The Sister

by China, Max

  Chapter 68

  Bletchley lived on the ground floor of a house divided into two flats. His landlady resided upstairs; they obtained a set of keys from Bletchley. Tanner rang her doorbell to let her know what was happening. She was a woman in her early sixties, with pink candyfloss hair, wearing eccentric over-sized glasses.

  "Mrs Wilkinson? DI John Tanner, we have a warrant to search Adam Bletchley's flat."

  "Okay, what's he done?" She screwed her eyes up at him. "All that sneaking about in the middle of the night… I knew he was up to no good."

  "We're just making enquiries at this stage, Mrs Wilkinson. We might need a word with you afterwards, if that's all right?"

  "Of course, it would be a pleasure," she said with a wink. "Call me Vi, it's easier."

  She didn't go back upstairs; instead, she hung around by the front door to Bletchley's flat. Tanner couldn't help noticing she wore pink pom-pom slippers with her jeans.

  "Jesus H. Christ…" Kennedy said, gawping. Tanner joined him at the entrance to Bletchley's bedroom.

  Inside, one whole wall was a collage of photographs of young women. Hundreds of them, arranged in clusters, with each girl as a subject. All had the appearance of classic covertly taken stalker photos. When they were later analysed, they found twenty-six subjects and perhaps unsurprisingly, Natasha Stone was among them. He'd grouped her pictures together in the top left hand corner. There were images of her out jogging, sitting inside McDonalds by the window, out with friends, there was even a photograph taken of her and Bletchley. They also found a list of names and addresses. All they had to do was match the images to the names, to see what that shook out. In the kitchen, they found a large medical type jar. Kennedy put on a pair of latex gloves and opened it. The sweet, cloying smell arrested his intake of air at the nostrils. He knew instinctively it was chloroform. He screwed the lid back down. In a lower base unit at the back of the cupboard, there was a loose panel; behind it was stowed a black plastic bin bag. He reached in and withdrew it carefully. Inside was a roll of duct tape, white boiler suit, a box of latex gloves similar to those he had just put on, and a black hood and Stanley knife.

  The whole place was crawling with Scenes of Crime officers within the hour.

  Chapter 69

  They spent the journey back to the police station mostly in silence. They left their crime scene colleagues to pick over every square inch of the flat. The landlady had tried to get some information out of them as they left. Kennedy told her politely, but firmly that if he needed to speak with her, he'd be in touch.

  There was something eating Kennedy for sure. A couple of times Tanner had almost asked him directly, but Kennedy was in one of those thoughtful moods of his. He hadn't said more than a few words about Bletchley. Five minutes from the station, he couldn't hold back any longer. "Is everything all right, sir, you seem like something's on your mind?"

  "Tanner, there's always something on my mind."

  "I was reading about sexual deviants once, sir, it's amazing how often they start off like this and escalate, getting bolder…"

  "All I know, is that we look likely to have taken a rapist out of circulation. Twenty-seven women on that list, Tanner, imagine if we hadn't caught him now."

  "It doesn't bear thinking about, sir," he said, turning into the car park at the station. "Twenty-seven…?"

  "That's what I said. What's on your mind?"

  He stopped the car. "Well, as far as I could tell, there were only twenty-six women in the photographs, sir."

  Kennedy slapped him on the thigh. "Come on; let's see what he has to say."

  In the interview room, Bletchley entered escorted by Tanner and the duty sergeant. Kennedy walked in a minute later.

  Kennedy openly studied Bletchley. He was of medium height and build, dark lank hair, a vague unwashed odour about him. Deep-set dark eyes under thick eyebrows, his cheeks were sallow above the beard line; he hadn't shaved for a couple of days. The stubble took on a blue sheen in the harsh lights. His lips were moist, and the lower lip provided a platform for his remaining front tooth to rest on – The other teeth were on a roof-mouth plate, taken from him as a choking hazard. Kennedy imagined him the sort who dribbled in his sleep. If he were convicting on looks alone, this man would be guilty. Bletchley cast a side-glance at Tanner, who was speaking for the benefit of the tape.

