‘What about this Alf Horton character? I know he gives you the creeps, but what’s the deal with him warning her about something?’ he said.
‘No idea, but he’s a nasty bastard. I wouldn’t put it past him to try to wind her up – and it seems he succeeded.’
‘What else did you notice? You’re pretty good at reading people.’
‘I noticed that she was unbelievably uncomfortable when we mentioned her husband.’
They sat in silence for a while, the grey skies and the thin drizzle making driving conditions less than ideal.
‘Okay, Becky, next steps with Adam Mellor?’
‘Everybody’s on the lookout for either the van or his car. We need to get Julian Richmond to give us a contact – his closest friend if possible – so that we can get a list of his known associates. We have intermittent checking on his home to see if he turns up there, and we’re following up the story of a death in the family. We’re also looking into any other property that he might own.’
Tom was happy with the actions Becky was proposing, but there was one other thing he wanted her to do.
‘You know about the bodies that have been found in the canals around Manchester in the past few years?’
‘You mean the “pusher” cases?’
Tom looked at her sideways, his eyebrows raised.
‘Sorry, I know they’ve all been declared either accidental or suicide, but you have to admit it’s a bit odd.’
Tom knew what she meant. Over sixty bodies had been found in the last few years, and almost all of them were men. There was no evidence they had been murdered, and the general consensus was that they had been drunk and had fallen in. Suicide was always possible, but as one eminent psychologist had pointed out very loudly, canals are not locations of choice for suicide and the chances of success without weighing yourself down beforehand are pretty slim.
‘I’m interested in the few women they’ve found. I know the deaths go back fifteen years or so and some of the bodies are badly decomposed, but I’d like to see if any of the women died around 2003, and if so whether they had any links with Manchester University. Can you add that to the list?’
For some reason Tom couldn’t get it out of his head that all those years ago there should have been a third victim.
Maggie had closed the door on the police as soon as she reasonably could without seeming rude and leaned back heavily against it. She knew her behaviour had been that of a guilty person – she had met enough of them. But when she reported her concerns she had never imagined she would be interviewed by Tom Douglas. She had been expecting a constable – a sergeant at most – to be assigned to her case.
For somebody like Tom Douglas to come all this way to talk to her about a possible stalking incident, the driver of the van had to be linked to a serious crime. It had to be the murders. It was the only thing that made sense.
She grabbed the phone, terrified that somebody would ring her and ruin her chance of dialling 1471 so she could get the number that Duncan had called from. She didn’t think he would have blocked it if he was using a call box because he could just walk away.
Duncan must have known it was somebody official at the door. He would have heard her called Mrs Taylor, and the fact that she had called him Clare would have been all the signal he needed. He had muttered ‘Shit!’ and hung up without another word.
1471 worked. She tried to connect, but there was no answer.
Maggie wanted to scream. Whatever was going on, she knew Duncan would have freaked out if he had guessed she was talking to the police and that might be the last she heard from him. Why on earth hadn’t she said she was talking to her husband and asked Tom Douglas to give her a moment? He didn’t know Duncan was missing, and it would have seemed the most natural thing in the world, but she had panicked. And why had she shouted questions at Duncan when all she wanted to say to him was ‘Come home’ and ‘I love you’?
Duncan, darling – where are you? The thought revolved around her head, beating against every conscious thought.
One other thought was battling for supremacy. Who are you, Duncan?
She walked through to the kitchen and sat down. She waited two minutes and tried the number again. It rang until it automatically disconnected.
Her laptop pinged and she stared at the screen.
It was a message on Facebook, and it was from Stacey Meagan, the girl in the photo with Duncan.
I got your message, but not sure if I can help you. The boy in the picture is Michael. He was a bit older than me. He was at Pat’s when I arrived and left when I was still in my early teens. I do remember he had a crazy coloured bike, though. He was eighteen when he left. He came back a few times the first year, but then Pat never heard from him again. She was devastated. I have no idea where to find him. Sorry.
