by Tim Ellis
‘Again?’
‘Can you run a motorcycle number plate for me?’
‘Go on.’
‘CCS 540V.’
The line went quiet. He turned to the Jacksons. ‘I have to go,’ he said, and made his way out.
‘Rowley?’ Sergeant Harwood said.
‘Yes?’
‘It’s a green Kawasaki Ninja ZX 10R currently owned by a Mr Miles Mottram who lives at 44 Grange Lane in Royden.’
‘You’d better make it four uniforms this time.’
‘Do you think they grow on trees?’
‘This is definitely the one, Colleen. I don’t want him to get away.’
‘Twenty minutes?’
‘I’ll meet them there.’
***
He was surprised to find Richards at her desk in the squad room. ‘Well?’
‘Colin Porter.’
‘That doesn’t sound like the name of a serial killer to me. I was thinking it would be more . . . Oh, I don’t know – scary.’
‘Well, according to this membership list, that’s what he’s called. Edgar Beasley spotted him straight away. Not only was he at the Back Street Cinema on the Friday night collecting his sperm sample, but he was also the man that Beasley took home called “Dougie” from the Berlin Bar on the Saturday night.’
‘Have you checked him out on CrimInt?’
‘Yes – nothing.’
‘What’s the address?’
‘You’re not going to like it – 154c Helions Road in Harlow.’
‘Harlow! On a Friday night? You’re joking, aren’t you?’
‘I knew you wouldn’t like it.’
‘We’ll get snarled up in traffic for hours. Tell them we want a helicopter.’
‘Tell who?’
‘Anybody who will listen.’
‘We know he’s not going to kill again until August 1 next year, so we could easily leave it until tomorrow morning before we arrest him.’
‘Would you like to stand in front of the Chief Constable and provide that as an excuse as to why there was a delay in arresting a serial killer?’
‘I don’t have to.’
‘No, you don’t – I do. But there’s a silver lining.’
‘Oh?’
‘You’re driving, which means I can recline the seat and catch up on my beauty sleep.’
‘And you think I’m going to roll over and let you do that?’
‘You’ll be driving. Nobody rolls over while they’re driving.’
‘I’ll put the radio on.’
‘Something soft and soothing I hope.’
‘I’ll talk all the way.’
‘You have a voice that sends me to sleep anyway.’
‘You’re a pig.’
‘A sleepy Vietnamese Pot-bellied pig. Have you told forensics?’
‘Yes. They’re on their way over there.’
‘They should arrive by the morning then.’
‘I’ve also contacted the nearest police station.’
‘Oh?’
‘Sawbridgeworth. They have a Sergeant, a Constable and two PCSOs. The Sergeant and one of the PCSOs is going to meet us there.’
‘What about Harlow Police Station?’
‘I suggested that, but the Sergeant said he was happy to help.’
‘Do they know what time we’re going to get there, because if I remember correctly, Sawbridgeworth closes up shop at five o’clock?’
‘I warned them we might be late . . .’
‘Might be?’
‘. . . And the Sergeant said he has a bit of overtime to play with.’
‘Overtime? You know what’ll happen, don’t you?’
‘They’ll say it was our operation and that we should fund the overtime.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Well, in the absence of any senior officers, I said he could play with as much overtime as he felt was necessary.’
‘Very generous.’
***
The green Kawasaki Ninja ZX 10R was parked on the driveway. Stick removed one of the spark plug leads and threw it down the road. The last thing he needed was to be chasing a motorbike along country lanes on a Friday night.
He sent the Jacksons round the back to prevent any confusion, and he took the front with Constables Riseley and Wapshott.
‘Mr Mottram,’ he said, as he banged on the front door of 44 Grange Lane, which was an end-of-terrace two-up two-down constructed of quarried stone in 1894 according to the plaque in the centre of the middle house. ‘Open up – Police.’
Nobody answered, but he heard a bang from inside.
‘We’ve got him,’ Danny Jackson’s voice came over Wapshott’s radio. ‘We’re escorting him round to the front of the house.’
Mottram was small. That was the first thing that Stick noticed about him. He was wearing black and green motorcycle leathers and boots, which made him appear bigger and taller than he actually was. He had greasy black hair, and even greasier skin full of blackheads, whiteheads and red livid spots full of pus. The teeth that he still possessed in his mouth were yellow and cracked when he grinned at Stick.
‘Miles Mottram, I’m arresting you for the murder of Ronnie Russell and Natalie Webb in the early hours of this morning – Friday, August 8. You do not have to say anything. However, it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand your rights?’
‘I want a lawyer.’
‘Take him back to Hoddesdon,’ Stick said to the Jacksons. ‘Tell Sergeant Harwood I’d like him stripped and swabbed – everything goes for forensic analysis. She can then lock him in the cells until I interview him tomorrow morning.’
Susan Jackson nodded. ‘Understood, Sarge.’
He called forensics and asked them to send a team out to Mottram’s house, and then he walked round the back and went inside.
