’
‘It was my grandmother’s. I used to play with it as a kid.’
‘It really suits you. Have you got a date for the wedding?’
‘Not yet. It’ll be next year sometime. Help yourself to a doughnut.’
Helen thanked her and chose a caramel number. The bodies around them dispersed. ‘I have a job for you,’ Helen said as they perched on the edge of a nearby desk and ate together. She passed on the details.
The mixture of good news and sugar seemed to disperse the tension in the room and perk everyone up.
Spencer, who was now back at his desk, shoved the last of his doughnut into his mouth, clicked at his keyboard with his clean hand and gave an excited grunt. They waited for him to finish his mouthful. ‘DNA results are back on our syringe,’ he said, licking his fingers. ‘The labs have found a match. They’re sending over the details now.’
CHAPTER 38
‘Forty-eight-year-old Gordon William Turner. Convicted of the brutal murder of twenty-two-year-old Evelyn Ferguson in Leicester in 1996.’ Spencer was standing at the front of the room now, reading from an A4 sheet.
‘What happened?’
‘Evelyn Ferguson worked as an admin clerk in the offices of a carpet company called Charlton’s. Turner was one of their fitters. Her body was found on wasteland. She’d been beaten and her head wrapped in cling film until she suffocated. And get this… her hands were cuffed together and there were cigarette burns on the insides of one of her wrists.’
A low murmur passed around the room.
‘There was no cling film or plastic wrap in our case,’ Pemberton said.
‘Maybe he’s changed his methods, become more violent.’
‘Let’s not jump to any conclusions,’ Helen said. ‘How did they find Turner at the time?’
Spencer scanned his notes. ‘The case went on for a while by the looks of things. The victim was walking from her home in Oadby to a friend’s house only two streets away. Alarm was raised when she didn’t arrive. It was a dark night. There were no witnesses. The police didn’t release details of the cling film or burns to the press.’ He was quiet a moment. ‘A profiler was brought in and he suggested the plastic wrap and cuffs might be connected to someone playing out a sexual fantasy. Detectives spoke with local sex workers and one came forward to say she’d had a client who’d shackled her with cuffs and wanted to wrap her head in cling film and, when she refused, he tried to burn her with a cigarette. He fled when her friends heard her screams, but she was able to tell detectives he arrived in a Charlton’s carpet van. Then it was a matter of elimination. There were only four fitters and two vans.
‘Turner was out alone on the day the sex worker was attacked. He also took the van home on the night Evelyn was killed. When they raided his home, they found extreme sadism magazines. Under the floorboards in his bedroom, they found video tapes. He’d filmed the whole attack, sick bastard.
‘He was given a life sentence,’ Spencer continued. ‘Apparently, he was a model prisoner, attended all the workshops, expressed remorse. He was granted release on licence from Bedford Prison last September.’
‘How could that happen?’ Pemberton asked.
‘The doctors assessed him, marked him suitable for release.’
‘That’s madness.’
‘That’s the system.’
‘If he was convicted of a sexually motivated murder then he’ll be on the sexual offenders register,’ Helen cut in. ‘Surely he’s been monitored by MOSOVO?’ MOSOVO, or the Management of Sexual Offenders or Violent Offenders, were a team of police officers who worked in the community, monitoring the habits and behaviour of convicted criminals. They visited offenders after their release, checked their movements and online activity to ensure they were complying with the requirements of their licence. Which meant they’d have an address. ‘So, we know where he is.’
‘Not quite.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘His case officer turned up a month ago, on a routine visit, to find his flat cleaned out. All the usual checks were made to track him down, to no avail. He hasn’t touched his bank account since and doesn’t have a mobile registered to him.’ A low-bellied groan sounded.
‘That’s not all,’ Pemberton said. ‘His case officer has only been dealing with him for six months, since he joined the team. Before that, his case officer was Blane O’Donnell.’
A heavy silence filled the room. Helen recalled Blane’s sergeant saying he moved from the MOSOVO team to training six months earlier. If Gordon Turner had been released from prison last September, Blane would have monitored him for three months before he left.
‘Looks like Turner singles out his victims,’ Spencer said. ‘Police found photos of Evelyn at his address, taken over a long spell of time. The sex worker said he talked about where she lived, the times she worked, even her clients. He creeped her out so much she moved home afterwards.’
‘So, he stalks his victims and learns their habits before he acts.’ Helen was quiet a moment. ‘Are you suggesting he got to know Blane, researched his family and developed a fixation with Sinead?’
‘It might explain her injuries. He seems to have a penchant for watching his victims suffer.’
‘Okay,’ she said, playing devil’s advocate. ‘How would he lure Sinead out to a disused factory?’
‘People in his home community were shocked when he was arrested. Called him a polite boy, a gentle giant. He worked full-time, still lived at home and cared for his mother who suffered from MS. Of course, they didn’t know what was found in his bedroom until after the trial. Sounds like he’s pretty manipulative.’
