“What do you mean, same killer?” Pattie asked. She had been dozing in the lounge surrounded by the cats. “There’s been another death?”
“Haven’t you heard? D.C. Thomas Downey was killed on the Moor.”
Even after Pattie’s subsequent harsh words, or perhaps because of them, Laura had agreed to pick up Pattie on the way to the crime scene.
She hadn’t been able to contact Juliette Palmer.
Now, Pattie and Laura got out of the Jeep into the long, wet grass. A bitterly cold wind blew hard across the Moor. The valley sometimes acted as a wind tunnel, luring in east-west gusts and funnelling them through the village and along the course of the river. It was particularly bad at this time of year, when otherwise it would be a little warmer.
Pattie pulled her coat around herself. She realised that she hadn’t called Elliott. She could have used the emotional support. Pattie wasn’t prepared for what she might see, or how it would affect her. Andrew and Thomas had gone to nursery together, and had been fast friends all through school and, later, the police academy. They’d served on the North Yorkshire Police Force together as Detectives. Thomas Downey was practically Pattie’s son.
The Crime Scene team hadn’t been successful in setting up a forensic tent this time. The wind was too strong. Instead they planted strong wind-breaks. Bright explosions from the forensic photographers burst across the dark landscape as Pattie approached. They stuttered like white fireworks trapped in the thistle, then died, leaving spots in Pattie’s eyes.
Finally they were upon the body.
“Is D.C. Palmer here?” Pattie asked one of the officers. She deliberately didn’t look at the body she sensed was stretched out just four feet away.
“We notified her half an hour ago when we got the call, but haven’t seen her.”
“What do we know about what happened?”
“Similar to the last body: deep claw marks across the face and neck, another across the stomach. He died from trauma and blood-loss. We think that one happened first, based on the bleeding. He must have fought back, because there are cuts across both hands and forearms. He lost a finger.”
Pattie was silent for a moment, looking over the officer’s shoulder at the black horizon with purple clouds roiling above it, barely distinguishable from the night.
Then she looked down at Thomas.
The attack had been vicious. The wounds were equally deep as the last victim, Edith Lane, but there were many more score-marks. Thomas really had put up a fight.
“Anything under the fingernails?” she asked impassively.
“We have a sample; it’ll take a while.”
“Who found the body?”
“Actually, we got a few calls from people in the village,” said the officer. “A flare went up.”
Pattie looked up sharply. “What?”
The officer looked at her levelly. “Someone fired a flare gun into the air. It was right over the body. We found the round casing just over there, but no pistol. Whoever did this wanted us to find him.”
“So it wasn’t an animal attack.”
“Not unless the Beast of Bodmin knows how to pull a trigger,” the officer replied, turning away to speak to a colleague.
Pattie observed Thomas’ motionless face. There wasn’t much of a moon that night. Maybe he had been surprised in the darkness – but what would he be doing out here? The garden centre he’d intended to visit was at this edge of the village, only a five minute walk away. Had he seen something and come to investigate?
A police Land Rover pulled up alongside Laura Conrad’s Jeep. Pattie saw a young woman get out and slam the door. The wind caused her light hair to ripple over her features, but Pattie recognised the outline of Juliette Palmer.
Juliette walked with her head down, collar up, hands deep into the pockets of her coat. She stopped alongside Pattie, doing what Pattie hadn’t done: looking directly at Thomas’ body as soon as she was within sight. She didn’t take her eyes of his torn features.
Pattie said, “I’m sorry, Juliette.”
It was completely inadequate.
Chapter Nine
The funeral took place the next day. Thomas’ sister, who lived in Leeds a short drive away, drove up that night to make the preparations. It was arranged for eight o’clock.
Pattie attended with Elliott. She had spent the last twelve hours feeling hollow and raw. It was like her insides had been scraped out with a knife. Elliott was patient and caring, not pushing her to behave or speak any particular way. He just allowed her to begin the grieving process in her own fashion.
There was a family plot in a cemetery six miles north of York. The rabbi said many kind words, having known Thomas almost as well as Pattie had. She was amazed at the intimate details he knew about Thomas. What’s more, the rabbi had known Thomas’ parents before they’d moved to Little Hamilton as a newlywed couple, a privilege Pattie never had.
Andrew arrived late for much of the ceremony. He hadn’t stayed at Pattie’s house that night, and so she’d been forced to leave him a note, which was about the worst way she could have told him of his oldest friend’s death. He stood at the other side of the casket as it was lowered into the ground, and the usual grim proceedings took place that Pattie had seen too many times in her fifty-seven years. Andrew looked tired and hung over, possibly drunk. He hunkered in his coat against the cold until the ceremony was almost over. He didn’t wait until the end to leave; he didn’t want to be noticed.