Almost everything he was looking for he found in the second bedroom – the sperm-drenched panties belonging to Giselle Hamill and Alice Wheatley; Isaac Scully’s garrotte; the hunting knife used to slice off the penis and testicles of Robert Vines, Brandon Yagin and Ronnie Russell, and cut the throat of Natalie Webb; the white hood with the eye-holes cut out; a bunch of white plastic wrist restraints; and a map pinned to the wall.
Stick was impressed with Mottram’s map. It was better than the crime-scene map he’d constructed in the incident room. It had all the lovers’ lanes locations on it, the three crime scenes were highlighted with dates, names and small photographs of the victims, and a fourth crime scene with tomorrow’s date had already been identified with two names – Adam Dickinson and Gail Keane – accompanied by photographs of the two lucky lovers. They’d probably never know how close they came to becoming victims.
What he still had no idea about was why? Why had Mottram begun his killing spree? How had he selected his victims and identified the locations? Why did he masturbate into the woman’s panties? Why did he cut off the man’s genitals? Why did he leave two of the three women alive? Does Mottram know any of the victims?
There was also a laptop in the bedroom. He slipped on a pair of plastic gloves from his pocket, and switched the computer on. It asked him for a password, which he didn’t have. He pressed the “off” button and went downstairs.
Forensics had arrived.
The house wasn’t spacious, so he left to let them get on with their work.
‘Who’s in charge?’ he asked the white-suited figures as they headed inside.
They turned and pointed at a woman.
‘Are you in charge?’
‘Yes. Bev Erikson.’
‘All the evidence is in one of the bedrooms upstairs. I know who, where, when and how, but what I don’t know is why. I’d be grateful if you could enlighten me.’
‘We’ll do what we can.’
‘There’s also a laptop computer that needs a password.’ He passed her a business card. ‘It’s been
a long day. I’m going home now.’
‘I’ll call if we find out why, shall I?’
‘Please.’
***
They didn’t reach Colin Porter’s apartment until eight forty-five. Sergeant Kim Knight and PCSO Elaine Hardy were waiting for them.
‘Sorry we’re so late,’ Parish said as he shook hands with Sergeant Knight. ‘There were three accidents on the A414. Traffic was at a standstill, and even though Richards put the blue light and siren on, which interrupted my nap by the way, it didn’t really speed things up.’
‘That’s no problem, Sir. There’s a local kebab shop along the road if you’re hungry. Hardy and I have had our evening meal and are ready for action.’
‘Did you tell them what we’ve got here, Richards?’
‘Not specifically.’
‘You’re familiar with the Catrina Golding murder?’ he asked them.
‘We are.’
‘In Apartment “C” is her killer – a man by the name of Colin Porter.’
‘Okay, Sir.’
‘But that’s not all. He’s killed another three women in similar circumstances on August 1 between 2011 and 2013. Catrina Golding was his fourth murder.’
‘A serial killer?’ PCSO Elaine Hardy asked.
‘Exactly.’
She grinned. ‘This is what I joined the police for.’
Parish continued. ‘I can’t imagine he’s going to come with us voluntarily, so be prepared.’
The two Sawbridgeworth officers nodded.
‘He won’t jump out of a window, will he?’ Hardy asked.
‘We won’t give him the opportunity.’
They made their way into the house that had been converted into four flats. Apartment C was on the second floor.
Parish knocked on the door. ‘Food delivery,’ he called.
The door opened.
He planned to rush in, knock Porter to the floor and handcuff him, but a woman in pyjamas and a leopard skin patterned dressing gown was standing there.
‘We didn’t order any food,’ she said.
He barged past the woman and carried on into the living room. A man was sprawled out on the sofa watching an episode of Lewis.
‘What the fuck?’
‘Colin Porter?’
‘Who wants to know?’
He brandished his warrant card. ‘Detective Inspector Parish from Hoddesdon Police Station. You’re under arrest for the murder of Catrina Golding on Friday, August 1 . . .’
‘Don’t talk rubbish . . .’
The woman forced her way into the room. ‘What’s happening, Colin?’
‘Who are you?’ Richards asked.
‘Margaret Donnelly – I’m his girlfriend.’
‘Well, Miss Donnelly. Colin is under arrest for the murder of Catrina Golding and three other women dating back to 2011.’
Parish read Porter his rights.
Sergeant Knight handcuffed him, and escorted Porter out to the squad car.
‘You’ll need to come with us as well, Miss Donnelly.’
‘What for?’
‘I have questions for you.’
‘Am I under arrest?’
‘No, but if you don’t come with us voluntarily, I will arrest you.’
‘Is it all right if I get dressed first?’
‘Of course.’ He nodded at PCSO Hardy. ‘Constable Hardy will go with you and then take you outside to wait for us.’
‘I don’t understand. How can Colin be a murderer when he’s my boyfriend?’
Richards said, ‘We have DNA evidence.’
‘Didn’t he sexually assault that Catrina Golding before he strangled her?’
Parish and Richards glanced at each other.
‘Afterwards, not before,’ Parish said.
‘He had sex with a dead woman?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Oh my God! When we’re having sex, he makes me lie very still, and tells me not to make a sound. I’m a bit of a moaner, but he says it puts him off. He told me to pretend I was dead.’
‘How long have you been his girlfriend?’
