The May Day Murders Sequel

by Scott Wittenburg

  “Nothing, really. Except I’m really glad we came here. It’s wonderful.”

  “I’m glad you like it.”

  “It’s not just the place—it’s being here with you, too.”

  Did he really just say that?

  “Why, thank you, Sam. That was so kind.”

  An awkward silence ensued, mercifully broken when the waiter brought bread and salads. Sam dipped a slice of bread in olive oil and chased it down with a slug of Peroni. Nicole just sat there smiling at him. It was the sweetest smile he’d ever seen.

  Chapter 30

  Hogarth checked the time as Higgins drove at a crawl past the short driveway leading to Trent Mason’s farmhouse. It was nearly six o’clock. It had taken them nearly an hour of running all over Chelmsford to get a positive ID on the photo that Nicole Heaton had emailed him. But it had been time well spent. Now he knew for certain who the serial rapist was and where he could be found.

  When the American detective told him that Stanley Jenkins had posed his victims in a certain way and that he was a painter, a light bulb went on and Hogarth immediately knew where he might find his prey. He and Higgins had been on the right track yesterday after all. The only problem was that the police sketch they had shown all of the Chelmsford art store employees looked nothing like the man who had made his oil paint purchase. But he did look identical to the man in the photo on Hogarth’s mobile phone, whose name they now knew was Trent Mason. The art shop owner told Hogarth he had chatted with Mason on a few occasions and that Mason had recently moved into an old farmhouse a few miles outside of Chelmsford.

  Locating the farmhouse out here in the rural landscape had been no easy task but at last they had succeeded. Mason’s property was in a remote pocket of land a half mile or so from the main road. Hogarth had run Mason’s name through the police database and discovered he had no priors and that he’d arrived at Heathrow from New York in mid-October—around the same time Sarah Clark had been raped.

  There were no vehicles registered in Mason’s name so Hogarth assumed he took public transportation to get around. He surveyed the grounds as Molly drove past, wondering if Mason was inside there now. They would come back on foot as soon as darkness fell in another fifteen minutes or so.

  “Let’s pull over there,” he said to Molly after they were well out of sight.

  “What if he sees us lurking around outside?”

  “That’s a chance we’ll have to take. I want to be absolutely sure this isn’t a red herring before calling it in, although I seriously doubt it. The last thing I need is to be wrong about this after what happened yesterday. If I am, the Chief will waste no time ordering my immediate demotion.”

  “You’ve got a point. But shouldn’t we call for backup, just in case he creates a stir?”

  “Not yet. The moment we’re certain he’s who we think he is, we’ll call it in.”

  They waited for darkness to descend then began the short trek back to the farmhouse. There were lights on inside and Hogarth quietly walked over to a window to peer in. Seeing nothing through the tightly closed blinds, he motioned for Molly to follow him around the back to another window. There he saw a large room dimly lit by a small lamp on an end table. He noticed another room off to the side that looked it could be some sort of work room. He couldn’t swear it, but he thought he could see a painter’s easel in the dim light. As his eyes adjusted he was almost certain it was an artist’s studio.

  His excitement mounting, Hogarth and Higgins walked around to the other side of the house and checked all the windows. Having seen no signs of life in any of the rooms, Hogarth felt confident Mason wasn’t home.

  “Let’s go in. We’ll try the doors first.”

  Higgins tried the back door but it was locked tight, as was the front entrance. Hogarth tried a window near the front of the house and was able to inch the weathered frame up with considerable effort. Higgins joined in and eventually they were able to lift the window far enough for Higgins to slip through. She then let Hogarth in through the front door.

  “Let’s go take a look at that studio,” he whispered, leading the way toward the rear of the house.

  They approached the room off the kitchen and were greeted by the distinctive scent of linseed oil. Approaching the canvas, Hogarth couldn’t make it out in the dim light. Switching on his flashlight he examined the work and realized it was little more than a rough pencil sketch of a female form. He then spotted a photo clipped to the easel and what he saw made his pulse accelerate. It was a photo of Olivia Cavesh, lying nude on the floor, her legs spreadeagle, her face covered by a mask.

