‘I’m glad to see you,’ she said, as she sat down. ‘This has all come as a terrible shock to us and to the students. Do you have any idea why our girls are being targeted?’
‘It’s why we wanted to talk to you,’ said Francis. ‘There have been three victims so far, all present or past students here.’
‘Three?’ Faye Roderick straightened in her chair.
‘I’m afraid so,’ said Rory. ‘A girl called Lou Riley was assaulted in the small hours of Saturday morning.’
The principal covered her mouth with a hand. ‘Oh my God, no. I read in the paper she’d been attacked. I had no idea she’d died.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Francis. ‘Was she a current student?’
Faye Roderick shook her head, pursing her lips as she fought to get her emotions under control. ‘She was excluded at the end of last term. She had some problems.’
‘What was the nature of the problems?’
Roderick became instantly more businesslike. ‘I’m not really at liberty to discuss that with you.’
‘She’s been murdered. We’re investigating it. So unless you want to see more of your students ending up in the morgue, I suggest you get over your scruples, Miss Roderick.’ Rory wasn’t going to mince his words with a jobsworth.
Faye Roderick drew in a deep breath through her nose. It expressed her displeasure more than words could have. ‘I seem to remember she had some attendance problems.’
It didn’t sound like enough of a reason to chuck someone out. He felt she was holding back on something – and the look on Francis’s face suggested that he felt the same.
‘Go on.’
Roderick shrugged. ‘That’s it. We expect our students to put in a regular appearance. If they don’t . . .’ She trailed off.
Francis leaned forward, crowding her desk. ‘Of the women who’ve been murdered so far – Lou, Tash Brady and Sally Ann Granger – can you think of anything they had in common that might explain why they came to the killer’s attention?’
‘Of course not,’ she replied immediately. ‘I know very little of my students’ personal lives.’
‘Two of these girls were no longer attending college,’ said Francis. ‘They had some sort of problem. Would you say Tash Brady had similar problems?’
‘Nothing I’ve heard about. You might want to talk to her tutor about that.’
‘I think we already have,’ said Rory. ‘Ben King was her tutor. Was he also Lou Riley’s tutor?’
‘I think so,’ said Roderick, after a moment’s thought. ‘I can check. But you can’t possibly think Ben had anything to do with these crimes.’ It wasn’t a question.
‘He has an alibi for the time when Lou Riley was attacked,’ said Francis. ‘And we’re fairly certain all three girls were attacked by the same man. Do you know if Lou Riley ever dated or went out with Alex Mullins?’
‘No idea, I’m afraid.’
‘Okay, thank you. We’ll send a policewoman here to interview her friends, and the rest of your female students. If we can discover the link between the victims, we can hopefully prevent further attacks. In the meantime, Miss Roderick, could you ask all your female students to take care not to go out on their own?’
‘Of course – we’ve already advised that, but I’ll make sure we give them the message again.’
‘That was a waste of time,’ said Rory, as they walked back to John Street.
‘Maybe Angie can get some more out of the students themselves. There has to be a link between the three girls, other than the fact that they all knew Alex Mullins and Ben King. Those connections probably cover nearly all the girls at the college – so why these three in particular?’
‘And who next?’
A blast of music from Francis’s phone put paid to further speculation. He took the call, then ended it abruptly.
‘Got your car here, Rory? Rose has something for us.’
‘And God forbid she should simply tell us over the phone.’
Rose was fidgeting in her office when they arrived, and from the shine of her eyes, she had something significant to tell them.
‘Valentine Montgomery,’ she said, before they’d even had a chance to sit down.
‘Who’s he?’ said Rory.
‘Sounds like a fifties film star,’ said Francis.
‘The man in Itchenor Reach,’ said Rose. ‘Got a dental match through.’
Rory let out a low whistle. ‘Fast work.’
‘Are you going to enlighten us?’ said Francis.
‘He went missing in July 1995. Presumed suicide, so the case was dropped pretty sharply. But as we now know, it wasn’t suicide.’
‘Why did they think it was?’ said Rory.
Rose shrugged. ‘That’s all I’ve got for you. Here’s the file – not much in it. Just his personal details. Reported missing by his business partner when he failed to show up for work for a week.’
Francis took it from her.
‘I’ll put Kyle onto it,’ he said. ‘I hope the trail hasn’t gone cold.’
vi
19 July 1994
Poor Aimée. A year has passed since your mother’s death and now every birthday has been spoiled. You’re diminished, a vanishing girl who nobody sees. You don’t go to school any more. You hide in your room. You want to disappear. Cease to exist. Poor, poor child.
Valentine tries to make you happy. He buys you presents – clothing and jewellery you refuse to wear. He suggests holidays and trips that you refuse to go on. There are arguments and recriminations. It almost seems as if your mother’s death was in some way your fault – at least in his mind. Sometimes he’s sad, sometimes he’s angry. Both are your fault. When he’s angry he hurts you. When he’s sad, he lays his head on your breast and cries. It sickens you. His mucus and saliva on your clothes. On your skin.
