Evil Valley (The TV Detective Series)

by Simon Hall

  It shouldn’t be too bad in the store today. Mondays tended to be quieter. Most people didn’t stock up on their food until towards the weekend. It was enough of a struggle to get through a Monday, without the extra hassle of fighting your way around a supermarket.

  She’d got something to look forward to this week too. Andy would be working tomorrow. She wondered if they’d find time for a bit more chat and flirting. It depended on how busy they were, him with the shelves, her with the never-ending stream of miserable-faced customers at the check-out. They usually managed a few smiling exchanges though, didn’t they? Had been for a few weeks now and, she had to admit, she was enjoying the attention.

  She hadn’t encouraged him at first, had wondered if her relationship with Ed would ever grow. It was only fair to give him a chance, he’d been so kind to her and Nicola. But it had never really happened. He seemed happy just to be friends, and that was fine by her. He was a good man for a chat, the odd outing to the seaside or Dartmoor and Nicola loved him. But she had to think of herself. She’d been on her own long enough now, and maybe, she thought, maybe it was time for a man in her life again. And perhaps Andy was the one.

  She always made sure she looked her best on Mondays, a good pair of shoes, a little more make-up than normal. Not that it was easy to look good in those uniforms they gave you, but she did what she could. The only question now was – would he ask her out? They’d found out they were both single and there was an obvious attraction. It wasn’t easy meeting men when you were bringing up a young daughter on your own. He was a nice guy, a little older than her, but well-spoken, kind and funny. She liked a man who could make her laugh.

  If they went out, where would they go? For a meal? A drink? She could offer to cook, but that wasn’t quite right for a first date, was it? Somewhere neutral – like a pub – was better. Somewhere with no pressure on either of them, where they could just chat and see how they got on. Would she be able to get a babysitter? One of the neighbours would probably help. They owed her a favour. Well, that could wait. He hadn’t even asked her yet. And when he did, she’d have to be careful not to accept too quickly. She didn’t want to look desperate.

  She checked the clock. Time to get ready. The girls were almost out of sight around the corner, very near the school now.

  Nicola was growing up fast, but they did these days, all the other mums agreed. She’d put on a little make-up for that school disco, heavily supervised of course. She’d worn her best clothes and blushed so hard when that boy – was Jack his name? – had come to sit on the wall outside the house, trying his best to pretend he was just having a rest, but couldn’t stop glancing over his shoulder.

  She was on the cusp between pure childhood and her first tentative steps into the adult world. The contradictions in her were amazing. One minute she wanted to talk about make-up and clothes, the next whether she could have a pony for her birthday.

  Well, she had a wonderful surprise coming on Wednesday when she reached the great age of nine. Not a pony all to herself – how would they look after it? – but a share in one, courtesy of a kindly breeder, a friend of a friend. She planned to pick Nicola up from school and drive her to see the sleek, chestnut Dartmoor pony, that diamond splash of milk on his nose, munching happily at the grass in his paddock. The riding gear for her first lesson would be waiting. She could imagine Nicola’s face.

  How quickly the years had slid past, how very quickly. Nine now, and they’d been alone together for seven. At first she’d thought she would never cope, agonised about how Nicola would grow up with just her to provide for their needs, teach, love and look after. But it had become natural and they’d grown to be friends, comforts to each other.

  How she’d cried that last Mother’s Day. Nicola had come home from school with a card, not the usual, to a wonderful mum, the best mum in the world, not that. She’d written “to Mum, my best friend.” Karen Reece had lain awake that night, listened to her daughter’s soft breathing from the room next door, unable to stop the tears welling in her eyes.

  It was remarkable how quickly you stopped worrying, she thought, as that bobbing rope of Nicola’s blonde hair disappeared around the street corner, her slight, grey-coated figure skipping amongst her friends. It was only a few weeks ago, at the start of term that she’d given in. Yes, OK then, you can walk to school with your friends, but any hint of mischief and I’ll be taking you again. The school was only half a mile away, and there was always that lingering fear of strange men, hanging around. But she’d read in a paper it was a wildly exaggerated danger and you had to let go at some time, didn’t you? Start to give them some freedom? It was one of the greatest dilemmas of being a parent, when to loosen the reins.

