“That’s Samuel. It was taken in the back garden.” She looked back at the wall and placed it on the four blu-tac blobs. Drawn on the wall and positioned directly above Melville’s head, was a small inked halo. “Angels and devils, Owen. Those who were kind and those who were not.”
“Get Forensics here and make sure Melville puts the dog next door. The key stays with us.”
***
Dr Brewster Smyth refused to believe that his own son would in any way harm him, in fact, he refused to believe that his son could harm anyone, let alone kidnap and murder innocent kids.
“I’m a scientist not a police officer but, believe me, you’re attempting to arrest the wrong man. He’s always been weak. Look Chief Inspector, he couldn’t even follow his own career path, he had to follow mine.”
Cyril couldn’t help but visualise him in his wife’s underwear. “I don’t believe he followed your lead totally.”
Dr Smyth gave Cyril a look that would have intimidated many. “And you mean to imply?”
“Does he have your penchant for women’s clothing and transvestites, Dr Smyth?”
“How the bloody hell do I know? You seem to have all the answers. I have noted, however, from the press, that still no villains have been caught for the murder of the two youngsters. How long’s it been? Four or is it five weeks? All you can do is waste your time and mine discussing a life that I chose to live, which, quite frankly, is neither against any law of this country nor any of your damn business. Now, unless I’m under arrest for wearing the incorrect colour of lingerie, I should like to continue to run this business in peace.”
“We have evidence to believe that your son has transformed himself into the two people comprising Samuel Dixon. Using that pretence, he has carried out the crimes as some type of revenge for events that occurred in school. Samuel Dixon, Pamela Shepherd, if you prefer, was found dead this morning. All the evidence suggests murder. She has been dead some time. At the moment we are unsure who kidnapped the children. Two other people have been found murdered and again evidence suggests that they were involved with the boys’ deaths. On my way here, colleagues informed me that they have found photographs of all the murder victims. There was also an image of you.”
Cyril held up his mobile. “This is the image.”
Smyth took the phone. He laughed. “I’m portrayed as Satan, so much for my charity work!”
“Look, I can’t force you to accept protection, but I can offer you the strongest caution. If he is still actively seeking revenge, you are in danger, there is no question of that.”
“I shall check under the bed every night, Chief Inspector, just to make sure the bogey men are not hiding. Now, as I’ve said before, I have work to do and so do you. Good day.”
Cyril stood in the car park and phoned the station. Adrian Smyth hadn’t been seen. His car was still at his apartment and both had been searched. A neighbour had seen him leave the previous day with a large suitcase; a holiday abroad she was told, she didn’t know the destination. Blocks had been put on his passport and border agencies had been notified. If he hadn’t already left, and according to the Border records he hadn’t, then he was still free and travelling within the UK.
Cyril phoned Stuart Park. “Check all car hire firms in the area and see if either Smyth, Shepherd or Dixon has hired a vehicle in the last ten days. Check any matches with driving licence numbers and check also railway bookings. If he’s just hopped a train, then there’s nothing we can do.”
***
Preston train station was busy. Adrian Smyth walked up the slope from the platform turning right over the bridge that crossed the lines, before emerging onto Butler Street. He’d been there before on many occasions as a youth, but the most recent had been to attend a conference at the University. He turned up towards Fishergate, the main semi-pedestrianised street. The trundling case in tow was, at this moment, more an inconvenience but it was essential. He needed a coffee. He was on the last leg.
The Travelodge was both comfortable and innocuous. He’d never stayed there before nor would he ever again. He gave a fake name and address, booking for three nights; he paid cash, requesting a receipt. He neither wanted to waste time nor effort. If the truth be known he’d had enough.
The 280 bus service from Preston to Clitheroe was on time. Adrian Smyth chose a seat by the window and placed the small rucksack on the next seat. He glanced around and counted six other passengers. The journey would take forty-five minutes. He glanced at the large complex that was Samlesbury aircraft works. An aircraft sat on a post at one of the gates but he took little interest.
Once in Clitheroe he found a taxi and gave an address. It would take fifteen minutes. Pendleton was as he remembered, the brook babbled down the centre of the village set deep below the road. The pub was to the left. The Swan with Two Necks. The name had always amused him.