  They had found their man.

  “His latest victim,” Hogarth said in a croaky whisper. “And a sketch of the photo he shot after posing her for the camera.”

  “Utterly repulsive,” Molly Higgins commented. “What a sick bastard.”

  “Let’s take a look around and see what else we can find.”

  “Shouldn’t we call in first?”

  “In a minute.”

  They began a search of the studio and Higgins noticed a thick cloth covering something in a corner. She removed the cloth and saw a pair of canvases leaning against the wall.

  “Clive, take a look at these.”

  Hogarth went over and kneeled down to look at the first canvas. A woman lying on her back nude on the floor in a dark room, facing away from the viewer. This was not Olivia Cavesh but another apparent victim. Who could it be? The American he’d killed in Las Vegas?

  He flipped to the second canvas. What he saw made his hair stand on end. A woman sat in a bathtub, her arms awkwardly held at her sides, her face wearing an expression of absolute terror. Hogarth could almost feel the woman’s fear and desperation while Trent Mason forced her to pose for his camera.

  “Who could this be?”

  “Jesus!” Higgins hissed.

  “We can only hope she was one of the survivors,” Hogarth murmured.

  “Shall we call the station now?” Higgins inquired.

  “Yes, do it. I’ll take a look around the rest of the place in the meantime. Why don’t you keep an eye out front in case he returns?”

  With a nod, Higgins grabbed her radio and walked toward the front as Hogarth began poking around the kitchen. There were no less than a half dozen bottles of expensive wine in a cabinet and very little food in the fridge. He left the kitchen and entered a small dark room that may have once served as the dining room. The only piece of furniture was an old vanity with a mirror trimmed by the sort of lights you’d see in a theatre dressing room. He went over and froze when he spotted a flaccid latex mask mounted on a stand. Although the face was distorted in its drawn-in state, it looked quite similar to the sketch of Iris Matthews’ abductor.

  It struck Hogarth like a bolt of lightning. A mask! That’s what the killer’s calling card symbolized! Mason wore this mask whenever he preyed on his victims, which explained why nobody had seen his face before. He dons the mask long enough to commit his crimes then stashes it away until he decides it’s time to strike again! Simple, but quite ingenious. And incredibly effective.

  Hogarth left the room, relieved that wherever Trent Mason was now at least he wasn’t preying on another victim. Nor would he ever again as soon as they nabbed him.

  He entered a rather stark living room containing an easy chair, a couple of end tables and a modest stereo system set up on the fireplace mantle. He walked over to the easy chair and picked up a hardcover book sitting face down on the table. He read the title and did a double-take when he saw the author’s name: Sam Middleton. His heart nearly bursting out of his chest, Inspector Clive Hogarth made two shocking discoveries when he flipped open the cover of The Foxburg Murders.

  Chapter 31

  As they left Mama Mia’s, Sam wondered if Nicole had enjoyed dinner as much as he had. The food was delicious as promised; the atmosphere cozy and comfortable. But what had made it special was the time he’d spent with a woman who had in very short order beco
me more than a business connection who had graciously invited him here to promote his books. Nicole Heaton was an enigma who at one moment was grieving for her dead husband and the next moment acting as though she might want to get something started with him. He tried telling himself that this was just his imagination, but couldn’t quite convince himself. The bottom line was that even if she was interested in some sort of relationship, it was a moot point. He lived an ocean away and was leaving in little more than forty-eight hours—perhaps never to return.

  But he’d never been one to rule anything out.

  “That was lovely, Sam,” she said.

  “It was. Best meal I’ve ever had.”

  “I told you so! I’ve had pasta in Italy that wasn’t nearly as good.”

  “I’ve always wanted—”

  Sam felt his phone vibrate before he could finish the sentence. Wondering who it could be, he took a look at the caller ID. It was Inspector Hogarth.

  “It’s that police inspector,” he said as he pressed the accept call button.

  “Hello.”