  She was nearly nine now, her friends walked, she could walk with them. There were lots of other mums around, and quite a few dads too – these modern times! – and they all knew each other. She’d be quite safe, of course she would. The school was just around the corner, really. But it hadn’t calmed the butterflies those first few times her friends came calling. Nicola didn’t know it yet, would have been mad with the embarrassment, but Mum had followed, at a discreet distance, unseen, on the other side of the road, for the first week, just to be sure. She was fine. She’d been well taught, to be careful of the road and never, ever to go with a stranger.

  Time to get changed then, and work out what to wear today to leave something smart for tomorrow, something Andy hadn’t yet seen. Something tight around the top, she thought. A girl had to emphasise her assets. Nicola would be fine.

  ‘The bastard,’ Adam growled. ‘He really took me in. I can’t believe it. He was there, sitting in front of me, cool as you like and I didn’t realise. What a devious bastard.’

  He pulled open the top button of his shirt, loosened his tie, sat down heavily on the concrete steps outside Gibson’s flat, his face taut. ‘A right bloody fool he’s made of me.’

  ‘Me too,’ agreed Dan. ‘I should have realised he was describing me and my car. He’s made an idiot of me too.’

  ‘Yeah, but you’re not the Detective Chief Inspector here, are you? You’re not the one who’s going to get a rollocking from the High Honchos and who’s going to be the laughing stock of the force. I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a disciplinary for this.’

  There was a silence. Adam tapped a foot on the ground, then shook his head, lifted his hunched shoulders. ‘OK, enough of this feeling sorry for ourselves. It’s not going to help us get him. I’ll take the rap for it later. We’ve got forensics coming over to do the flat. They can look at the letter first, then we can open it and see what he’s got to say for himself this time. I’ve called the search teams off the hunt for the mystery man and put everyone on alert for Gibson. But where is he, that’s the problem? Where’s the bastard gone? Is there anything else we can do to find him, do you think? The key question is – what does he plan to do next?’

  ‘Yep,’ agreed Dan. ‘If he’s planning to do anything. Are you sure he won’t just take off and hide?’

  ‘I wish I could believe it. But everything he’s done so far tells us he’s got a plan and he’s going to stick to it. I’d like to think we’ve disturbed him and put him off his track, but that doesn’t stand up. He deliberately made sure we talked to him last night with that false info he gave us, so he knew we’d be onto him by this morning. Whatever it is he’s planning to do, he’s either done it already or he’s sure the fact that we know it’s him won’t stop him. And I just know he’s upping the stakes with what he did last night and showing us his flat. He’s about to deliver his sick little masterpiece and I don’t even want to think about what it’ll be.’

  Dan was quietened by the force of his friend’s anger. Finally, he said, ‘Well … like what do you think? What could he be planning?’

  ‘How the bloody hell should I know?’ snapped Adam, rubbing a sheen of sweat from his forehead. ‘If I did, I could bloody stop him, couldn’t I?’

  Dan had an urge to snap
something back, but pursed his lips. He could feel the pressure on Adam. If something happened now – some attack, perhaps some rape or murder? – the detective would never forgive himself. He had a chance to arrest Gibson and he missed it.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Dan said softly after counting to five in his head. ‘It was a stupid question.’

  ‘No. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t take my frustrations out on you.’

  ‘OK, forget it. Right … is there any way I can help? Anything we can get out on the TV to warn people to watch out for him?’

  Adam looked up. ‘Now there’s an idea. That could help no end. But you don’t usually do any old police appeal, do you?’

  ‘No, there are too many of them and they’re not usually interesting enough. But if we have a quick think we should be able to come up with something that Lizzie would go for. All we need to do is dress up a little story so you can get a description of Gibson out.’

  Adam nodded. ‘You’re the expert. That’s what you’re here for. What do you suggest?’