Chapter Ten
The rest of the day was extremely difficult. Pattie got stares at the wake, and there were numerous messages and voicemails from Laura Conrad, sniffing out her story. The young lady seemed to think that there was a serious story to be sniffed, so Pattie deduced that public opinion of the two deaths was somehow being connected to her.
Mrs Atkinson showed up at the funeral, claiming to represent the village. Despite her short stature and pinched face, she was a shadow of intimidation and shame over Pattie. Pattie wasn’t sure why she should feel that way, but it was obvious that the other woman’s idiosyncrasies and rabid attitude were deeply affecting the mood of those around her. Mrs Atkinson was not charismatic, but she was dogged and mouthy: plenty of ears were turned towards her.
“Just ignore them,” said Elliott, not very helpfully.
“I can’t ignore everyone,” she replied. “This is getting out of hand. Can people really think that Andrew’s return is somehow to blame for this?”
Elliott was steering her away from the outdoor wake back towards his car. They had stayed long enough in this hostile environment, and they were beginning to think that it was distracting people from the reason that they were there, which of course was to celebrate Thomas Downey’s life and mourn his passing.
“Let’s allow the police time to figure out who or what is to blame. Until then, conjecture is pointless, isn’t it? Even you can’t make logical deductions when there are few facts.”
“I can make a few,” she said quietly.
“Oh?”
“If this was an animal, there’s no crime. But if this was a person, and the use of the flare gun makes that pretty certain, then it’s multiple homicide. That indicates we’re dealing with a criminal psychopath, and that the killings will continue. About 83 percent of serial killers are male. In this part of the country, he’s very likely to be Caucasian. He used a specific implement, possibly a specific pronged gardening tool, which was sourced to our local centre. This may have been to disguise the murders, which is unlikely if the killer is at all rational, so it was probably to send a message of some kind. A lot of psychopathic killers are intelligent, sometimes very intelligent, and often know it. This proportion might like to play games with the media or law enforcement, so the nature of the wounds might be a sick clue towards his identity.”
Elliott nodded thoughtfully. “So the fact that the killer, if there is one, made it look like a big cat attack is significant?”
“Most likely.”
>
“Maybe it’s the owner of the White Panther pub, trying to make a killing?” he joked – but knew that it wasn’t the right time for levity. He needn’t have worried, though: Pattie was deep in thought, and hadn’t heard him.
She wasn’t the only one. When they arrived at Pattie’s house, Andrew must have seen the car pull up and opened the front door for them.
“Who’s he?” Andrew asked, looking at Elliott.
“I’m Doctor Knight,” Elliott replied, offering his hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Andrew.”
“I bet you have.”
Pattie scowled at her impolite son. “Are you going to let us in, Andrew, or shall we catch our death of cold standing out here waiting for you to locate your manners?”
“Seriously, who is this guy?”
“I’m your mother’s friend, son,” Elliott said calmly with a smile. “And if you picked up a new box of Darjeeling on the way home, you and I can get to know one another over tea.”
Andrew looked him in the eye for a moment, then stood aside to let them enter. “You and she are perfect for one another.”
But even though there were tea and biscuits, everything was not perfect.
“No-one thinks it’s a coincidence that you show up and now there are bodies,” Pattie told him, once they’d settled in the lounge.
Whereas his brother Simon would have happily slurped tea with his mother, Andrew never drank anything but coffee during the day. It was so strong that Pattie could smell it from across the room, and some of the more sensitive cats had strolled out.
“That’s because it’s not a coincidence,” Andrew replied. “But it’s not God’s wrath, either.”
“What do you mean?”
“The killings started because I came back,” said Andrew. “And I came back because I knew the killings would start. Do you remember John Crowley?”
Pattie and Elliott looked at one another. “Remember him? We had a scare a few months back when I saw the news, he escaped from prison. We thought he’d head right back here, but it never happened. It was around the time of the break-in and we put two and two together to get five. When Simon called the prison, the warden said that Crowley had worked through his vendetta against you. Even thought he escaped, the warden thought he’d leave us all alone.”
“That warden never knew anything,” Andrew snarled. “I warned him about Crowley from the start. It took me months just to get him into a Category B prison, and they still said he wasn’t fit for maximum security. Then two years later he breaks out and now two people are dead.”
“You think Crowley is our moors killer?” asked Elliott.
“I’m sure of it. Before they even released details of his escape, he called me in Bordeaux. He’s had a dozen people on the outside tracking me down. He made it very clear that if I didn’t come out to play, he was going after the people I care about. That puts you at the top of his list, mum.”
Elliott put down his cup. “Why didn’t you warn us about this as soon as you arrived?”
“I didn’t even hear about the first murder until today. I’ve tried to establish contact with the police, but the only person I knew who would speak to me was Thomas. I wasn’t able to contact him, and I’m not exactly on the best terms with my old friends at the station after what happened a few years ago. And now he’s dead.”