‘Have you spoken with his case officer?’
‘Only briefly, he was on a visit when I called. He said Turner was struggling with life outside prison, couldn’t get work. Otherwise, he seemed to be behaving and living within the terms of his licence. It came as a complete shock when he disappeared.’
‘Wouldn’t Sinead have known him if he was listed as wanted?’ Pemberton said.
‘His offences were committed across the border in Leicestershire. He was discharged to Hampton to keep him away from his victim’s family. Our local bobbies wouldn’t be familiar with him, there’s no record of him reoffending since he left jail.’
‘He’ll have been circulated as wanted though.’
&nb
sp; ‘Sinead might have seen his details in a pile of other wanted and missing persons. There are so many of them these days. Right or wrong, incident response officers tend to focus on those they know. If they spot them while they’re out on shift, they bring them in.’
‘Let’s work this through,’ Helen said. ‘So, we’re thinking he’d been watching Sinead for a while, planted the screw in her tyre that morning and then drove by, picking her up, under the pretence of a random stranger offering help. Has anyone checked his image against the ATM suspect?’
‘Already done,’ Spencer said. ‘MOSOVO emailed us the photo from their files.’ He crossed to his computer and brought up the ATM suspect up on the screen, then clicked a key and another face shot up alongside. Whereas the ATM suspect was skinny with a pointy nose and an angular face, Gordon Turner was thick-set with a flattish nose. They couldn’t have been more different.
‘Was his old address anywhere near the ATM?’
‘No, he lived on the other side of Hampton before he disappeared. DVLA shows no vehicle registered to him, but he was inside for a long time. He’s bound to have made contacts. Or maybe the car he used was stolen.’
She scratched the back of her neck. ‘If he attacked Sinead, why would he leave his needle and syringe at the factory?’
‘Maybe he shot up afterwards and forgot it. Or perhaps he’d used it when he’d checked out the place and didn’t realise it was still there.’
‘Okay, what’s the last known address we have for him?’ Helen asked.
Spencer reeled it off.
‘Let’s get a team out there anyway. Check it over. Speak with the landlord, talk to his neighbours. I’m sure this was all done when he disappeared, but it won’t hurt to go over it again. Get force intelligence to send their handlers out to the field, will you? See if any contacts in the community have seen or heard anything of Gordon Turner. The syringe indicates he’s been using and maybe living rough, so check the soup kitchens and the hostels too. And contact Bedford Prison. See what associations, if any, he made on the inside.’ She turned to Pemberton. ‘What about family, close friends?’
‘He has a brother. He lives in Worthington, on the edge of town. That was why he asked to be discharged to Hampton.’
‘Right, you and I will get out there and see what he has to say.’
CHAPTER 39
Once a village, before the town of Hampton expanded and swallowed it up, Worthington still retained a quaint feel with its sandstone cottages and winding streets. They passed the church with its bell tower and sweeping graveyard and continued up the hill to a modern estate, filled with an array of semi-detached and detached houses with long front gardens.
‘What do we know about the brother?’ Helen asked Pemberton.
‘Nigel Turner. Fifty-eight years old. Used to work as a welder until he injured his back in an accident four years ago and had to retire on health grounds. He’s lived here in Chambers Close with his wife, Nancy, for eighteen years.’
‘Any convictions?’
‘No, he’s not known to us.’
They rounded the lip of Chambers Close and rose up the hill to a row of bungalows. Number 43 was in the corner, separated from the road by a sloping driveway, a lawn to the side. Bees buzzed around the hanging baskets and tubs neatly arranged along the front.
Helen was aware of curtain twitches nearby as they climbed out of the car. The sun was high in the sky now, the heat radiating off the block paving. She could feel sweat on the back of her neck.
The door opened before Pemberton rang the bell. It seemed the neighbours weren’t the only ones watching their arrival.
A thick-set man with thinning hair and a short beard appeared, his free hand resting on a wooden stick. ‘Can I help you?’ he asked.
Helen introduced them both. ‘We’re looking for Nigel Turner.’
‘That’s me.’
‘We’re here to talk to you about your brother, Gordon. May we come in?’
He shuffled aside and cast a cursory glance at the houses opposite before he closed the door. ‘Go through to the front room.’
They followed his direction into a bright and airy sitting room. Soft pink walls co-ordinated with a thick-pile grey carpet that squished beneath Helen’s boots.
Nigel lifted a blue Persian cat off the sofa and indicated for them to sit. ‘Can I get you a tea or coffee?’ he asked.
‘We’re fine, thank you,’ Helen said, perching on the edge of the sofa in an effort not to spoil a display of cushions behind her. The cat brushed up against her ankles and purred. ‘Do you have any idea where we might find your brother?’
