No Name Lane (Howard Linskey)

by Howard Linskey

  Between them they’d been through every article they could find on the victims of the Kiddy-Catcher, looking for a link.

  ‘I had a look on a map,’ she said. ‘I don’t know the area as well as you so I thought it might help if I marked everything: the victims’ homes, where they were taken and where they were found, and it does look random,’ she agreed, ‘apart from the fact that they are all within the county boundary. Sarah Hutchison was taken from a bus stop right at the edge but it was still in County Durham.’

  They continued to speed-read their piles of papers while they talked, dropping the pieces of paper onto the floor when they were done with them.

  ‘So there’s no pattern,’ he said, ‘unless that’s the pattern.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘People understand more about police work these days. It’s all on the telly. They know they’ll have a map on their wall with the locations of the abductions on it and the sites where the bodies were discovered. They’ll be trying to spot a trend or seeing if they can mark the centre of the killer’s zone. He wouldn’t want to murder on his own doorstep so he’d head out. Maybe the next time he’d choose a different direction. If he continues like that you end up with a pattern that’s like spokes on a wheel, with a victim at the end of each spoke and the killer’s home right in the centre.’

  ‘But that’s not happening here, so he doesn’t think like that or perhaps he has offended before,’ Helen said, ‘been to prison, for something less serious and learned from the experience.’

  ‘And he doesn’t want to go back.’

  ‘If he’s assaulted women or girls previously and they tracked him down, maybe he’d know how they did it and that would explain why he avoids a pattern.’

  ‘Possibly,’ he agreed, ‘I’ve heard that serial killers don’t normally start with murder. There’s usually some minor offending that gradually gets more serious until …’

  ‘They go the whole hog and kill someone.’

  He nodded. ‘And if he has been to prison before and doesn’t want to go back that would be another reason to kill the girls after he has taken them.’

  Helen felt no comfort from that realisation. ‘No witnesses,’ she said.

  ‘Of course what we really need are Malcolm’s files,’ he said.

  ‘What files?’

  ‘Your editor might be an anally retentive idiot but he is a very organised one. He keeps clippings of files so he can check things if the top brass panic about something that could get them sued. Every front and page lead has a little file that contains the first unedited draft, contact details of the people in it, the photographs and any notes deemed to be significant, such as the information that didn’t end up in the final story.’

  ‘You mean stuff that was too contentious?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You think there could be something useful in there?’

  ‘Who knows, but it’s not as if I can ask him for it. I’m persona non grata at the Messenger.’

  ‘And I’m not, but I soon will be if I hang around with you.’

  ‘I just thought you could borrow the files for each victim,’ he announced.

  ‘ “Borrow” them?’

  ‘Only for one night,’ he assured her, ‘just stay until everyone has left, slip them in your bag and walk out of there. You can go in early the next day and return the files after we’ve looked at them.’

  ‘I’m not sure I like the sound of this.’

  ‘They won’t be missed for one night, I’m telling you.’

  ‘You can’t be sure of that.’ She was recalling her experience with the Turner brothers.

  ‘I am and it’s the only way we are going to get the inside track. You know he edits out loads of stuff. We need to see the unedited version of the reports.’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  ‘Great,’ he said, ‘thanks.’

  ‘I didn’t say I would do it,’ she reminded him. ‘Jesus Christ,’ she said.

  ‘Okay, if you feel that strongly about it.’

  She shook her head irritably, ‘no, no,’ and he watched her uncomprehendingly. Helen was staring at a notice from her W. I. files; a single piece of paper amongst thirty years of detritus.

  Tom got to his feet and walked over to her. She handed him the ancient notice. It was quite clearly a rudimentary poster used to advertise an event. On it was written, ‘25th August. Village Hall. A talk to be given on the subject of sketching local landmarks for publication by Mr S. Donnellan – artist.’

  DI Peacock was trying hard to contain his fury. ‘What in the name of …’ He clenched and unclenched his fists, took a deep breath, thought better of what he was about to say, forced himself to calm down then exhaled and settled on, ‘… were you thinking?’ He glowered at the two detective constables in his office.