“Two necks means two heads means two personalities.” He threw his rucksack over his shoulder and walked up the lane, stopping to look at an old stone bridge sitting away from the brook, preserved and safe. He could now see the house. It stood alone.
***
Cyril stared at the screen on one side of the Incident Room. The large image showed the wall depicted as Owen and Liz had found it.
“Dead, dead, dead and dead. Then we have Pamela or Samuel, let’s say Samuel, as officially she still is. We have a psychopathic motive for the deaths of the two boys and for the release of the other. I believe Samuel had to die for two reasons, firstly because he initially started this and secondly, he offered two perfect personalities with which to beguile and blackmail others into either supporting him in committing the crimes, or commit them for him. The defaced photograph Liz found downstairs would support this theory. Looking at the pattern of lines to photographs, we can see some aren’t defaced but enhanced. They are set away as if they had nothing to do with anything other than, and I’m sorry to use the word, kindness. Melville and Gregson, although why he’s even on the wall is a conundrum. The one person not here is…?”
Cyril waited.
“Mrs Hackworth.”
“In one! Now why isn’t she up on the wall of sinners if, as Dr Adrian Smyth pointed out, she was one of those who refused to believe and support him?”
“She did support him, she believed that he was telling the truth. According to the reports, she knew that things had transpired and although she wasn’t eager to see the police involved, she did protect the boy from expulsion. She brushed things under the carpet, moving him so that Dixon would have no further contact. She probably acted in a more sensitive and caring way than either his mother or definitely his father.”
“So why no photograph with a halo or a smiley face or anything else? Why is she missing?”
“Because she’s somehow involved. There’s no image of Dr Adrian Smyth either. Just thinking out loud.” Owen’s face reddened thinking he’d said something totally ridiculous.
Cyril looked at Liz. “What have we missed?”
***
The latch on the gate was as recalcitrant as he remembered and on the third tug the gate swung open. Lodge House was a traditional stone, detached country residence, once the home of the local GP. It stood slightly aloof of the village. It was the first house to have a separate building to house a car. The pathway leading to the front door was planted with lavender and Adrian let the aroma fill his nostrils as he deliberately brushed the bushes. He thought of Pamela, propped in the pantry, and he smiled. He glanced at the large bay window and at the figure sitting watching his slow progress. They made eye contact. Adrian paused. Each of them neither waved nor smiled. They just stared.
Adrian kept his eyes on the elderly lady as long as he could. He then turned away following the path round to the rear of the house. He saw what he was looking for; the side door to the garage was propped open using an old cobbler’s last. He went inside.
Mrs Hackworth moved away from the window and checked that both the front and back doors w
ere locked before picking up the phone.
***
The blue lights flashed along the grill of the unmarked police car. Owen drove whilst Cyril clung on in the passenger seat, his aviator sunglasses shielding his eyes from the low sunshine. Liz was in the back seat. Once through Blubberhouses, they climbed onto the moor heading for Bolton Bridge. Liz waited for the call from the Command Room. An earlier 999 call made from Mrs Hackworth’s address had been taken at 17:43. A female was claiming that an intruder had entered out-buildings on her property. The local police were attending.
“Description of a male, about six foot with goatee beard. Can you believe it? Local police are communicating with her on her land line. She’s moved upstairs on their advice and is now in one of the bedrooms. There is still no sighting of the intruder. As far as she’s aware he’s still in the outbuilding.”
Cyril was beginning to feel a little sick, he began to yawn as sweat beaded his forehead and temples. He opened the window a fraction. The cool air helped.
“Shall I slow down, Sir? You’ve turned a strange shade.” Owen kept glancing across.
Liz interrupted Owen’s attempt at a bedside manner. “Police are in position. What do you want them to do? Have them wait or go in?”
Cyril was still struggling to retain his lunch in his stomach.
“How long now, Owen?”
“Five minutes most.”
“Have them hold position but maintain eye contact with the house entrances. If it looks as though our man is manoeuvring to enter, then tell them to move in.”