  He confirmed all present, informed Bletchley of his right to have a legal representative – which he declined. The interview commenced at 6:35 p.m.

  "Where were you on the night of Saturday the 3rd of March between midnight and 1:00 am?" Kennedy sat resting his chin on his thumb; his forefinger covered his top lip as he waited for Bletchley's reply.

  "I've already told you guys, I was fishing at the old brick-fields in Hadleigh."

  "Can anyone vouch for that?"

  "Yes, I met a couple of mates up there."

  Tanner flicked the pages of his notebook back. "That's right, Bob and Dave. I don't suppose you have any luck remembering their surnames?"

  "No. Sorry…" Bletchley shrugged his shoulders sheepishly.

  "Do you have a telephone number or address for either of them?"

  "No…You see the thing is a lot of the guys that go up there; you know we're mates, and that, but we're just fishing friends."

  Kennedy snorted. "So you can't verify your story…"

  "Err, not unless I can find them. I could get them to come in and make a statement…"

  Kennedy produced a photograph of a girl and placed it in front of him on the table. "Do you know this girl?"

  "I've never seen her before in my life."

  "What about this?" It was a telephone number, Kennedy's own personal mobile number.

  "No! For God's sake…" Bletchley's hot denial sounded convincing enough, but the tiniest flicker in his eyes betrayed him. Kennedy thought. He's hiding something . . .

  "Okay…" Kennedy said as he placed a photograph of Natasha Stone on the table in front of him. "What about this girl?"

  Bletchley licked his lips; his eyes flicked furtively between the two detectives. "Yes, I know her . . . she was my girlfriend."

  "Really? Yes - yes of course. What about the other girl, was she your girlfriend too? Or the other twenty-five women on your wall - are they all girlfriends too?"

  "On my wall?" Bletchley said, looking confused.

  "Yes, on your wall."

  "No wait…" He thought frantically. He'd known that they would be searching his place, but he was confident they wouldn't find anything incriminating. The photographs were in a box under a secret panel in the stair cupboard, along with the girls names and addresses. On the wall?

  "There are no photographs there, I'm telling you."

  Tanner put a photo showing the collage in position on his wall.

  "This is a stitch up!" Bletchley looked directly at Kennedy. "Look, I misused a few chemicals at school; I made something I shouldn't have made. I've made a mistake; that's all. I had nothing to do with any rape. I am not the gas mask attacker."

  Kennedy fixed him with a look. "Who said anything about rape or gasmasks?"

  "It was in the paper this morning…"

  Stunned, Kennedy fired a hostile look at Tanner, as if he held him personally responsible.

  "Wait a minute; was it one of those girls that appeared on my wall?"

  Kennedy stared at him steadily.

  "Oh no, which one?" Bletchley was wringing his hands with anxiety. Tanner thought. This guy should take up acting.

  "Now let me see." Kennedy said, "I showed you two photographs, you denied knowing one of them. Here she is on your wall." He pointed at her group of pictures. "She's about halfway down. The other one is Natasha Stone your former girlfriend, look where she is Bletchley."

  He leaned forwards, to see better.

  "Can you see her?"

  "Of course I can see her."

  "She's at the top isn't she?"

  He nodded.

  "She was raped in her own
home, Saturday night, between midnight and 1:00 a.m. The first on the list…"

  "No, no hang on, there's no list, I did not put those photographs up on the wall. I wouldn't be that stupid. If I was…" The next photo that Kennedy put down stopped him mid flow.

  "Recognise this?"

  It was a photograph of a World War 2 gasmask.

  "I think I need a lawyer."

  Tanner stopped the tape, recording the time as 6:55 p.m.

  "Too damned right you do!" Kennedy said.

  Bletchley looked at him tight lipped.

  "Tell me why you have twenty-seven names, but only photographs of twenty-six girls."

  Tanner intervened. "Sir—"

  "Leave him to answer the question, DI Tanner," he snapped, then rounded on Bletchley. "Well?"

  "I know my rights," he muttered.

