‘This feels more like an opportunist, which is contrary to what we know about our man, who makes plans. However, we can’t exclude him for the attack,’ she conceded.
The press appeal was over, advising women and girls not to walk alone if possible, and never in secluded areas until this man was caught.
‘Is it the same man you’re looking for in connection with Cordelia Le Beau’s murder and Cath Crowther’s attempted murder?’ shouted a journalist, who stood at the outer cordon with a photographer.
‘We can’t rule him out,’ Charley called back.
By God she wished she knew where he was.
Chapter 22
Charley had ordered the scrapings that had been taken from underneath Miriam’s fingernails by CSI, and must be fast-tracked by Forensic, in the hope that if she had grabbed hold of him, as it was thought, in her attempt to free herself from his grasp, there may be particles of her attacker’s skin and blood in them.
Mike Blake had his eye on the clock, which showed nine-thirty, and he was pleased to note that the office was empty, with all the dedicated personnel working overtime, making enquiries in and around the area of the attack on Manchester Road, the adjacent park, and surrounding neighbourhood.
Luck played a defining part in their finding items of clothing very quickly, which they believed to be Miriam’s. The rays of Annie’s torch, which had been shining into the hedgerow, briefly reflected light from something partly hidden.
Bounding up the stairs into the CID office, Annie Glover showed her find to Charley, admiring as she did so the jumper that she held up in a see-through evidence bag, along with a necklace attached by a thread. She sensed the exhibits would be of some value as corroborative evidence that would hopefully add weight to their case, by supporting Miriam’s account of events. The sleeve of her coat was tattered and torn from her efforts to retrieve her treasure from the hawthorn hedge with its nasty thorns, but it was partly because of those thorns that the jumper hadn’t disappeared down the deep drainage ditch beyond. Charley looked down at the mud trail Annie had left behind her, the residue of the thick mud that had sucked at her shoes trodden into the carpet. Annie saw her looking. The two women stood in silence for a minute. Charley’s thin lips were compressed in her determination not to laugh. ‘I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes when Winnie sees that mess in the morning,’ she said.
Annie’s mood changed from elation to frustration as she dropped to her knees. ‘Oh no, I’m a dead man walking, aren’t I?’ she groaned dramatically.
‘Dead woman,’ Wilkie corrected her. The older detective looked up at Charley from where he was sitting at his desk. ‘I’ve got a cracker for her next appraisal, ma’am. “This officer could be likened to a small puppy, she runs around excitedly, leaving little messes for other people to clean up!”’
Charley turned her back on the pair. Office banter was something that she greatly enjoyed, it was her proof, if she needed it, of a tightly bonded team.
As ever, Annie was quick to respond. ‘How about, “One-celled organisms would outscore him in an IQ test?” for his,’ she said nodding her head in Wilkie’s direction.
* * *
It was mid-morning the next day when Eira notified Charley that they had managed to obtain a DNA profile from the nail scrapings. Before asking whether it was a match with the current murder, Charley took a deep breath. When she was told no, the relief in knowing that Cordelia’s murderer hadn’t attempted to strike again so soon, was unexpectedly overwhelming for her.
‘We ran the sample through the national database though, and we’ve got a match,’ Eira spoke with confidence.
‘Do we know him?’ replied Charley.
‘More than likely, he’s local. A twenty-four-year-old sex offender by the name of Jim (Jimmy) Waddington, convicted previously in connection with a series of indecent assaults on young girls.’
Charley rolled her eyes. ‘When was he released? I don’t remember seeing the paperwork.’
‘Last week, with an electric monitoring device attached to his ankle.’
‘He was tagged?’ Charley’s face brightened. ‘That means that the data stored on his monitor should show us his movements, confirm he was at the scene at the time of the incident, and together with his DNA will give us a watertight case against him.’
* * *
Jimmy had never been the brightest bulb in the chandelier, or the sharpest tool in the box, but the local bobbies knew him well, and when two arrived at his door, he let them in, only to immediately kneel down on the lino floor, and to continue to do what his mother had previously instructed; put his muddy clothes into the washing machine.