But he goes away a lot, too. Business trips to God knows where – you don’t care. You only wish he’d stay away longer and not come back, panting and hungry to be in your room at night.
You hate him.
But you hate yourself more. Poor Aimée.
Jay doesn’t come home often any more – he’s at art college now and spends as much time there as possible. You can’t blame him for that. He hasn’t become the son Valentine wanted him to be. Just like you haven’t become the daughter he longs for. But with you, Valentine is still trying. With Jay, he’s given up. They argue whenever Jay’s home. Valentine caught Jay drinking his whisky and laid into him. Jay came home with a tattoo and Valentine hit him. As much as you want to see your brother, you can’t stand the fighting. You retreat to your room until the house is silent once more.
You miss Jay desperately when he’s away. He misses you. You talk on the phone. You implore him to come home. Once you visited him and for three whole, blissful days you became a girl without a care in the world.
Jay knows what your father does to you. You told him again, more than once. He says he doesn’t believe you, but that’s just because he doesn’t want to believe you. You’ve asked him for help. He’s thinking about what to do, how to get you away. But it’s hard. You’ll need a place to live and Jay is still studying. He can’t afford to support you.
You’ve begged him for help.
He feels sorry for you and says he’ll help as soon as he can. But he’s not the one Valentine comes to in the night. He’s not the one so tired and damaged and hurt.
That’s you. And you can’t go on for much longer. You cut your arms and the pain soothes you. You wonder if you’d have the nerve to make a deeper cut.
Why won’t Jay help you?
You start to hate him too.
Your birthday’s in the summer and this year, at last, Jay has come home for it. Maybe this will be a better birthday. While Valentine is at work, he asks you what you want to do. You ask him to take
you out on the river, in the Maria, the little motorboat moored at the end of the garden.
‘Let’s have a picnic,’ you say.
‘Let’s run away,’ you say.
It’s the brightest of summer days, but you still feel the cold. You’re always cold because you’re so thin. There’s a breeze out on the estuary and you pull your fleece around you. Jay tells you about a job he wants to apply for when he finishes his studies. It would mean moving to London. You’re only half listening. You trail your hand in the cold water, staring into its glassy depth. There’s another world under the surface.
Jay starts to show off, driving the boat in circles, faster and faster. You shriek with delight. It’s like being on the waltzers at the fair, back when you were six or seven, before it all began. You want to go there again, and then you think of a way in which you can . . .
‘Aimée!’
Jay’s panicked voice is silenced as the cold water closes over your head. The propeller blades churn the water and bubbles rush past your ears. You twist and turn in the current and quickly become confused as to which way is up, or where the surface lies in relation to you. But you don’t care. You’re not looking for the surface.
The water’s so cold it hurts.
The first blade hits your ankle with a crack, and a plume of red colours the water. Then your other knee. Pain flares, then fear. As the propeller slices across your left arm and into your ribs, you gasp, sucking in water. You choke. Your eyes search for the surface.
It’s too late, Aimée. Too late even to take comfort that you’ll never see Valentine again.
You’ve gone.
53
Friday, 1 September 2017
Francis
‘You owe me one, Sullivan.’
‘Sorry, sir?’ Francis was advancing into Bradshaw’s office to update him on the progress of last twenty-four hours.
‘I’ve just had Tom Fitz on the phone . . .’
I bet you have.
‘. . . and I’ve persuaded him not to press charges against you.’
‘How did you manage that, sir?’ Francis fought but failed to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.
A sour frown swept across Bradshaw’s face. ‘I told him it would be his word against yours and Mackay’s, and that the jury would naturally believe two police officers.’
Francis gave a scant nod at this and Bradshaw’s frown became darker.
‘Oh, holier than thou, are you now? You put me in this bloody situation – punching a reporter in the face. Bringing the force into disrepute . . .’
Blah, blah, blah . . . Francis had heard this lecture several times since the incident with Fitz. But what was interesting to him was that Bradshaw seemed to be sanctioning him and Rory to lie about it. It made him wonder if there was something more to the deal. What information might he have given to Fitz to make the charges go away? He was certain it had been Bradshaw that had told Fitz they were digging up bones at Itchenor Reach. What the hell did the reporter have on him?
‘You’re lucky I’m not instigating disciplinary action against you, Sullivan.’
‘Sorry, sir. It won’t happen again.’
Bradshaw gave him the side-eye. He clearly didn’t believe a word.
‘Right, update me. There better have been some bloody progress. How close to an arrest are you?’
Francis took his time in answering. He was calculating what he would tell the chief. Not the precise facts, certainly. Nothing yet about the discovery of the identity of the Itchenor bones. Now was the time to plant a false fact and then wait to see if it appeared in the Argus.
‘Come on then – I haven’t got all day.’
‘Right. Sorry, sir.’ Francis crossed his legs. ‘Lewis has been examining the bones we uncovered at Itchenor Reach. So far it appears to be a middle-aged man who suffered a blunt trauma injury to the skull. We’re waiting for dental matching on any missing persons in the right time frame.’
