by CM Thompson
“No no, she usually goes everywhere with her boyfriend, those two were always together … I don’t know why he let her go out alone.” Her eyes are suddenly dark, now that she has someone to actually blame. Someone she didn’t think of before. Izzie’s boyfriend would not be welcomed at her funeral nor will he spend that many hours completely sober. Mrs Hilarie will be subjected to a number of phone calls begging for forgiveness. She won’t forgive him but she won’t hang up either.
“Had Isobel upset anyone lately?”
“No, no … no … everyone liked Izzie. She was such a …” Another sob, tears staining into Mrs Hilarie’s white shirt.
“You mentioned that Isobel asked you for money, do you think she may have borrowed money from someone else?” It is a long shot, a very, very long shot.
“No.” Mrs Hilarie’s tone is forceful, Fletcher could see that despite her current appearance, she is not someone to take advantage of. “I told Isobel never to borrow money from anyone else, she always came to me first. I know what you are thinking. Flamboyant girl, always getting drunk, could be going out and doing stupid things, but Izzie wasn’t like that.” A gasp, “Izzie isn’t like that.” Mrs Hilarie passes from angry to upset within a matter of seconds, a monsoon of emotions.
“I am sorry Mrs Hilarie, I need to ask these questions, just to make sure.” Fletcher’s throbbing headache is back, thumping cheerfully away at the back of his head. “Did Isobel know anyone called Madison Albrook?”
“That was the girl, on the news last night. Wasn’t it?”
Fletcher nods, not wanting to give more details than necessary, the news report had made everyone aware of the connection between the girls. It was only a matter of time before Adelina Sasha and Fran Lizzie Taylor’s names also rose from the dead. “My daughter had a lot of friends, there were too many for me to keep track of. I don’t recognise the name though. Izzie only moved here a few months ago.”
Mrs Hilarie lives about an hour’s drive away from the city, enough distance for Izzie to feel some freedom without moving too far. The university had been in a great location for her, since she had loved the city so much. A little part of Mrs Hilarie is now wishing that Izzie had chosen a different university instead of following in her mother’s footsteps. It would be a long empty drive home for Mrs Hilarie, with blame following behind her.
Fletcher views the new woman now sitting in front of him, Madison Albrook’s mother, Ms Albrook. She sits in a crisp grey suit, perfectly immaculate. Her eyes are clear, solidly fixed on Fletcher’s face.
“Good morning Ms Albrook, thank you for coming in. I am Detective Sergeant Aaron Fletcher, I need to ask you a few questions about Madison, if I may.”
This is beginning to become a well-rehearsed speech. To Fletcher there seems to be something very wrong about this, something is whispering in the back of his mind. It isn’t because this is the fourth victim’s family he has had to talk to, he is a specialist in interviewing, and this is what he does all year long, interviewing victims, victims’ families, eye witnesses and suspects. What is wrong is how mechanically he is doing it, the well-rehearsed speech that requires no emotion, even his sympathy is beginning to feel forced. It isn’t right, nothing is right here.
“Good morning Detective.” She says softly, her voice giving a slight trace of accent. His speech may have been rehearsed but their replies are always different. Different yet still the same. Some like Mrs Hilarie are in the full stages of grief, barely keeping it together but others like Ms Albrook give the impression of a person still in control, someone who can handle the situation coolly and calmly. Fletcher doubts that the reality of the situation has hit her yet. This type is just a ticking time bomb.
“Is there anything I can get for you?” No one ever jokes here, no one asks for a million pounds or a nice car. No one asks for the impossible, no one quietly whispers that they just want their daughter back. Sometimes people ask for a drink but usually it is the autopilot response, a shake of the head or the ‘No, I am fine.’ Ms Albrook is a stern woman, breaking down and crying in front of a police officer would be an intolerable weakness. Jokes are a no-go area so that just leaves the quiet, “No, thank you, Detective.”