“What does Crowley want? Revenge? But you never did anything to him.”
“That’s true, but Crowley doesn’t know that. He’s convinced that I fabricated evidence against him, too, even though I didn’t. And now he’s trying to draw me out, whilst getting his revenge on everyone who was involved in taking him down nearly five years ago.”
“I understand going after poor Thomas,” said Pattie quietly. “He was part of the team that put Crowley behind bars. But why would Crowley go after Edith Lane? She was just a school teacher.”
“Edith was a witness against him in court,” Andrew replied. “They used to be a couple, although she never knew what kind of an animal he really was for a long time. When it came out, she was our star witness, although we kept her identity a secret. Only a few police officers knew. Like I said, Crowley has a lot of friends on the outside. This can’t all be a coincidence. John ‘Doberman’ Crowley is in Little Hamilton, and he won’t stop until one of us is dead. We have to isolate anyone who might be a target.”
Pattie looked at him over the rim of her spectacles. “Do you mean me?”
Andrew nodded grimly. “Especially you. And, Mum – we need to do it right now.”
Chapter Eleven
Two hours later, Pattie and Elliott were sitting in an office in the Little Hamilton police station. Several other people were with them, besides Andrew and Juliette Palmer.
Laura Conrad was present, as she had been accused of misrepresenting Crowley as a “frothing madman” on YTV news. Another police officer, who had been working with Andrew and Thomas on Crowley’s case, had recently retired to work in the private sector: his name was Vincent Gyre. There were two witnesses who had provided evidence to arrest Crowley, who were from separate families in the local area. The son of a man named Tony had been murdered by Crowley, and a woman named Allison had lost her husband. They had become friends in the later years, joined by their ever-present grief.
It was now four o’clock in the afternoon. Pattie and Elliott had been there for two hours, watching the other potential victims arrive looking pale and unsettled. Andrew had done his best to explain the reason for bringing them to the station, whilst Juliette leant against a table at the back of the room, her arms crossed and her eyes unfocused, barely present.
Pattie went to offer her condolences about Thomas. “Juliette, I’m so sorry…”
“It’s okay, Patricia. I know this is only a small, peaceful town, but we knew the risks when we signed on.”
“Forgive me, my dear, but that sounds like a platitude. This must be the most terrible time for you, with you and Thomas having just worked things out. I just want you to know that if you would ever like to talk, then I’m always here for you. Don’t call ahead, just come. Alright?”
A faint smile rose on Juliette’s lips, even as tears sprang to her eyes. “Thank you, Patricia.”
“Please, Juliette. Call me Pattie.”
That had been an hour ago. Now Elliott put his arm around Pattie to comfort her, and said, “Does your son have any kind of plan to speak of?”
“I believe that right now his first concern is preventing any more deaths. If we’re right and this is John Crowley’s revenge, then there’s no telling how many more people he’ll murder before he decides it’s Andrew’s turn. Until then, Andrew just wants to keep us safe until Crowley makes his next move. He’s already killed two people in thirty hours. He must he desperate, extremely impatient, or both.”
“From what I hear, Andrew was quite the detective in his time,” said Elliott. “It’s no wonder you developed similar skills, after spending so much time together.
“We’re similar in many ways,” Pattie replied quietly. “But I don’t feel like much of a detective right now. This is all happening to us, not because of us. It’s completely out of our hands.”
“That’s life, my dear,” said Elliott, looking her in the eyes. “One can’t control everything. Andrew is controlling what he can control – our safety – but no-one can expect anything more of you or him at this point.”
Pattie merely took off her spectacles to clean them.
Elliott said, “Do you know, I don’t think you ever told me about your first case. What was it?”
“Ah yes, ‘the mystery of the missing delicates’. Didn’t I tell you about that one?”
“Not that I recall.”
“Well, the victim was Mrs Atkinson, as it happened. She had some extremely valuable jewels that were family heirlooms. She used to keep them hidden in one of her deceased husband’s socks in her sock drawer. One day they suddenly went missing, and she was in an uproar. She insisted that some
one in the village must have stolen them, we didn’t get many visitors in those days – and the whole police force was called out. They didn’t get anywhere with it.”
Elliott shuffled closer and put his arm around Pattie. “What’s the punch line?”
“Mrs Atkinson has a Persian cat named Samson. I only had to hang around for a short while before I noticed his penchant for stealing laundry and hiding it. She must have left her drawer open and Samson dug in. We found a stash of underwear he must have pinched from fifty laundry lines around the village. Mrs Atkinson was extremely embarrassed by the whole affair. I rather think she still blames me for it.”
Murder Most Familiar (A Pattie Lansbury Cat Cozy Mystery Series Book 4) Page 7