  Dan felt a momentary qualm, as if Lizzie were watching him. He knew what he was doing, and by no means for the first time. It was exactly what she’d warned him against, again and again: getting so involved he was crossing the line between reporting and becoming part of the investigation. She was spot on, as usual, but so what? What was the right thing to do? Behave like the impartial observer a journalist should be, or try to catch a man who might just be about to commit a terrible crime?

  ‘Well, what we – sorry you – put out, will have to be true, but also limited, so as not to cause panic, or hamper the investigation,’ Dan said slowly. ‘So what about something like … like … you’re hunting a man you believe to have assaulted two women in the last few days? You’ve got a description of him and you fear he could strike again.’

  Dan stopped for a quick think. It wasn’t striking enough to get on TV, to lure the viewers into taking notice and helping.

  ‘But you’ll have to go a bit further than that to get some real interest,’ he continued. ‘How do you feel about releasing the fact that he’s left a couple of notes taunting the police? That’d probably be good enough. It’s certainly dramatic. And what about the pig’s head and heart stuff? All the media would go for that. It’d make a really good splash.’

  ‘OK,’ said Adam. ‘It’ll bring all the cranks out claiming it was them, but if you say it’ll work and get us a load of publicity, let’s do it. The more people we’ve got keeping an eye out for Gibson the better.’

  ‘I’ll ask for the outside broadcast truck. Can you do us a live interview?’

  ‘Yep.’

  Dan again felt Lizzie watching him, remembered he should think like a hack, occasionally at least. ‘And can we have it first, as an …’

  ‘An exclusive?’ interrupted Adam, his glowering face almost lifting. ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

  They’d stopped, put down their satchels and rucksacks and were playing hopscotch around the cracks and joins in the pavement by the post box. Four of them, as usual. Perfect. He knew they’d stop here, had watched them often enough. They always had a quick game of hopscotch before the final couple of minutes walk into school, just as countless thousands of young girls before them had. He calmed himself, started the car, drew up alongside.

  ‘Hello Nicola,’ he said cheerfully as he wound down the window.

  ‘Hello Ed,’ chirped the blonde girl with the bobbing ponytail.

  ‘Are you winning today?’ He tried to keep his voice steady, sound normal, friendly.

  ‘No.’

  She shook her head, the plaited rope of hair flipping back and forth, skipped over to the car, pointed to another girl. ‘Vicky is. She always does.’

  The others looked over, smiled and waved, went on with their game. Perfect. They were used to him, trusted him, had seen him at the leisure centre enough times on their swimming lessons. He’d even driven them back and forth to school when the usual bus driver was sick or on holiday.

  He always made a point of talking to them then, but not too much of course. He didn’t want to arouse any suspicions. He’d stopped here to chat to them often enough too, all part of the plan, a friendly adult on his way to work. All those tedious times spent with Karen Reece as she yapped away relentlessly about work, or whatever problem or moan or ailment was bothering her had finally been worthwhile. Even those endless hours of the fixed smiles during the excruciating outings to the beach, or Dartmoor, or the Cornish countryside. All now at last worth it, all part of the slow, careful plan, finally nearing its delicious end.

  ‘It’s your birthday in a couple of days, isn’t it Nicola?’

  She beamed a sparkling smile, that slightly lopsided look of hers, showing the gap in her front teeth. It was cute, but he had to put that feeling aside. He couldn’t afford to like her.

  ‘How did you know that, Ed?’

  ‘Mum told me.’

  ‘Yes, and look what I’ve got already.’ She delved in her bag, found a glittering blue hair grip. ‘We bought it on Saturday as an early present. I’m going to wear it in drama class this afternoon.’

  ‘That’s lovely. You’ll look just like a princess.’

  He was almost there now, it was going perfectly. Just keep calm, don’t look around, betray your nerves, just smile, be natural, ignore the shuddering trembles coming from inside, the urge to grab her and go, just a few seconds more now.