“Ms Albrook, I just need to ask you a few details about your daughter, to see if there is anything she may have told you that could help catch the person who did this.” He speaks softly, taking care not to mix up the names – to accidentally say Isobel instead of Madison. Ms Albrook nods quickly, just wanting to get on with it.
“What was Madison like? As a person?”
“She was …” Ms Albrook hadn’t always noticed Madison as a person. “… quiet, she liked to study. She always had her nose in a book.”
“Did she have a lot of friends?”
“She never really mentioned any friends.”
“Did she have a boyfriend?”
“No.”
“When was the last time you spoke to your daughter?”
A pause, Madison had not come home for the summer, she had a summer job somewhere, Ms Albrook hadn’t asked where it was and Madison hadn’t said. The sudden realisation hit Ms Albrook that it was November, meaning the last time she had actually seen her daughter was … Christmas last year, eleven months ago. Even then at Christmas, Madison had spent a lot of time in her room, she had coursework to do and Ms Albrook just let her get on with it. When was the last time Madison had phoned? A sudden panic fills Ms Albrook, she does not want to be seen as a bad mother.
“Last weekend, I think or maybe the weekend before that.” She lies uneasily.
“Had Madison seemed emotional? Was she happy? Upset?”
“No, she seemed … fine, just her normal self really.”
Fletcher notices that her carefully polished finger nails have been viciously bitten down and her hands are now slightly shaking. Sometimes trembling or shaking hands are taken as signs of guilt or an indicator that the speaker is lying whereas calm steady hands are taken as a sign that the speaker is calm, perhaps honest or a well-practised sociopathic liar. Fletcher doesn’t think Ms Albrook is lying to him, but maybe she is feeling guilty about something.
“Had Madison complained of anyone following her?”
“No, I don’t think she did, people didn’t tend to notice Madison in that way.”
“Did Madison tend to go out alone?”
“No, Madison was a very responsible girl.” Ah, Fletcher thinks quietly to himself, sometimes parents are the last ones to know, but then most other people have been saying similar things about Madison Albrook. The quiet, responsible girl that no one really noticed, the complete opposite of Isobel Hilarie.
“Had Madison upset anyone lately?”
“No, Madison wasn’t the type …”
“Did Madison know anyone called Isobel Hilarie?”
“No.” Ms Albrook didn’t even recognise the name.
“Did Madison know anyone called Fran Lizzie Taylor?”
“No.” She hadn’t recognised that name either. A second wave of panic hits Ms Albrook, were these her daughter’s friends? Should she have recognised the names?
“My daughter and I aren’t very close.” She mumbles in a way of apology, eyes suddenly downcast. Fletcher isn’t quite sure who she is apologising to.
One of the last people to speak to Madison Albrook sits, polluting the small conference room. Fletcher is tempted to open the door, strongly tempted, privacy and confidentiality be damned. The source of the smell sits in the chair opposite, a dowdy older lady, wearing a shabby raincoat in stained pink. It is the first time Mrs Chalmers has left her small apartment in years. For the sake of the nice-ish girl who had lived upstairs, Mrs Chalmers is forsaking her afternoon soaps, with a small amount of regret. If only she had a son talented enough to be able to programme a VCR.
Fletcher coughs slightly, the distinctive musky perfume is irritating his senses, burning his throat and the unmasked clear smell of body odour is slamming itself into his nose, Fletcher is tr
ying unsuccessfully to breathe through his ears.
“Good afternoon Mrs Chalmers, I am Detective Sergeant Aaron Fletcher. Thank you for coming in. I would like to ask you a few questions about Madison Albrook, if I may?”
Mrs Chalmers has never been inside a police station before. After a lifetime of watching soaps and dramas she was expecting something a little more … glamorous. Instead she has been ushered into a dark dingy room, no one has so much as shown her a crime scene photo. She is very, very disappointed.