  Bradshaw looked at his colleague for support but Vincent was staring blankly ahead, seemingly content to admit their wrong-doing and accept the latest in a long line of bollockings. Bradshaw realised he was on his own. ‘The chief super told you not to bring him in for questioning,’ Peacock added, in case they’d forgotten who gave the order.

  ‘We didn’t bring him in,’ protested Bradshaw, ‘we invited him to come to the station voluntarily to assist us with our enquiries. He was cooperating.’

  ‘Don’t give me that,’ hissed Peacock, ‘you knew what you were doing and you disobeyed a direct order when you were supposed to be on another case.’

  ‘We were told to work both cases.’

  ‘Only if something fell into your lap!’ shouted Peacock, ‘you weren’t supposed to knock on their door, search their house and drag the stepdad down to the station.’

  ‘But he’s hiding something,’ insisted Bradshaw, ‘I know it.’

  ‘What exactly?’ asked the DI, ‘apart from a few porno mags?’

  ‘We don’t know.’ It pained him to admit it, ‘but something is not right in that house. I can sense it.’

  ‘Oh well, that’s all right, for a minute there I thought we had no evidence of wrong-doing but you can sense it. I say we arrest the bastard. What do you think, Boss?’

  Peacock was finding it difficult to retain his composure but DCI Kane had been watching the reprimand calmly. Finally he spoke. ‘Has he made a complaint?’

  ‘Not yet,’ admitted Peacock.

  ‘Will he?’ he was asking Bradshaw.

  ‘No, Sir.’

  ‘You sure about that?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘You bloody better be.’

  When it appeared more was required of him, Bradshaw asked, ‘Would you complain if someone found a load of magazines in your shed full of naked, adolescent girls?’ before adding, ‘Sir.’

  ‘Probably not,’ conceded Kane, ‘so perhaps we’re okay,’ he told Peacock. ‘But if we’re not, we’ll know who to throw to the wolves, won’t we?’ He was addressing DI Peacock but staring malevolently at Bradshaw and Vincent, then he sighed. ‘Maybe, just maybe, these two half-wits have stumbled on something,’ he said then he turned back to the two subordinates, ‘not that I’m happy with the way you went about it.’

  ‘I’m telling you, Sir, there’s something not right about that Denny,’ Bradshaw was almost pleading now.

  ‘Do you think he killed her?’ asked the DCI.

  Bradshaw instinctively wanted to say ‘yes’ but thought better of it, offering ‘it’s possible’ instead.

  ‘Then we’ll keep a closer eye on him,’ Kane told them. ‘Now you two, go and get on with the job you were given in the first place. Knock on some bloody doors. Go on, piss off.’

  The two detective constables got to their feet and left Kane’s office. Vincent hadn’t spoken the whole time. Bradshaw overtook him in the corridor. ‘Thanks for your help in there, Vincent,’ he muttered as he swept past his colleague.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  ‘What are we looking for now?’ she called down the loft stairs when he failed to answer her the f
irst time.

  ‘Something …’ Tom began but he tailed off absentmindedly, so she sighed and followed him downstairs. When she reached the second-floor landing, Tom was emerging from one of the rooms with a determined look on his face.

  ‘He must have moved them,’ he muttered, to himself as much as to Helen.

  ‘Should we be exploring Roddy’s home like this while he is out?’ she said, but he ignored her and headed down to the ground floor with no further explanation. Once again Helen followed him.

  Tom walked towards a room Helen hadn’t seen before. ‘He doesn’t use the front room much,’ he explained, ‘because he keeps the parlour for best. That’s what folk used to do way back when and, as you know, Roddy lives in the past. You kept the parlour for entertaining, usually on a Sunday afternoon,’ and he led her into a dark front room, the light from the window obscured by thick net curtains. Tom swept them back. Immediately the gloom was lifted. ‘There you go,’ he said, indicating the wall opposite, which was a jumble of old paintings and drawings. ‘That’s quite a collection.’