‘Do you wanna a brew?’ the semi-naked man asked with a smile when he stood up studying his visitors. Jimmy prided himself on missing nothing where women were concerned.
The officers moved him to the side before he could turn the machine on. James looked enquiringly at his mother, who had just appeared through the kitchen door.
‘What’s going on?’ she demanded, surprised to see the police officers in her kitchen pulling dirty washing out of her machine. She put herself between the officers and her son, growling like a dog protecting her pup. ‘Tell me what’s he supposed to have done now?’
Jimmy noted the interest that the female officer showed him. He looked down the length of her thin, fragile body and smirked, she wouldn’t cause him any problem. He turned his attention to the much taller athletic-looking male sergeant, who was speaking to his mother. A man not much older than himself, a boss man, he must be clever, maybe of the two, he was the one he should be careful of, he figured.
* * *
Back in her office at the station, Charley was confident that she could leave this enquiry with the two police officers, but she was still on the look-out to secure additional evidence.
‘Let me know when he’s in the cells will you,’ the SIO said, when they rang to update her, ‘and by the way, will you check to see if he’s got any visible scratch marks anywhere.’
Charley made herself a cup of tea and laced it with sugar. It was two o’clock in the afternoon, and a sugar rush was badly needed to help her focus on other pressing matters. She sipped the piping-hot drink carefully, whilst checking the massive DNA screening base at the university. Knowing that the killer was still out there, and for all she knew, he might already have his sights set on his next victim, turned her stomach. However, she felt comforted by what she was being told by the team leaders, and seeing the determination and energy of the team for herself, sure that nothing more could be done to try to catch the killer, and further reassured in her own ability to have the perpetrator caught before too long, as she was constantly reminded by the hierarchy that it was her responsibility alone to solve the case, no one else’s.
Sitting and pondering the case, a thought filtered into her mind that the perpetrator would be aware of the police activity around the campus, and that he might very well be looking elsewhere for his victims. Then as quickly as it came it was dismissed, because Charley never worried about anything that was out of her control, only what she could control. Even if she thought it would be slightly more effective, she was unable to spread the workforce available to her any thinner than it was currently spread. All she could hope for was that the general public had taken heed of the police warnings in the media, and although the case had disappeared from the headlines, that they were still being extra vigilant.
‘Tell me,’ Charley asked Wilkie Connor, ‘has anyone at the university been difficult to locate by the swab teams?’ She knew that the killer would keep away from any DNA screening for as long as he could. Would he be thinking he was on borrowed time, and therefore increase his addiction she wondered, or did he think they were not even close to catching him, and as he became more confident would he become lax in carrying out his evil deeds? Truth was, she knew, it was impossible to get inside the mind of a killer. Even if hiring a criminal profiling expert was a consideration, despite the extra cost to the en
quiry, in her experience, they only confirmed what she already knew. They could only give their personal opinion based on similar cases.
Eventually, when the perpetrator was caught, she might get some answers, although she may never uncover why he had committed these dreadful crimes, but that didn’t stop her asking.
Charley could hear the phone ringing in the outside office. It broke her reverie. She saw Annie answer it, and raise her eyebrows at Wilkie sitting opposite her. When she put down the phone she said a few words to her older colleague, and he looked up at her as he started to close down his computer.
Annie locked her drawer and stood, grabbed her coat from the back of her chair, picked up her bag and slung it over her shoulder. ‘Boss!’ she called as she walked towards Charley’s door.
‘Yes!’ Charley replied, seeing her standing in her doorway.
‘I’m going to see the boss of a window-cleaning company that has the contract for the university. Mr Robinson has requested that we speak to everyone on his team. Apparently, one of his workers hasn’t been seen since the day Cath was discovered.’
Charley frowned. ‘Did Mr Robinson give you a name?’