“Now, Madison Albrook was your neighbour?” he asks.
“Yes, she lived upstairs from me.”
“How well did you know her?”
“She was a very quiet girl, I kept asking her to join Augustus and I for dinner, she always refused. She was such a shy girl.”
“What sort of routine did Madison have?”
“Well … she usually went to her classes every day, she was a student you know, some kind of ology, I always told her she should concentrate on her looks not her books, but you know what these kids are like these days, just full of big ideas. Augustus was never like that … Augustus is my son, I always thought they would make a good couple. She was just too shy to talk to him. Augustus is an artist you know.”
Fletcher doesn’t know. What he does know is that Madison did not have classes every day, her schedule showed that she was in class three days a week, and worked only one day a week. The chance that Madison had a secret in her life was high, though maybe it wasn’t that secret; just no one had bothered to ask.
“How had Madison seemed emotionally recently? Did she seem upset or happy to you?”
Mrs Chalmers frowns, the last memory of Madison telling her almost gleefully where she was going floats in her mind. Nice girls did not do things like that. Mrs Chalmers suspects that maybe Madison had been joking.
“She seemed … her usual self really, she was just quiet.” She speaks sullenly, she is missing her afternoon soaps for this? “I told her to be careful out on the streets, that there was a monster out there. She should have listened to me or taken Augustus with her. He’s my son you know, Augustus, he’s an artist.”
Fletcher makes a mental note to have Augustus investigated, either Mrs Chalmers is hinting at something or she is being incredibly annoying.
“Did Madison receive many visitors in her flat?”
“She used to have a flatmate, a really loud noisy girl. I had to complain to the landlord about her. I told Madison she was far too much of a nice girl to put up with someone like that.”
“Do you remember the flatmate’s name?” No one else had mentioned a flat mate.
“It was something really Zsah … Zsaha … Zahaia … something like that.” Mrs Chalmers wrinkles her over-powdered nose in distaste.
Fletcher thoughtfully writes the names down. “Had Madison complained of anyone following her recently?”
“No, certainly not. We live in a good area,” she says angrily. We are not the common people, her tone implies.
Fletcher fights to keep his face impassive, fighting back against the smell and distaste. “Have you seen anyone suspicious around the flats recently?” He asks the question slowly, knowing the question will annoy Mrs Chalmers even more.
She gives him another angry look, not quite managing to be threatening. “What do you mean by that, young man?”
“Have you seen anyone in your area who isn’t usually there? Someone who doesn’t belong there, looks out of place.”
“Certainly not, I would have called the police if I had.”
Fletcher slowly thanks her for her help, gives the standard ‘please feel free to contact me if you remember any more details’ then ushers her out of the door.
Mrs Chalmers’s overpowering scent follows him as he grabs a quick lunch in the police canteen. He had been too tired to eat breakfast this morning and his stomach is now angrily protesting. He had been too tired for dinner last night too. Claire hadn’t saved him any left-overs and was already asleep when he got home, even in sleep she was giving him the cold shoulder. Just because he said he was going to grab a quick drink with the lads tonight. But, oh no, he isn’t even allowed that any more, Claire just doesn’t understand how badly he needs a break.
The police canteen is full of officers and admin clerks. Fletcher feels them stare at him accusingly, as if to ask, what are you doing here? You should be working! There will be time for food when this monster is caught. Why haven’t you caught this guy yet? He grabs a ham sandwich and a coffee before retreating to sit alone in the corner. No one joins him. The food tastes like dry sawdust in his mouth and is hard to swallow.