  "I don't doubt that son, but you see, the tape is now off, and I asked you a fair question. To me it's all about the math. Twenty-six pictures, twenty-seven names. I already know whose picture is missing. I just want you to tell me why."

  "Sir, do you want me to go and get us a coffee?" Tanner leaned towards the suspect. "With me gone, this'll be the bit where the DCI slaps you up a bit."

  Bletchley had seen enough cop films to believe the possibility. He caved in.

  "Okay, okay, I'll tell you. I didn't get a photo of her yet."

  Kennedy looked at him with incredulity. "And that's it?"

  "Yes, I only saw her for the first time a few days ago; I haven't had the chance . . ."

  Kennedy considered what he said and wondered where on the list she would have been if he did have a photograph of her. Did he even need a picture of her to make her the next victim? He felt he might have saved her. When he told her later, she'd be forever grateful. He had to check himself from having a full-blown fantasy about it.

  "Go on, Tanner; get him back to the cells. We'll reconvene tomorrow."

  Chapter 70

  The following afternoon, with the wind outside buffeting the windows, Kennedy drew the blinds and resumed the interview. Bletchley exercised the right to have legal representation; his appointed solicitor was a Mr Brown.

  Brushing a few thin strands of wind-blown hair back into place across the top of his head, Brown began by saying his client had reason to believe that someone else had a set of keys to his flat and they'd used them to put his client's private photographs on display, knowing the police planned a raid.

  Kennedy shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Why does your client think that someone would do that?"

  Putting his pen down, Brown crossed his arms. "Look, DCI Kennedy, I'm sure I don't have to tell you that taking photographs isn't a crime."

  "No, Mr Brown you don't. In public places, it isn't, but taken through bedroom windows without permission? Not to mention trespass and the possession of chloroform, which under any circumstances without the appropriate licence - whatever the intent - most certainly is."

  "Be that as it may, Mr Kennedy, my client denies he was involved in any assault."

  "It was a rape, Mr Brown," Kennedy said. "There's also the question of the paraphernalia found in his flat."

  "He maintains somebody broke in and put it there." Brown said evenly.

  Kennedy turned his head to Bletchley. "Where's all this coming from?"

  "You remember I told you about the guy who wanted the chloroform and didn't turn up? Well I think he broke into my flat before that and stole the spare keys from the cupboard in my kitchen. I was only after he stole the chloroform from my boot that I checked and found the keys missing."

  "Why didn't you tell us this yesterday? Why didn't you report it when you suspected a break-in, when you found your keys were missing?"

  "Wait a minute; you think that because I was watching these women, I must be behind the rape?"

  "Bingo!" Kennedy said, sarcastically.

  "No, no! Wait a minute. Someone else was watching them as well as me!"

  "You never mentioned that yesterday either. Do you have a name?" Kennedy cannot hide his disdain.

  "No, I haven't, but I thought he was just like me, you know got his kicks . . ."

  "Who was it, Bletchley?" Kennedy scratched the back of his neck. "Or hadn't you got round to making each other's acquaintance . . . was he watching all of them?"

  "No, he wasn't; only Natasha and the other one."

  "What other one, Bletchley?"

  "You know which one, the girl that looks like Marilyn Monroe."

  What Bletchley said, overshadowed the sense of relief Kennedy first felt, the knowledge he'd got Bletchley in the nick of time. An element of doubt now crept over him.

  Kennedy dismissed it as the last desperate efforts of a guilty man trying to shift the blame.

  "You'll have to do better than that," he said.

  Chapter 71

  With Bletchley returned to the cells, Kennedy said, "I don't know about you, Tanner, but listening to all that bullshit has made me thirsty."

  On the way home, they called into their regular pub. After a couple of pints, Kennedy forgot about his doubts, and became jubilant and puffed up about Bletchley. He even started calling Tanner by his Christian name. "That's another scumbag off the streets. See, John, that's what good old-fashioned police work is all about. Forget your computers and DNA."