‘No, I didn’t get the chance to ask as he cut the call abruptly, saying he’d see me soon. I think someone might have entered the room, and I guessed he wanted to keep the conversation confidential for now.’
Charley disappeared into her office to collect her coat. ‘Wait for me, I’m coming with you.’
* * *
At the university the detectives met with Mr Robinson. He was a softly spoken, smart, elderly gentleman who had inherited the family window-cleaning business from his father.
‘I’ve fallen off more ladders than you’ve had hot dinners young ’un!’ he told Charley when she introduced herself to him.
‘I bet you can tell us a story or two about the things you’ve seen,’ Annie chuckled, and Mr Robinson nodded.
‘I no longer clean the windows myself,’ he said, rubbing his aching knee joint as he sat down in his chair. He beckoned the others to sit too, and asked his secretary to bring them tea. ‘However, I do have a team of younger people who do that for me. Six months ago I set on a new lad by the name of Russell Peters. He’s twenty-six years old, and I have found him since to be what the professionals would call socially inadequate. He has a speech impediment, and because of it, I think, he is reluctant to join in with the others, although, I have the idea that he would like to. He gets embarrassed easily, and you know what work colleagues are like for taking the mickey?’
The two detectives shared a glance.
‘More often than not, Russell works on his own, and he seems happy to do so. He’s proved to be a good worker, good time keeper, never been off sick, but since the incident with Cath Crowther we’ve not seen head nor tail of him, which is totally out of character.’
‘Why did you decide to phone today to tell us this Mr Robinson?’ asked Charley.
Mr Robinson appeared taken aback by the question, and indicated to a piece of paper on his desk. ‘I sent his foreman round to his flat this morning to do a welfare check, and according to him, Russell’s immediate neighbours told him that he had gone on holiday. Which seemed mighty strange because he hadn’t mentioned it to him.’
‘What address have you got for Peters?’ Charley asked.
Mr Robinson considered the file on his desk. ‘Flat 14, Websters Towers.’
‘Which is approximately two miles from the university,’ said Charley.
Annie had her head down and she was taking notes.
‘Do we know if he has transport?’
‘Cycles everywhere, I’m told. He’s physically fit, athletically built, has short, fair hair, and his nickname is Monkey because of the way he goes up and down ladders, with no fear of heights.’
‘And, no one has seen him since the day Cath Crowther was discovered?’
‘That’s about it in a nutshell,’ said Mr Robinson.
‘Do you have a photograph of Russell Peters, Mr Robinson?’ Charley asked.
Mr Robinson took a scanned picture from Peters’ file and handed it to Charley. ‘I’ve a copy of his ID badge if that helps?’
‘Should we presume that, although Russell Peters rides a bike, he also has a driving licence?’
‘Yes, he does,’ replied Peters’ boss.
* * *
Charley was eager to speak to Wilkie Connor the minute they got back to the office. ‘Check Russell Peters out on the system,’ she said.
Wilkie handed her a piece of paper. ‘Annie forwarded his details, it’s already done. Peters hasn’t been swabbed for his DNA, and he is linked to just one minor incident, when he was reported for nuisance behaviour four years ago, and warned about the dangers of swinging from balcony to balcony at the high-rise flats where he lives.’
Charley could feel a little flutter in her stomach. ‘The fact that he has no previous convictions ticks another box for us.’
Wilkie silently nodded.
Charley’s pulse quickened, and the look on her face told Wilkie and Annie that instructions were imminent, and they weren’t wrong.
The SIO looked at her watch and scowled. ‘I have a budget meeting planned with the Divisional Commander at two o’clock. Write this information up on the database. I’d like you to make enquires at his flat, with his neighbours to see if we can locate him as soon as possible. I want Russell Peters treated as a priority.’
Chapter 23
Wilkie Connor and Annie Glover were on their way to Websters Towers within the hour. The flats were known locally as Fawlty Towers because they had never functioned properly, according to the original design, along with another five high-rise flats in the Huddersfield town centre named after local breweries.