Chapter Eight
This afternoon’s main feature is a mandatory meeting for everyone working with Fletcher and Bullrush. Mostly it is a recap of the information given in the previous meeting, the personal details of the victims, the methods of murder, explanations and apologies on not already catching this guy. Bullface knows, and Fletcher suspects, that other officers have already approached the Chief Constable asking for command of the case. Chief James Morkam has so far refused, but Bullface knows it is only a matter of time. So far, there isn’t a single action of hers that could be criticised, she hasn’t missed any opportunities, unlike Fletcher, although Fletcher technically cannot be blamed for missing the blood trail. They are still the most experienced and senior officers. Bullface also knows that several other officers are investigating the case on the sly, particularly the ones who had been close to Robert Leona, but they also keep punching into dead ends. She almost welcomes their second pair of eyes but watches them closely. No one is going to make her the station’s scapegoat.
They discuss possible ways of capture – 4.5 million people’s DNA samples are accessible on their database but there are at least 53 million other people in the country. Their assailant is one person or maybe two people out of those 53 million people. None of the DNA samples so far collected matches anyone in the database, maybe the samples collected following Isobel Hilarie’s and Madison Albrook’s deaths would help narrow down the possibilities – they just need a match. If only they could force all males in the city to submit a DNA sample. Not only would that be hugely expensive and time-consuming but also a human rights infringement. But it would help catch the bastard … and probably solve sixty percent of their other open cases too. In Bullface’s dream world, the whole world is a DNA database, and they execute most criminals – consequences be damned. In Fletcher’s dream world, no crimes would be committed in the first place, no one has the ability or imagination to commit crimes, they would never dream of doing something so shocking. In Fletcher’s dream world, he would be a fisherman not a police officer.
“The fact that he operates during the day and night would suggest he is either unemployed or works odd hours, possibly a job which requires him to work shifts. Statements given by Adelina Sasha’s friends suggest she met her attacker whilst she was out jogging. This, combined with the fact that his dump sites appear to be well planned, suggests he spends a lot of time outside on the streets scoping out new targets. I wonder if it would be beneficial to have female and male officers also on the street, undercover.”
One officer, one that Bullface particularly does not like, speaks smugly. “The method of kill typically has been a slit throat, in some cases evidence suggests that the victims had no prior warning, no chance to defend themselves. If we put female officers undercover on the street then we are just practically giving the assailant more victims.”
“We could increase the number of undercover male police officers on the streets.”
“Who could we use? Most of our undercover officers are already on other assignments and cannot be pulled.”
“We could use regular officers.”
“The problem with regular officers is that they are easy to spot, even undercover. You can take the uniform off but they are still police officers,” Bullface argues.
“The assailant may avoid areas where he can see other males
on the street. So far he has attacked in empty areas.”
Bullface looks at the three bickering officers with disappointment, this is their finest? Though to their credit, most of them are actually good cops, until they have to work with each other.
“I don’t think many of our officers, male or female will be willing to work undercover after what happened to Shannon,” she says quietly. “If we put an undercover officer out there, then they would be working without a weapon, no chance of even being able to defend themselves should a situation arise. Even the citizens are beginning to arm themselves.”
“We need to be seen doing something,” the Chief says.
“We could ask for volunteers to go undercover, I know many of the officers want to help, if we get them to areas where we can monitor them easily on the CCTV circuit, increase patrols in areas most likely to be targeted.”
“But we are risking their lives.”
“We are risking the lives of innocents!”
“No matter what we do, the killer is going to keep attacking until he has been caught.” It is always the quietest voices that say things that no one wants to hear.
“We should consider working with the media.”
“Working with the media would increase the paranoia!”
“We can use the media to control the paranoia,” Bullface says thoughtfully. “Also to step up the appeals for information. Someone out there has had to have noticed this man by now. We can give a basic description to the media.” A very basic description.
“With the amount of news vans trawling the areas, they will probably catch the assailant before we do,” the first officer glumly mutters.
Fletcher finally makes a contribution to the conversation. “We weren’t able to stop Shannon Leona’s death or Madison Albrook’s from making the news. The deaths were too public. It’s only a matter of time before people start screaming serial killer. We need to keep the media under control, use them to soothe the public. There has already been one death because the public are afraid.”