The now narrow country lane leading to Pendleton was Cyril’s idea of a nightmare. He clung on desperately, not wanting to embarrass himself; the car window, now fully open, afforded him some respite. His shirt stuck to his body as streams of perspiration flowed down from his forehead. He marvelled at the way Liz managed to interact with a phone conversation and write notes throughout the rollercoaster journey.
Cyril breathed deeply, relieved at seeing the police vehicles positioned along the narrow lane. Owen pulled to one side and without a moment’s notice Cyril threw open the door, allowing it to collide against a stone wall. He took three deep breaths.
“Go!”
Two plain clothed officers moved down to meet them. They shook hands.
“Are you alright, Sir, you’re a strange colour?”
Cyril just smiled. “I’ll be fine.”
“He’s in the garage area, the door’s open. Mrs Hackworth is upstairs. We have visual. As you’re SIO, Sir, it’s your call. We have four armed officers standing by at your command.”
Cyril moved towards the rear of the property as directed by the two officers.
“You can see the door, it’s open and propped. There’s been no movement since our arrival.”
Cyril didn’t hesitate. “Send them in.”
The dark-suited figures moved stealthily, communicating by the use of hand signals. One stood in front of the closed double doors as if expecting them to burst open. The three others made their way to the other door. Once in position they moved swiftly inside. Cyril heard their sharp, clear call.
“Armed police, armed…”
There was nothing further. After a moment one reappeared and moved his flat hand across his throat. No shots were fired but it signalled that a body had been found. Cyril glanced across at Owen and Liz and then at the two officers. They moved along the path taken by the armed officers. Cyril was first through the door. Hanging from the wooden cross-member that spanned the garage hung the body of Adrian Smyth. At his feet rested a small beard, removed by the contortions occurring during the hanging, and a set of overturned, wooden steps.
Even though there was no movement of the air, the lifeless body turned slowly, suspended from the yellow and black nylon rope. The pattern didn’t escape Cyril’s attention; Smyth had planned every last detail, even to the colour of the rope. He looked up at the face; the distended, bloodshot eyes stared at the workbench to his right.
Cyril moved over to it. A rucksack and a hard-backed notebook were neatly positioned; the book was open. A photograph filled the final page of the book. As if through habit, Cyril moved his hands behind his back so as not to touch anything. The grainy photograph was an image of Samuel Dixon and Adrian Smyth. Dixon had his arm around Smyth’s shoulder. Smyth was dressed in girl’s underwear; only Dixon was smiling. Cyril removed his phone and captured the image. There was something about the background in the photograph that made his stomach churn. The rest of the book would have to remain a mystery until Forensics had been through it.
He left the garage and moved towards the front door of the house. Liz was sitting in what could be described as a drawing room with Mrs Hackworth; she was sipping tea. He glanced at the table and chair positioned in the bay window. Two glass tumblers sat on the table, one half-filled with what looked like whisky, the other, contained tablets of differing colours and sizes. Cyril picked up the liquid filled tumbler. He was right. A suicide kit.
“Mrs Hackworth, DCI Bennett. You met DS Graydon a couple of weeks ago. Do you mind if I just take a look around your home?”
The elderly lady looked at Liz and then nodded. “Is something wrong? Is the man still in the garage?” Her voice sounded frail but false and almost lost within her frightened breath.
“Yes, he’ll be there some time, but I think you know that.”
Cyril moved through the downstairs rooms before moving upstairs. It was there that he found what he was looking for. He held his phone at the correct angle. The décor and the picture matched perfectly. The single bed to the right could just be seen. He returned downstairs.
Cyril collected the tumbler of tablets and placed it between Liz and the dejected Headteacher; he then brought a chair placing it between Liz and Mrs Hackworth.
“Do you need reading glasses?” His voice seemed callous and hard. Liz turned to him, her expression quizzical.
Mrs Hackworth collected her glasses from the table by the window and returned to her seat. Cyril removed his phone and found the photograph before handing it to her. She simply handed it back. He passed it to Liz.
“Would you like to tell the Sergeant here where that was taken?”
The pause seemed to drag on for minutes.