  “Yes, this is Metro Police Inspector Hogarth calling. Is this Mr. Middleton?”

  “It is.”

  “Please listen closely, Mr. Middleton. Your life may be in danger. Where are you now?”

  His heart skipping a beat, Sam replied, “Just leaving a restaurant. What’s happening, Inspector?”

  “You must go somewhere safe immediately. Are you alone?”

  “No, I’m with Mrs. Heaton—from the bookshop. Tell me what’s going on!”

  “We’ve found our murder suspect—or rather, we’re at his residence at this very moment. You were right, Mr. Middleton. The serial rapist and your Stanley Jenkins are one and the same person. And I fear he may be coming after you as we speak.”

  Nicole was staring at him imploringly. She knew something was wrong.

  “Why’s that?”

  “First you need to go somewhere safe. How far are you from a place you can take refuge?”

  They were already in the parking garage. “We’re only a minute from Nicole’s car.”

  “Then you need to go there straight away. Then drive to the nearest police station and remain there until I call you back. What part of town are you in?”

  “Near City University.”

  “Is Mrs. Heaton familiar with Islington?”

  Sam asked Nicole and she nodded, desperately anxious to know what was happening.

  “She is.”

  “Tell her to drive to Islington Police Station immediately. I’ll inform them to be expecting you. Will you do that, Mr. Middleton?”

  “Yes, Inspector.”

  “I have to go now. I’ll ring you back as soon as I can. In the meantime, both of you are to stay at Islington.”

  “Okay, will do.”

  Hogarth disconnected.

  “What’s going on, Sam?”

  “They’ve apparently found out who the serial rapist is. They’re at his place now and for some reason the inspector thinks he may be coming after me. And I was right about it being Stanley Jenkins.”

  “Jesus! So what’s this about Islington?”

  “You need to drive us to the police station there since it’s the nearest one. We have to wait there until we hear back from Inspector Hogarth.”

  “Damn, you sure know how to show a gal some excitement, Sam!” Nicole quipped drily.

  “I reckon so.”

  As they approached Nicole’s car she unlocked the doors with her remote. They hastily stepped inside and Nicole started the engine. As she pulled out of the parking space, Sam saw a pair of hands suddenly appear from out of the darkness of the back seat. In an instant a long rope or cord encircled Nicole’s neck from behind. She screamed and nearly ran the car into a support beam.

  “Good evening, Sam!” A voice rang out. Sam sat stunned as a man lurched forward just inches from the back of Nicole’s head, his hands grasping the cord pressed against her neck. “How do you like London?”

  The voice was unmistakable. Sam hadn’t heard Stanley Jenkins speak since that last day in the courtroom years ago when the judge sentenced him to life. And although it was dark inside the small car, Sam recognized the face of the man he’d seen at his book signing.

  “Don’t hurt her!” Sam cried. “Let’s talk, Stanley!”

  “A bit late for that, I’m afraid. Looks like your guest author has now managed to get you smack dab in the middle of all this, Nicole. What a wonderful guy! Now I want you to listen up and do exactly what I say or I’ll pull this cord so hard you’ll be breathing through your neck!”

  “Okay,” Nicole cried. “Please don’t kill me.”

  “You’ll be fine as long as nobody tries anything funny. You hear that, Sam?”

  “I hear you. But can’t you remove that cord? Nobody’s going to challenge you.”

  “No can do. One thing I’ve learned about you, Sam, is that you’re slippery. Can’t trust you any further than I could throw you. So you’ve found me out, I see. Must say, I’m impressed. How’d you do it?”

  “The turquoise bracelet you wore at my reading. You’re the only freak I know who’d wear something like that.”

  “Watch your tongue, Sam, or I’ll rip it out of your mouth,” he warned. “My bracelet, eh? You’ve got a damn good memory—I’ll give you that. Was there anything else that tipped you off?”

  “Yeah, your ‘sister Ann’ spiel and that lousy fake English accent. Neither were very convincing, but you already know that.”

  Sam knew he was in no position to be a smartass but he couldn’t help it.