‘Why? What’s he done now?’
Helen bypassed the question. ‘We need to speak to him in connection with an investigation.’
Nigel levered himself into an armchair with a wince and balanced his stick beside him. ‘I have no idea where he is. Haven’t seen him for ages.’
‘Has he been in contact? Phoned at all?’
‘No. What’s the investigation?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t share the details.’
The drone of bees sounded through the open bay windows.
‘I can only tell you the same as I told the officer that came knocking when he disappeared. Last time I heard from Gordon was four weeks ago and that was only the second time I’ve spoken with him in the last year. We’re not exactly close.’
‘You did maintain some contact then?’
‘Gordon called me when he was released from prison, told me he was living in Hampton and asked to meet up. I was shocked, to be honest. We hadn’t been in touch for years.’
‘How did he seem when you met him?’
‘Okay, I suppose. We were like strangers really. Jenny, my wife, didn’t want him anywhere near us, so I met him in secret.’ He grimaced. ‘I felt a bit bad really because he was living in a drab flat on East Grove. He kept going on about the mistakes he’d made, how sorry he was. Oh, I don’t know. I had my family to think of. My kids are grown up and live nearby. I don’t want him contacting them.’ He glanced at the window and shifted in his seat.
Helen desperately wanted to ask him about their latest meeting, but he seemed on edge.
‘Were you close when you were young?’ she asked.
He surveyed her suspiciously. ‘Not particularly. Gordon’s ten years younger than me. I left home when he was eight.’
‘I understand he cared for your mother.’
‘Yes, sort of. She was diagnosed with MS and had to give up work in the end. We all rallied around. Gordon lived with her, so he took the lion’s share. Until he was arrested, of course.’ His face tightened. ‘I don’t see how this is relevant.’
‘We’re looking for contacts, Mr Turner. People that Gordon might be staying with. Maybe you have some mutual associations, or family?’
‘There’s only us. Our mother died years ago. We’ve no other family, not that we keep in contact with.’
‘Why don’t you tell me about the trial?’
His cheeks billowed as he exhaled. ‘There’s not much to say really. We all knew the case, it shocked everyone where we lived in Oadby. She was a local girl. It was even more of a shock when they arrested our Gordon. I mean, he’s always been an odd fish. Spent a lot of time in his room. Never had a girlfriend. I used to tease him about being a mummy’s boy. What they found in his bedroom… I was gobsmacked.’
‘How did your mother react?’
‘She didn’t believe it. Not a word. Argued with the police. Accused them of fitting him up. Fought for his release. That’s before we knew what they’d recovered from his room, mind you, the video, the magazines.’ He paled. ‘You think you know someone…’
‘Did you attend the trial?’
He nodded. ‘Mum wanted to go every day. Wanted to watch his face as everything uncovered. I think she was still hoping for a reprieve, some scrap of evidence to clear him. When we heard what he’d done to that poor girl,’ his voice sank to a whisper, ‘she col
lapsed in court. Three months later she was dead. I don’t think she ever fully recovered.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Helen paused. ‘Did you keep in touch with him afterwards?’ she asked eventually.
‘I couldn’t bring myself to. We were still living on the same estate in Leicester. Close to the family of the dead girl. People spat at us, shouted things in the street. It nearly finished off my wife. After Mum died, we sold up and moved here, where people didn’t know us. I changed jobs and we left it all behind us. Until that phone call last year. I was so angry he’d chosen to come to Hampton to live and tracked me down. I mean, how dare he? After everything he’s put us through.’
‘How was your brother when you last saw him?’
‘A bit out of sorts actually. I wondered about talking to the police at the time, but I didn’t want to get involved, and I didn’t want Jenny to find out I’d seen him. She’s been upset enough.’
‘How do you mean, “out of sorts”?’
‘He called me out the blue, said he needed to talk. I tried to turn him down, cut him off. He just kept calling. He seemed desperate. So, I agreed to meet him in town at Hayes Coffee House.’
‘And?’
‘He was already there when I arrived, sitting outside beneath the awning. He looked as if he hadn’t changed his clothes in a week and they hung off him; he must have lost at least two stone. And he was uncomfortable, agitated. Kept picking at the skin around his fingernails. Looked like he was on something, you know?’
‘Do you mean drugs?’
‘Maybe. All I know is, he couldn’t keep still.’
‘Why did he want to see you?’
‘He said he needed help. Someone was after him.’
‘Who?’
‘He didn’t seem to know. Told me people were going into his flat when he wasn’t there, moving stuff. He seemed paranoid. Kept looking about. Freaked me out a bit, to be honest.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I gave him thirty quid, to clean himself up, and told him to talk to the police. The next I heard was when your officer came to the door and told me he was missing. That was about four weeks ago.’ He shot another furtive glance at the window.