  After his superior had consumed five pints on an empty stomach, Tanner thought on the irony of his earlier words, his drunken bullshit had left him thirsty, but he couldn't drink, not now that he realised he'd end up having to drop the DCI home.

  He continued rambling in the car. "I mean, John, they always say things like that don't they?' Oh, I admit the photos were mine, but I never stuck them on the wall. I admit the chloroform, but it was for someone else.' What about the gasmask and the other deviant paraphylia[sic]?" He laughed out loud. "Is that even a word? What does the defendant have to say about that then? 'I've never seen them before in my life, your honour.' Can you imagine it, John, what the judge will make of that?"

  "You are absolutely right, as long as he doesn't fall for the 'Other Stalker' story."

  Kennedy turned around in his seat to face him. "What, you mean the other stalker, the one he says stole his keys and rearranged the photographs and then planted all that . . . parafellation[sic]? Anyway, even if it were true, think about it for a minute . . . Why would anyone do that?"

  They were about halfway home; he did not want to spend the rest of the journey treading on eggshells as the DCI became more belligerent, so he changed the subject. "I don't know about you, sir, but I'm tired, can't wait to get into bed."

  "Bed? Now that's a good idea," he said. He fumbled in his pocket and produced his telephone. He called someone. Despite the rumours about him, Tanner assumed it was a woman.

  "Hey … It's JFK … are you doing anything? … It's just I miss ya," he laughed. "No, of course I'm not … I promise I'll be a good boy."

  He clicked off the phone. "John, my old buddy, do me a favour, will you? Drop me at the end of Petits Lane."

  "Going to the girlfriend's, sir?"

  "Mind your fuckin' business, Tanner!" He tapped the end of his nose. "I don't ask you about fuckin' Theresa, do I?"

  Whatever problems had dogged him during the last few days seemed to have disappeared, and Tanner was relieved he did not have him in the car for the whole journey; there was something undignified about his behaviour. It had to be the stress coming out. The last he saw of him that night, he was staggering down the road, heading northwards.

  Chapter 72

  Midnight had no qualms about setting someone up. A few nights before, when he'd seen what he had in his flat, he'd had no doubt whatsoever; he was doing the public a service. "Sweet mother, this man is a pervert," he muttered beneath his breath, adding certain items he'd taken in with him, to those belonging to Bletchley.

  He located the garage at the end of the garden. The access to it was down a wide alleyway littered with muddy craters. Someone had f
illed the worst of the potholes with broken brick and chunks of concrete. He made his way down the strips of concrete that people had laid outside their own garages, until he reached the one he was looking for. The back gate number confirmed it was the right one. The garage had its metal vehicle door in the alleyway. Beyond the fence, in the garden, a single door led out of the garage, and a concrete pathway ran up to the house. Most of the houses, like this one, were in darkness.

  He reached over carefully to unlatch the gate.

  Tuning his ears, he listened for any unusual sounds. His eyes had already adjusted to the dim light of the back garden. He shifted the rucksack off his back and squatted by the back door into the garage. He was about to pick the lock, when he tried the handle.

  It was unlocked.

  Carefully, he opened it. The hinges creaked, but not loud enough to be audible from more than a few feet away. He stole inside, drawing it shut behind him, he clicked on his infrared penlight. There was no car; just a stripped down motorbike, the parts scattered around in a half circle that the mechanic had left to give himself room to work in.

  The rest of the concrete floor was clear. There were rows of shelves with labelled boxes containing nails or screws, and adjacent to where he'd just entered at the far end, was a workbench. The bench had a shelf midway between the top and the floor and underneath that, an old army ammunition box. He took a cardboard box out from the rucksack, turned it onto its narrowest side, and carefully slid it out of view, pushing it right back against the wall. Under the shelf, he moved a pile of discarded greasy rags to allow the box to pass behind them, the glass inside rattled, as he adjusted its position, finally satisfied it wasn't visible at a cursory glance.

  It contained twelve jars originally; he had reduced the number to seven before he brought the box with him. Of the seven kept elsewhere, one had already been used. Only four more were needed and then he was done.