  It was an odd assortment of work, with pictures of varying sizes all sharing a common theme: local landscapes you would recognise if you were familiar with the rural land around Great Middleton – farmhouses, fields, woods and of course the river. The quality varied, from enthusiastic amateur to talented professional. More than a dozen frames cluttered the wall. Helen and Tom peered at each in turn. ‘Take a look at these two,’ she said finally.

  Tom transferred his attention to the two black-and-white line drawings in the middle of the display. Both were framed illustrations of the river that ran by the village and were of a high standard. They were rich in detail, every stroke of the artist’s pencil a perfectly proportioned realisation of the water, river bank or surrounding countryside. ‘They’re really good,’ said Helen. ‘There’s a date here,’ and they leaned closer to peer at the bottom left-hand corner of the first drawing.

  ‘August 1936,’ said Tom, ‘same on the second one and there’s a signature,’ he squinted at it then smiled at her, ‘looks like it could be S. Donnellan to me.’

  ‘It could,’ Helen agreed.

  Ian Bradshaw was just about to pull out of the police station car park, following a fruitless afternoon knocking on doors in Great Middleton, when he spotted Professor Richard Burstow exiting the building. No doubt the forensic psychologist had been sharing his opinions with Detective Superintendent Trelawe. Bradshaw moved quickly across the car park towards Burstow but was careful to look about him first, to make sure nobody saw him intercepting the professor.

  Bradshaw reached the professor’s car just as he was placing his briefcase on the back seat, ‘Professor?’ he called and the older man looked up. Perhaps he recalled Bradshaw’s contribution to that first briefing, which had been more positive than the young detective’s more sceptical colleagues’, for he gave Bradshaw what could have been a slight smile of recognition.

  ‘Detective,’ Burstow said. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’d like a word,’ Bradshaw answered, ‘if I may.’

  ‘How did you get these, Roddy?’ asked Tom. The three of them were looking at the drawings now. They hadn’t even let Roddy close his front door on his return before virtually dragging him into the parlour to show him the scenes of the river and the accompanying signature.

  ‘He left them behind,’ said Roddy, frowning slightly as he remembered, ‘hadn’t paid his rent up on his room. His landlady was widowed in the Great War, so she took in lodgers to make ends meet. People used to visit Great Middleton because it’s on the walking route, close to where the river swells, which was exactly what he was drawing,’ he pointed at one of the pictures. ‘Elsie Robinson put him up in her home then one day he did a moonlight flit, or so her son told me. She thought he just took off and left some of his drawings behind. She kept them for years.’ Roddy paused for a moment while he gathered his thoughts. ‘Elsie died in the mid-sixties, I reckon. Her son had these on a stand at the summer fête when I was just starting to collect. I had these two framed but I’m sure there were more,’ he said it absentmindedly, as if talking to himself, ‘they must be somewhere,’ but he didn’t seem entirely certain.

  ‘It would be good to see them,’ said Tom, though he didn’t hold out much hope of Roddy locating anything amongst the clutter. ‘This would explain why the guy wasn’t missed. If he wasn’t from here, if he was just passing through and everybody, even his landlady, thought he’d done a runner to avoid paying the rent.’

  ‘It would,’ agreed Roddy.

  ‘Now we know Betty wasn’t making all this up,’ said Helen. ‘We have a name and an identity and, thanks to you, Roddy, we’ve even got some of the man’s drawings.’

  They took a moment to survey the pictures, appreciating the delicacy of the work while silently wondering about the man who had created them and how he came to be brutally murdered in this village without anybody knowing about it.

  ‘You did good, Roddy,’ said Tom, ‘but you got one bit of the story wrong. Sean Donnellan didn’t leave these pictures behind,’ he reminded the older man, ‘because he never left.’