Websters Towers stood one hundred and twenty feet high. All the brewery named flats had dual aspect windows and large south-facing balconies. With eleven floors, Websters Towers contained eighty-eight flats. ‘Apparently, Peters climbed down that from top to bottom by swinging from one balcony to another? He must be wrong in t’head!’ said Wilkie.
Standing facing the wall of windows at the entrance lobby, waiting to be allowed access by the caretaker, Annie strained her neck to see if she could see the top of the building. ‘I heard from someone that these flats sway in the wind,’ she said.
Wilkie tapped the toecap of his shoe on the concrete beneath his feet. ‘Swaying is the least of your worries if you see cracks down here. If the foundations aren’t solid, everyone’s fucked!’ At that very moment, a loud buzz indicated the door lock being released, and ever the gentleman, Wilkie stood to the side, gesturing for Annie to walk through the door first.
The sound of their footsteps echoed hollowly, bouncing off the walls and ceiling of the large empty concrete space. The detectives walked diagonally towards the lift, situated at the core of the building. Standing for a moment in silence in front of the lift door, they waited for it to arrive. ‘I hope it’s working. I don’t fancy walking up the steps,’ Annie said, impatiently. When the lift door opened they walked in. Annie pulled the sleeve of her jumper over her fingers, and punched the buttons for the third floor.
‘What’s that smell?’ she said, turning up her nose as the door clunked shut.
Wilkie sniffed the air. ‘Smells distinctly like urine to me.’
Annie turned to Wilkie. ‘I thought they weren’t allowed animals in the flats?’
Wilkie laughed. ‘They’re not.’
Annie’s stomach heaved. ‘Thanks for that,’ she said, looking up at the cork-like ceiling panels covered with brown water stains. Her eyes travelled down the faux-suede walls covered with graffiti, and eventually to her feet, where the old brown carpeting, curling up at the outer edges, was littered with dirty, discarded and trampled takeaway boxes, cigarette butts, sweet papers and crisp packets. The odd cardboard drink container and a few cans were scattered amongst the grimy litter. The lift chugged up to the second floor, and stalled at the third. The li
ghts flickered. There was a low groan from the shaft below. A thought flashed through Annie’s mind, and her heart beat a little faster. ‘What if we get stuck?’ she said. Her eyes sought the emergency button, but they refused to focus and everything was a blur. She grabbed hold of Wilkie’s arm, but before he could answer, the lift motor chugged into gear and the doors creaked open in concert with the loud, deep rumble, that continued to echo throughout the chamber. Wilkie shrugged off Annie’s hand. ‘Numpty,’ he said, stepping out onto the landing. He nodded in the direction of the security camera’s lens that was covered with a wad of chewing gum.
Two dark-blue doors faced them, No. 14 and No. 17. There was no answer to the detectives’ knocking at number 14. After a moment or two, Wilkie bent down and opened the letter box, to be greeted by first one inquisitive fly, then another. He wafted them away with his hand.
‘What’re you looking for?’ enquired Annie when he stood up straight.
‘I wondered if there would be a bike in the hallway, seems a sensible place to keep it if he was in, but there isn’t. It smells like something’s died though. Take a whiff.’ Wilkie leaned forwards as if to open the letter box for her. Annie recoiled. ‘No thanks,’ she said, batting away the flies that settled on her exposed skin, as she began to itch from their unwanted attention.
The continued knocking and the calling of Russell Peters’ name at No.14 caused a young woman, with a crying child in her arms, to come to the door of No.17. ‘If you’re looking for the nutter who lives there, he told my fella he was going on a long holiday,’ she told them. A tired looking, skinny lad, in baggy jogging bottoms, and with tattooed sleeves slunk up behind her.
‘I’d try the hospital if I were you Kojak, they’ve probably sectioned him at last. Now if you don’t mind, stop making so much noise, ’er indoors is trying to get the little ’un to sleep so that I can have a little shut-eye m’self,’ he said, before pulling his partner inside by her upper arm, and slamming the door shut.
Persecution Page 17