“It was taken in the bedroom upstairs when Adrian was fourteen. I hope there are no others.”
“He was your lover, Samuel Dixon? I’m sure there will be photographs. Was he Pamela to you or Samuel?”
“It was a moment of weakness and then…I had my reputation and that of the school. You do anything, believe me, anything.”
“Adrian Smyth was an innocent under your care…you’re below contempt.”
Cyril picked up the tumbler. “And these?”
“I tried, after the Sergeant here called a while back, I tried. Something told me that Samuel was dead. I knew that he would come after I received the box, the tattoo equipment and the skin in the jar. I lied and he knew it. I really thought that he would make my end painful, that he would make me suffer but he didn’t come to the door, he just stood and looked at me. It was a look I shall never forget. It was then that I realised that I had seen that look before, many years before. In that image you can see it. There was sadness in his eyes, a look of absolute betrayal and I knew then what was about to happen. He simply turned and went into the garage. I was too afraid to help. The way he looked at me from the pathway, I knew that it was time.” She looked at the tablets. “How I tried, but I couldn’t. I’m so sorry, Adrian, please forgive me.” A tear rolled down her cheek and she wiped it away with the back of her hand. “Is he alive?”
Cyril stood. “Sergeant Graydon will caution you and then you’ll be arrested pending further enquiries. Dr Smyth has left a catalogue of evidence in the garage as a full and final chapter in his difficult and confused life. Whether we will fully understand how those selfish, abusive crimes you committed against that boy affected his mind is not for us to know, we can only interpret the evidence an
d follow the exact letter of the law.”
He moved out of the house. He needed air. Removing his e-cigarette he inhaled deeply. The menthol infusion filled his mouth taking away the bitter taste.
The SOCO team had already arrived and the medical team were moving towards the garage. All it took was one strange summer and someone’s life had been totally destroyed. Cyril collected Liz and Owen, thanked the officers and moved to the car.
“Passenger seat, Owen. It’s a steady run back.”
Liz grabbed Owen’s arm. “We don’t know what time we’ll finish tonight but ask me if I’d like a drink after work!”
Owen blushed slightly remembering the conversation. “Would you like a drink after work if the pubs are still open?”
“Love one.”
“And if the pubs are closed, I have beer at my place.” She winked and smiled.
Owen continued to blush.
“Are you two coming or staying?”
Chapter Twenty Four
The music was low. Cyril sat with his feet on the coffee table, looking through the photocopied pages of Adrian Smyth’s diary. It had detailed his time in school and the abuse by Dixon and his Head teacher. It detailed his father’s departure from the family home and his university life. There was never mention of friends, neither girls nor boys in his life. He possessed no real memories of friends, only enemies. It was a chronological history of his life until he kidnapped Pamela. He detailed how he had kept her locked away and how he had taken her place looking after her aunt. He had robbed her of her personality. He discovered every part of her life. He discovered the house in Hampsthwaite, her relationship with Gregson, he got to know the people she knew, the Jenkins and how he quickly took over their lives too.
It was then that the pages in the diary were divided down the middle with a thick, red line. From one person grew two and the diary took the form of those two people who grew in his psyche. Pamela and Samuel both became real; each had a separate story to tell in graphic detail. Photographs supported the written word. The kidnappings and the murders, the purification, the mellification were all described by Samuel in minute detail; how the process would help others in the long term, how it would make the bitter, sweet. It all seemed as confused as his mind. What did prove fascinating was that Pamela’s account had no mention of the kidnappings or the killings; it detailed Liz’s meetings and happy times with Bruce Jenkins, of how kind he had been. It also mentioned John Melville and his kind support and bizarrely the love she felt for the aunt. If ever there was a Janus figure where one grew into two so disparate people, then this was it. On three occasions, a full page reverted to the life of Dr Adrian Smyth. It was as if nothing in the pages before mattered, it was just his account of daily life. Cyril turned to the last page. In the centre, written boldly and in the same script and by the same hand, according to the Forensic analysts, as that found on the jar labels, were the words:
Flesh Evidence: a heart-stopping crime thriller Page 20