Maggie read the message over and over. Michael. His name was Michael. He was in foster care. Surely that couldn’t be right. His mother was alive until he was twenty. Maggie had assumed he was a friend of one of the other kids. Why would he have been in foster care?
She slowly and thoughtfully typed a response.
When Michael left, do you know where he went? And do you by any chance know his surname?
That was a risk. Stacey Meagan might think it odd that she was searching for somebody but didn’t even know his surname, but she would think of something if that came up.
Michael left to go to university. I think Pat told me he bombed out at the end of his second year. I’m sorry, I can’t remember his surname. There were so many of us, see, coming and going all the time. But I’ll ask some of the others if you like?
Maggie pressed her palms together, index fingers tapping against her teeth. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to know any more, but she couldn’t stop now.
Thank you, Stacey. You have been really helpful. If you could ask around I would be grateful. In the meantime, do you by any chance remember which university he went to?
She was sure the answer would be Leeds. At least that would make sense. The reply was instant.
No problem – I’ve already started spreading the word. I can’t ask Pat – she’s in a home now and sadly she has Alzheimer’s. If I catch her on a lucid day I’ll see what I can do. Oh, and the university, it was Manchester.
Maggie hadn’t heard the front door open, but was suddenly conscious there was somebody behind her in the kitchen. She spun round, aware that tears were streaming down her face. ‘Sorry,’ she said, quickly scrubbing away the tears with her fingers.
Suzy had returned home with the children and she ushered them into the sitting room, telling Josh to choose a DVD, then pulled the door shut and turned to face Maggie.
‘What’s happened?’ she asked. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
Maggie leaned back in her chair and looked up at the ceiling, trying to curb the tears.
‘Duncan phoned, but he hung up when the police arrived and didn’t leave a number. I don’t know who he is, Suzy. He’s not even called Duncan. He’s called Michael.’
Maggie didn’t look at Suzy’s face. She didn’t want to see what her sister thought of Duncan, and she knew Suzy would find it impossible to disguise her feelings. To give her credit, she didn’t say anything; she just reached out and grabbed Maggie’s hands.
Duncan had never wanted to talk about himself much, and Maggie had always felt that each time she learned a new fact about her husband there was a sense of discovery, as if she was getting closer and closer to him. Now she seemed so naïve.
‘Why’s he been lying to me? Do you know, if you’d asked me a week ago, I would have said we didn’t have secrets. There was that stupid cupboard, but I guessed it held mementoes of his mum – things he didn’t want to share. There were gaps, but I didn’t think of them as secrets; I thought of them as private thoughts and feelings that I would learn as time went on.’
She pulled a tissue from the box that Suzy had put in front of her and blew her nose.
&nbs
p; ‘You know how it feels, Suze, when you really love someone. You start off as separate people whose bodies and minds are touching, but gradually you begin to feel more and more as if you’re melting into one another, as if you can’t get any closer without getting inside their skin with them. Each little detail that I learned about Duncan pulled me further and further into him. It was wonderful. Do you know what I mean?’
Suzy was quiet for a long moment, and Maggie opened her eyes and turned towards her. Tears were now streaming down her sister’s face.
‘Oh shit, Suzy, I’m so sorry. Of course you know. You must know exactly how I’m feeling.’
Suzy choked out a laugh. ‘That’s just the point, Mags. I have absolutely no idea. I’ve never felt like that – I didn’t know that’s how it’s supposed to feel. All I’ve ever felt since Ian left is anger. I guess it’s time I let that go and accepted that maybe what we had was never good enough.’
Maggie reached out and took her sister’s hand. There was nothing she could say. After a couple of minutes she pushed herself off her chair. ‘Come on, sis. Let’s go and see the kids.’
Suzy stood up too, held out her arms and gave Maggie a hard hug. ‘No, I’ll take care of the kids. You do whatever you need to sort all of this out.’