  ‘There are two schools of thought on this one,’ ruminated the professor, as he took a long sip from the pint of beer Bradshaw had bought him. If he had been puzzled by the request to speak away from police premises he had made no comment about it, instead following Bradshaw to a pub close by but just far enough from HQ to avoid bumping into anybody they knew. ‘Some believe pornographic images have absolutely no long-term effect on the viewer, that they are just a harmless form of sexual release. There is an awful lot of easily available pornography out there but, mercifully, only a very small percentage of the male population turns into a rapist or murderer. In fact, there is no statistical evidence linking porn to any increase in sexual violence. Some even believe that porn and prostitution prevents men from offending who would otherwise do so, without the outlet they provide.’

  ‘Right,’ said Bradshaw, trying to hide his disappointment that the science didn’t back up his theory about Denny’s possible guilt. ‘You did say there were two schools of thought?’

  ‘There’s another argument,’ conceded the professor after another large gulp of beer, ‘backed up by more recent research, which cites a link between extreme porn and violent behaviour. That kind of pornography can have a desensitising effect on men, leading to less empathetic behaviour towards women and even a tolerance of rape or sexual violence.’ He drained his beer and surveyed his empty glass. ‘Thanks for the drink by the way.’ Bradshaw had barely touched his.

  ‘Let me get you another one, Professor.’ Bradshaw quickly drew the barman’s attention to the professor’s glass.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘What about the kind of person who secretly hoards indecent images of young girls or women pretending to be young girls?’ he asked, ‘what would a craving like that tell us about a man?’

  ‘Well,’ the professor thought for a moment, ‘it would tell us that man could not possibly be The Reaper.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Have you forgotten what I told you? The man taking these little girls has no interest in them sexually. Remember his God complex. He is doing this so he can have the power of life and death over his victims. That is his thrill. So whoever you have in mind now cannot be The Reaper,’ the professor concluded.

  ‘Which just proves my point,’ confirmed Bradshaw.

  He no longer subscribed to the view that Michelle Summers was a victim of The Reaper. Bradshaw was sure it was someone much closer to home.

  Tom knocked on the door and once again it was the housekeeper who opened it and answered with a single word. ‘Doctors.’

  ‘Again?’

  ‘She’s got arthritis,’ the sullen woman reminded him.

  He turned to Helen. ‘We should wait.’

  The housekeeper ignored the hint to admit them and closed the door, so instead they sat in the car.

  ‘
It’s funny,’ Helen said, ‘it seems more real now, seeing his drawings. It turns him into a real person, not just …’

  ‘A load of old bones?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  Tom was staring at the old vicarage intently. ‘What is it?’ she asked him.

  ‘Every time I come here she’s either at the doctors or a hospital appointment, according to the housekeeper,’

  ‘She probably has a few things wrong with her,’ reasoned Helen, ‘she’s quite old.’

  ‘I suppose she is,’ he said, ‘but she hasn’t changed a bloody bit, still speaks to me like I’m one of her pupils, even now.’

  ‘She taught you? What was she like?’

  ‘Strict,’ he said, ‘you couldn’t get away with anything. Some of the other teachers had no authority. Kids can detect that. If they smell weakness they’ll run you ragged but not her. She was always too quick with the slipper.’

  ‘The slipper?’

  ‘She used to keep this old slipper in her drawer and she’d use it, even if you were just talking when you shouldn’t.’

  ‘I don’t agree with hitting kids, whatever they’ve done.’

  ‘Mary Collier’s from a different era,’ he explained, ‘she used it on me often enough. I’ll never forget this one time; I was about nine and I was being picked on by this bigger kid. It went on for weeks. He was a nasty little shit. Anyway, cutting a long story short, he hit me one day and I just saw red.’

  ‘Somehow I can imagine that,’ she said.

  ‘Yeah well anyway, he hit me hard, so I picked up the tray we kept all of our exercise books in and I lamped him with it.’

  ‘Oh my God, was he all right?’

  Tom shrugged, as if the bully’s fate was of no importance. ‘Eventually,’ he looked a little sheepish then, ‘bust nose, split lip, there was some blood and quite a few tears. Mrs Collier was the first one on the scene and she went ballistic. I got slippered like nobody had ever been slippered. Then she called my dad in and I had to wait outside the office while she told him how unacceptable my behaviour was.’