  ‘Well, it’s funny you should talk about early presents,’ he continued, wondering if he sounded as breathless as he felt. ‘Because Mum has asked me to help her. She said I was to come and get you to take you to choose your birthday surprise.’

  He’d expected suspicion, hesitation, a need to explain, persuade. But it would have to be quick, he didn’t have long. He was ready with the next rehearsed words, ready to convince her …

  ‘Is it the pony?’ she gushed first, her face still beaming. ‘Am I going to pick a Dartmoor pony? Is it going to be a black and white one?’

  ‘You know I can’t tell you that,’ he said, managing a smile. ‘It’d spoil the surprise. But hop into the car and I’ll take you and we’ll see.’

  She picked up her bag and walked around to the side door. He opened it and she climbed in. He thought his chest would burst with his heart’s furious pounding, but he kept his voice calm, as calm as he could. It had worked. Perfectly.

  Just as it had with Dan Groves and Adam Breen, the night before. The raging nerves faced down. The script followed flawlessly. Another brilliant performance. A tribute to himself and the righteousness of his beautiful plan.

  He allowed himself the luxury of a smile.

  ‘Wave goodbye to your friends now, Nicola,’ he said.

  Chapter Twelve

  THE FORENSICS TEAM RUSHED through their sweep of Gibson’s flat. Adam gave them half an hour. He overruled their protests about the time it required to do their work.

  ‘I understand all that science being slow stuff, but he’s going to commit his next crime within hours,’ the detective told them. ‘So you have only got minutes to find something that might give me a clue what it is. I don’t need evidence to convict this guy. He wants us to know it’s him. I need to know what he’s planning. And arguing is wasting your time, so get going now. Now!’

  Adam paced up and down outside the flat, fiddling with his tie, while the white-overalled figures flitted around it. They’d examined the letter first, then opened it and brought it over in a sealed plastic bag for Adam to read. Then they’d spread out over the rest of the flat taking scrapings and samples from the floor, checking furniture for powders, fibres, residue, anything that might give a hint about what Gibson planned.

  The letter was the longest message so far, neatly written on both sides of an A4 sheet.

  “My dear Dan,

  It was, may I say, an absolute pleasure and a privilege to meet you and Mr Breen, even though I had to adopt a little character to do so and we couldn’t talk about all the things I would hav
e liked. Another time perhaps. Or then again, probably not. I’m afraid I don’t think we’ll have the chance now. A great pity.”

  Adam let out a long hiss.

  “Did you like my little personality? I’m wondering what you thought of me. The idea of the security guard was to be an old and slightly eccentric soldier who’d been a tad battle scarred, making him a nervous although still dependable person. I did some drama at university and was told I was rather good at it. Did it work for you? The character was how I got the job. The centre managers seemed to like the idea of employing someone who’d been in the forces, and the position was ideal for my purposes. I knew what I needed and could not have hoped for better.

  “Is it becoming clearer to you what my plan is? Have you managed to add it up yet? I can’t go into too much detail, because there is the slight chance you will read this before I’ve completed the next stage. But you must have worked out the connection between those first two women, the one in the flat and from last night in the car. I could scarcely have made it plainer, could I, hopping in to join her in the car park?

  “Yes, of course, they both used the leisure centre and I knew them fairly well. I had to know them for my plan to work.”

  Dan nodded, said, ‘That’s why he never spoke in his attacks. Why he had to write notes telling the women what he wanted. Because otherwise they might recognise his voice.’

  “You do see why now, don’t you?” the letter continued. “Or do you? Perhaps you’d like a hint? I shouldn’t, but I’m afraid I can’t resist it. I’m enjoying myself! How’s your Shakespeare? I’ll make it easy, so let’s go for one of his most famous plays, Romeo and Juliet. What would affect the sweet smell of a rose?”

  ‘What the bloody hell is that about?’ growled Adam, his clenched fist pressed hard against the wall.

  ‘It’s a riddle,’ Dan replied, trying desperately to remember the quotation. He’d studied Romeo and Juliet for ‘O’ level literature and scraped a pass, but the words about a rose wouldn’t come to mind.