As Suzy walked back towards the sitting room, Maggie pressed redial again. She was about to hang up when the ringtone stopped, and her heart leaped. Then she heard a voice – uncertain, quiet, young.
Not Duncan.
Maggie paced the room as she spoke. ‘Hello?’ She couldn’t tell if the voice was male or female, but she didn’t want to frighten whoever it was away. ‘Hi,’ she said, keeping a smile on her face knowing it would be reflected in her voice. ‘Thanks for picking up. I wonder if you can help me? Do you think you could tell me where I’m calling exactly? You see, a friend asked me to phone, and I’m not sure if I’ve got the right number.’
There was silence for a few seconds.
‘It’s a phone box.’
‘Oh, that’s great. Thanks. He’s probably going to come back then. Err, can you tell me where the phone box is?’
‘Near the park.’
‘Brilliant. I’m just wondering which park, though. Sorry to be stupid.’
‘Heaton Park.’
Maggie felt her tense body sag with relief. At least it wasn’t far away, but the park was massive. She was also fairly certain that the gates were closed at night, so it was unlikely Duncan would be inside. There must be a park warden, and surely he wouldn’t allow anybody to park up overnight?
‘Thanks. You’ve been really helpful. One more thing – can you have a look round, do you think? Is there a white van parked anywhere near you?’
The line went dead. Maggie leaned back against the wall, a mixture of frustration that she hadn’t managed to get more information and elation that she at least knew where Duncan had been a few hours ago competing for her focus.
‘I’m going to find you, Duncan,’ she whispered.
41
Tom had spent too long thinking about Maggie Taylor and what was making her so edgy. He didn’t have any answers, so he had to concentrate on what he did know, and that meant focusing on Adam Mellor. The question was, did Adam Mellor have an accomplice? Maggie Taylor had said there were two men in the van that had followed her, so if a second man was involved it would be good to know who he was.
Becky popped her head round the door.
‘Louisa Knight has agreed to call in to see us on her way home from work to take a look at the picture of Adam Mellor. Maybe he’s been seen around with one of her colleagues. She’ll be here in about ten minutes.’
‘Let’s both see her. I’ve got a couple more questions to ask her.’
Becky stood looking at him for a second. ‘If you’re going to talk to her, I think two of us is overkill, frankly. So why don’t you get started, and I’ll join you when you’ve got through the pleasantries stage, hmm?’
She turned to leave, but not before Tom had seen the cheeky grin on her face. It wasn’t easy to fool Becky. It was obvious that he didn’t need to see Louisa. The fact was, he wanted to.
She was waiting in reception when Tom went downstairs, and as he showed her into a small interview room and asked for a cup of tea for both of them he felt a momentary lightening of the weight of concern that he was lugging around with him.
‘Sorry to drag you out here again, Louisa. Especially so late in the day. I’m sure you have somewhere better to be.’
Louisa shook her head and smiled. ‘Nope. Just an evening in front of the fire. Me, Bailey and a bottle of red.’
‘Oh. Then I’m sorry to deprive Bailey of your company this evening,’ he said, feeling vaguely disappointed.
She smiled and gave a small shake of the head.
‘Don’t you worry about Bailey. He’ll curl up in front of the wood burner. He’ll be fine. My neighbour will let him out.’
Tom relaxed. Dog or cat? he wondered. He was a dog person, and if it hadn’t been for his long working hours would have picked one up from Animal Rescue years ago. It sounded like a peaceful, relaxing evening, something Tom wasn’t likely to be getting in the near future.
He pushed all thoughts of fires, red wine and dogs to the back of his mind and filled Louisa in with as much detail as he could.
‘We have an unusual situation in that a woman is missing who looks very much like your friend Hayley. In fact, when Hayley’s body was found, we initially thought she was our missing person. That seems like a hell of a coincidence, and we’re concerned for the safety of this woman. We’ve got somebody in our sights who we think might be involved in some way, and I’m hoping you can help.’