‘Five months. He asked me to move in with him a week ago. There was something nagging at me in the back of my mind, but I kept telling myself it would be all right.’
‘You should always listen to that inner voice,’ Richards said. ‘Now it looks like you’ll have to move out again.’
Hardy escorted Donnelly into the bedroom.
‘Well, we’ve got him, Richards.’
‘We have, haven’t we?’
‘There were times when I thought that this case might slide into the unsolved pile.’
‘I never thought that.’
‘You’re still young. You think you can do anything. As you get older, your superpowers begin to fade.’
‘Since when did you ever have superpowers?’
‘Always had them. How do you think I got your beautiful mother to marry an ugly duckling like me?’
‘I often wondered about that.’
‘Well, now you know – superpowers.’
Forensics arrived and Parish explained that they were looking for a collection of four earrings; and anything personal that might explain why Colin Porter began killing in 2011 and why he felt it necessary to have sex with corpses.
They took Porter and Donnelly back to Hoddesdon Police Station. Porter was locked up and scheduled for interview in the morning.
Sergeant Knight and PCSO Hardy had to be kicked out of the canteen, and pointed back towards Sawbridgeworth. Elaine Hardy knew someone, who knew someone else, who knew Constable Mike Pettit who happened to be on a break in the canteen at the time, and they hit it off like a house on fire and he was tickling her tonsils behind a pillar . . .
‘When you’re ready, Hardy,’ Parish said.
‘Sorry, Sir.’
‘See you tomorrow, Elaine,’ Pettit said like a lovesick teenager.
‘You bet, Mike.’
Donnelly was questioned at length, but apart from what she’d already told them about Porter’s need for her to lie as still as a corpse, she couldn’t provide any more background information. She did, however, confirm that Porter was not with her on Friday, July 25; Saturday, July 26; nor Friday August 1.
‘Fishing, he said. A keen fisherman, or so he led me to believe. He certainly came home smelling of fish and beer.’
‘Our understanding is that he had sex with a man on the two nights in July,’ Parish said. ‘I presume you’ve had sex with him since then?’
‘A few times.’
‘Then my suggestion is that you go to your doctors and ask for a HIV test?’
‘Jesus. You mean I could have HIV?’
‘I’m not saying that at all, Miss Donnelly. Neither Porter nor the other man have the virus that we’re aware of, but it’s better to be safe than sorry.’
‘I’m already fucking sorry.’
Chapter Twenty-Four
Saturday, August 9
‘All right, I’ll come with you,’ Jerry said to the eerie apparition sitting next to her bed in the half-light.
‘Are you sure you want to do that?’
‘It’s what you’ve come for, isn’t it?’
‘I can take you with me if you’ve made your mind up, but I don’t think someone like you – who’s used to the lap of luxury – would enjoy living in a squat.’
‘A squat!’ She opened her eyes fully. ‘What? Who?’
‘Saw you were in the news again, thought I’d come over and say hello.’
‘Hello, Cookie.’
‘How ya doing?’
‘Oh, you know?’
‘Yeah, I do know. I hacked into the hospital computer system and checked what they’d written about you. They took a nail out of each hand, cleaned up your wounds and drugged you with ten milligrams of Oxymorphone, which you can have another two shots of if you ask nicely. Sounds good to me. I wouldn’t mind a few milligrams of that myself if you don’t need it. Anyway, your progn
osis is good. They also did one of those rape kit tests and everything was negative.’
‘What time is it?’
‘Ten past three in the morning. Time you remembered that I changed my name to Bronwyn.’
‘I remember. Don’t you sleep?’
‘Oh yeah. I like to sleep whenever I can, not just because it’s dark. I’ve done some of my best work in the dark.’
‘I can imagine. Well, thanks for coming to see me.’
‘You know what?’
‘What?’
‘They’ve recommended a psychiatric review, but it’ll be as an outpatient in a couple of weeks.’
‘I’m okay.’
‘Look me in the eyes and say that.’
Jerry began crying.
‘I thought so. Let me tell you a story about this girl I know . . .’
Bronwyn told her how Susan Bunyan had been tortured and raped by her father, about how she’d run away from home and left her mother and two younger sisters to be abused and tortured by the bastard until the time came when she was in a position to get her revenge and arrange for his murder . . .
‘You arranged for your father to be murdered.’
Bronwyn half-laughed. ‘No, not my father. I was talking about a girl I used to know called Susan Bunyan.’
‘What’s your real name?’
‘I forget now.’
‘So, why did you tell me about this Susan Bunyan?’
‘To show you that there’s a way out of the darkness. At the moment, you want to curl up in a ball and never come out again – Susan Bunyan used to be like that. But if you hide away, they’ll have won.’
‘You should have been a psychiatrist.’
‘I could have been anything I wanted to be, but shit happens.’
‘That’s true.’
‘So, are we clear? You get out of here and climb back into bed with that hot husband you’ve got; you go back to university and become a barrister; and you get on with your life and live happily ever after.’
‘It’ll be hard.’
‘Life is hard. I can vouch for that.’
‘All right.’
Bronwyn stood up. ‘I’ll be watching over you.’