  “Guilty as charged,” Jenkins replied arrogantly. “I just wanted to keep you guessing, not give myself away. Apparently I screwed that up. Oh well.”

  “So where are we going, Stanley?”

  “That’s for me to know and you to find out. Head toward the A11, Nicole.”

  Nicole made a turn at the next street and headed east. As she drove past a throng of people Sam saw Jenkins sit back in the seat to avoid being seen, his hands never letting go of the cord around Nicole’s neck. The cord had to be at least a couple of yards long, suggesting that Jenkins had planned all of this out, right down to finding a way to sneak into Nicole’s car in the brief time they were in the restaurant. Sam wondered how long Jenkins had been following them and how long he’d been planning this out. His ability to plot a crime and cover his tracks was uncanny, Sam knew first hand. He also knew as sure as he was sitting there that the bastard would kill both of them before the night was over. He’d probably rape Nicole first, maybe even force him to watch, then kill her and finish him off afterwards. Or he’d simply kill him and keep Nicole around a few more hours or days as his plaything until he felt it was time to chuck her in. This horrific scenario forced Sam to try and get ahold of himself and think of a way out of this. He was not going to let this asshole follow through with whatever sick, diabolical plan he had in mind—not as long as he could still take a breath. Must think of something—

  “Don’t even think about it, Sam. You aren’t going to play the hero again this time,” Jenkins said, as though he were reading his mind. “While I was locked up, I often obsessed over how those goddamn Polaroids tipped you off and ultimately ruined my plans. Well, you can bet your bottom dollar that isn’t gonna happen again, bucko. Your ass belongs to me now.”

  I wouldn’t bet on that, Sam wanted to say but knew better. He glanced over at Nicole and his heart sank. She was absolutely terrified, trying her best to control the car, knowing that her life was literally in the hands of a psycho killer sitting inches behind her, pulling on the lamp cord just firmly enough against her throat to mean business but not enough to cut off her airway. A red welt had already formed and all Sam could do was sit there, powerless. He inched his hand toward Nicole’s and squeezed it reassuringly. She started to look his way but stopped herself, thinking the gesture might rile up Jenkins. She squeezed his hand back. The action bolstered Sam’s resolve to think of some
thing before it was too late. What could he do?

  “The A12’s up ahead,” Jenkins said. “Get on that and go north,”

  “Okay,” Nicole replied weakly.

  Sam knew Stanley Jenkins loved to talk about himself. Maybe he could find a way to distract him long enough to make some sort of move.

  “How’d you manage to escape prison, Stanley?”

  “Piece of cake, really. One thing I learned during my incarceration is that people are every bit as stupid and predictable on the inside as they are on the outside. Once you find a way to gain control of them you can do just about anything you want. That’s how I got out of there. My only regret is that I didn’t do it sooner. But sometimes you just have to sit tight and be patient, which is what I did. Less margin for error.”

  “Where’d you go after you got out? You’ve managed to elude everybody all this time. Everyone assumed that you were either dead or just plain lucky.”

  “Lucky? You’ve got to be kidding! There hasn’t been a single thing lucky about my escape and I resent the implication!”

  “Sorry, didn’t mean to tick you off. I was just saying what the authorities were assuming, but I always knew better. I never doubted for a moment that you were out there somewhere. But the last thing I ever thought was that you’d transform yourself yet again. Gotta say, that was a stroke of genius.”

  “Ha-ha, you’ve got that straight! It was also very expensive and painful, I might add. They say that once you’ve had plastic surgery the next operation is easier. Bullshit! I suffered long and hard getting rid of Jerry Rankin and becoming this new improved model, believe me. But it was necessary and definitely worth it. It’s gotten me where I am now.”

  “Which makes me wonder—why are you in London? Did you know I was going to be here?”

  “Now that was sheer luck, I must admit. When I read that you were in town I knew it was fate, Sam. This was destined to happen.”

  Sam realized this was going nowhere as he stared over at Nicole. Jenkins was right about one thing: he had gotten her involved in this whole mess. And now she was going to pay for it with her life, and much more.