‘Okay. Is it one of the guys I told you about?’
‘No, but I wonder if he might be known to you; perhaps as a friend of one of your colleagues. Bear in mind that this man may well be entirely innocent, so please keep this confidential. Does the name Adam Mellor mean anything to you?’
Louisa placed her forearms on the desk and looked down, her eyes crinkling slightly at the corners as she concentrated. Tom stayed silent. She let about ten seconds pass.
‘No. I’m sorry, but I can’t think that I’ve met anybody by that name, or even heard it mentioned.’
Tom nodded. He showed her the photograph. ‘He may be using another name.’
Louisa looked at the photograph that Julian Richmond had emailed through to the office at Becky’s request. She stared for quite a long time at the young man with blond hair, slightly pointed chin and an immaculate white shirt.
‘I’m sorry. I’m fairly sure I haven’t seen him before. He’s a good-looking guy in a clean-cut sort of way. He has the look of somebody who comes from money. Would I be right?’
‘So it seems,’ Tom said. He hadn’t really considered Mellor’s looks, but he supposed Louisa was right.
‘Sorry, Tom. I would have liked to help.’ She looked disappointed.
‘Don’t worry. It was only on the off chance. We’re trying to find connections wherever we can, and we’re particularly interested in people who either worked or studied at Manchester University around twelve years ago.’
Louisa gave a sad smile. ‘That’s not going to help much. A lot of our staff trained here in Manchester. There’s something about this city that grabs you, once you’ve lived here, and won’t let go.’
‘I know what you mean. I had a brief spell in London, but I was glad to get back up north. It must be the weather.’
They both smiled at that.
Louisa stood up. ‘I suppose I should go, then. I’m sure you’re too busy to sit here chatting to me.’ She held her hand out towards Tom, and he took it.
‘Thanks for coming. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again,’ he said.
‘I hope so,’ she said, meeting his eyes.
She withdrew her hand and walked towards the door. At the last minute she turned.
‘By the way, I don’t think there’s much point you try
ing to speak to one of the team that I mentioned to you – Ben Coleman – one of the surgical registrars. Apparently he left for a holiday the day before Hayley was killed. But I also found out that Charlie Dixon – another man I mentioned to you – didn’t turn up for work yesterday. I don’t know if that’s relevant.’
At this point in the investigation, anything was relevant, and Tom thanked Louisa, opening the door for her just as Becky appeared. She smiled at Louisa as she left.
‘Did I miss anything?’
Sorry as he was to see Louisa leave, Tom was eager to get back to his office. He filled Becky in on the little he had gleaned from the meeting.
‘Dig out the information on Charlie Dixon if you can, and anything you’ve got on Ben Coleman. We need to go through the interviews you conducted at the hospital and see how they tally with what Louisa had to say,’ he shouted as he walked towards his own office.
He sat down, pulled a plain sheet of paper towards him and started to write.
12 years ago – 3 girls (although only 2 dead), 3 lines on legs.
Now – 2 girls dead, 1 missing, 1 being threatened. All similar, or made to look similar. 3 lines on legs.
Is the number 3 important?
Tom knew that serial killers often fell into one of a small number of categories – power and control, visionary, mission or hedonistic – but he didn’t see how any of those classifications fitted here. In the case of victims of a similar type the murders were often considered the work of a mission killer – somebody who believed it to be their role to rid the world of a group of people perceived as undesirable based on their ethnicity, lifestyle or religion. But ridding the world of all pretty blonde girls or, as in the current spate, all dark haired attractive women, seemed an unlikely mission. Sexual gratification didn’t seem to be a motive, as far as they could tell, so could this be a visionary killer – somebody who believed they were being compelled to murder by an entity such as the devil or God? If it was a thrill killer, on the other hand, why did they all have to look the same?
Tom Douglas Box Set 2 Page 51