‘Listen, Sullivan, it’s the Speed Trials tomorrow. Chasing a cold case isn’t going to lead us to the killer overnight. You need to find out why he targeted those girls – they’re what’ll lead us to the bastard.’
‘We’re working on that too,’ said Francis, struggling to stay patient. ‘Brighton Art College has confirmed that Riley was a student there and that she was excluded a few months back for non-attendance. I’ve got Burton and Hitchins investigating the girls’ social lives to see if there’s anything else that links them, that might explain why these girls were chosen in particular.’
‘Hmm . . .’ Bradshaw nodded his head. ‘You’re too bloody slow, Sullivan.’
Francis didn’t rise to the bait. It was a fair comment, but up to now they’d assumed that Alex Mullins was the link between the girls. He possibly still was.
‘I’ll let you know what they come up with.’
‘Do. We need to get this killer into custody before he tries again.’
Francis couldn’t get out of Bradshaw’s office fast enough. Keeping things from his superior made him feel uneasy. He hadn’t envisioned a career in skulduggery on joining the police, and having to take such measures didn’t sit well with him. Hitting a reporter didn’t sit easily with him either.
‘Rory, in my office,’ he said, as he passed through the incident room.
Behind his closed door, he told his sergeant what Bradshaw had said.
‘Don’t mention this to the rest of the team.’
‘Of course not.’
‘You and I need to do some digging. Somewhere in Bradshaw’s past, Tom Fitz has protected him.’
‘Or has some information on him that Bradshaw would rather didn’t go public.’
‘Take a sniff around his early cases, would you? Find out when Fitz got the crime beat and check out anything from there onwards.’
‘On it, boss.’
Someone knocked on the door.
‘Come in.’
It was Angie, and Francis could tell from the way she carried herself that she had news to impart.
‘What is it, Angie?’
‘Two things.’ She was practically out of breath. ‘First, I’ve just been talking to the welfare officer at the art college. It seems like the three girls were all having counselling at some point, which suggests that they were all troubled in some way.’
‘No surprise there,’ said Rory. ‘Sally Ann had dropped out because of her affair with Ben King, and Lou Riley had been excluded – and according to Rose, had traces of drugs in her system.’
‘But what about Tash?’ said Francis. ‘Was she in some sort of trouble, apart from having a stormy relationship with Mullins? Angie, talk to her friends again – see if there might be something else. Drugs or some other issue, maybe?’
‘Go and talk to the counsellors as well,’ said Rory.
‘They probably won’t tell us details of the girls’ problems,’ said Angie.
‘Then get them in here and I’ll sort them out,’ said Francis. ‘Three girls are dead and we have reason to believe the killer will strike again. Make this your top priority.’
‘Absolutely, boss.’
‘And you had something else?’
‘This,’ said Angie. She’d been clutching a fold of papers since coming in. Now she unfurled them on Francis’s desk. Francis pulled them across to read them.
The first sheet was a photocopy of an old newspaper article. The date was in July 1995. It was short and to the point.
A local businessman has been reported missing by his business partner after not returning from a business trip abroad. Valentine Montgomery failed to show up for work last week after a scheduled trip to France, according to his partner Eric Davis. When he couldn’t get Montgomery on the phone, he contacted his clients in France who said Montgomery had never arrived. Police are checking flight records to see
if Montgomery actually left the country. Montgomery lived alone after losing his wife to cancer and his daughter to suicide in recent years. He has one son, Jay Montgomery, studying in America, who has been informed of his father’s disappearance.
‘Interesting.’ Francis passed the photocopy to Rory, and read the second sheet, another copy of a newspaper article. It was from 2002, and the piece was even shorter.
Chichester businessman Valentine Montgomery, who went missing more than seven years ago, has finally been declared dead. It has long been presumed that Montgomery committed suicide following the deaths of his wife and daughter in 1993 and 1994. Montgomery’s surviving son was unavailable for comment.
He showed it to Rory.
‘Well done, Angie. We’ll need to talk to the business partner and the son – see if you can track them down. Someone killed Montgomery and our killer led us there. We need to work out why – and we’re running out of time.’
54
Saturday, 2 September 2017
Marni
Marni heard the key turning in the lock, then the front door opened.
Please be Alex, not Thierry, she thought as she ran from the kitchen to the hall.
‘Mum? Are you home?’
‘Alex?’
She swept him into her arms, but he pulled back from her. There was a hardening to his face and a sharp look in his eyes she’d never seen before.
‘Alex, what is it?’
‘Why did you choose Thierry over Paul?’
Marni couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She shook her head. ‘Oh, no. No, no, no.’ Her whole body heaved with a great sigh. ‘You’ve seen him, haven’t you?’
‘Didn’t you think I had a right to know who my father is?’
‘Jesus!’ Marni slapped a hand against the hall wall in frustration. ‘It’s not that simple, Alex.’
Her Last Breath: The new crime thriller from the international bestseller (Sullivan and Mullins) Page 27
