by Linda Coles
“Of course. From my observation, if I may?” he enquired.
“Please do,” encouraged Jack.
“She must have known she was going to die to have done this. Something happened for her to do this only once, because there were no older particles of paper in her system. They were all from this one ingestion. If she’d done it repeatedly – say, in the hope of one day getting this information, whatever it relates to, out in the open – there’d be more. My guess is something went down to encourage her to do this. She was a smart girl to hide whatever it is in this way. It can’t have been easy. And having a duplicate could have put her life in danger. She was extremely brave.”
Her life had been in grave danger anyway, it seemed, but Jack kept it to himself. He was thankful for her efforts.
“How long ago would you estimate that she went into the water?”
“Two days; three absolute tops.”
Jack reasoned that would tie in nicely with the events of Christmas Eve, the house fire and Leanne escaping. All hell must have broken loose and, somehow, this clever and no doubt terrified girl had managed to leave them something to work with in her death. Jack walked back across to where she was lying. The two other two men joined him.
“You said she’d had both arms broken in the past. How about sexual activity?”
“I’m afraid there’s been plenty, and for some years.”
“Any clue as to who she is? We have reason to think she wasn’t from the UK. One of the victims told me she had an accent, so she may have been from somewhere in Eastern Europe.”
“There was nothing on her to indicate who she is, and no DNA match in the system. Dental is no use unless she matches a missing person’s listing. We may never know her identity,” Dr Winstanley said gravely.
Jack let the words sink in. Another lost soul, name unknown, life extinguished. Someone’s daughter. Mary flashed into his mind for the second time that day. He needed to focus on her again as soon as he could and help get her young life back together before she too became a lost soul.
DI Woodhouse broke into his thoughts. “Do you think this young woman is part of your case, then, Jack?”
“I do. It’s too much of a coincidence. I’m loath to show her photograph to my only witness, a girl a handful of years younger, but I may have to take that chance. I’ve no other way. And if that list we have is customers or the perpetrators, I want to find every one of them. And damn soon.”
“Need some help?”
Jack knew the man didn’t have to offer; resources were always tight in every force. “I’d appreciate that, thank you. Yes.”
“Right, then. Well, if we’ve done here, why don’t we head off for some lunch and you can fill me in with what you know so far. Then we’ll head back to the station and see what we can put together. The sooner we can fill in some of those names, the sooner we can start looking into them and see where they fit into this mess.”
Back outside in the cold fresh air, DI Peter Woodhouse steered them in the direction of the town centre. Jack was glad he’d kept his jacket with him and not left it in the car.
“So, I’m wondering,” Woodhouse asked, “if you were in the young girl’s shoes and being held against your will at that house, what list would you make to help the police after your death? What would be the most valuable information you could share?”
“Well, the most valuable would be the ringleaders, the organisers. But let me ask you a question. Which list would she know about? How would she know either category’s names? That makes me wonder if she knew the customers’ names, those who desired what the house was peddling, took part in what went on in those rooms?”
“I get you. Though I’m wondering how she could have, unless they’re well known, of course, like off the TV or something.”
Jack didn’t fancy the idea.
“It would be too risky to check wallets, but credit card transactions?” Jack inquired.
“Now that’s a thought. Would they be stupid enough? Cash surely.”
“You’d think so, but it’s worth a try. It’s the stupid things that get people caught, right?”
“Indeed.”
They turned off the main road and down a narrow alleyway.
“It’s only a short walk from here,” Woodhouse told him. “I expect you like curry?”
“Fine by me.”
“I know a place that does a great lunchtime buffet, quick and cheap. Then we’ll look at those names. A bit of digging and I reckon we’ll have something to work with.”
“I damn well hope so. With our prime suspect burned and crispy like a lamb tikka, and a young woman trying to talk to us from the grave, a real live interview with someone on that list would make my week.”
“Then let’s make your week.” Woodhouse opened the door, and they went inside. The aromatic smell of curry and garlic was pleasant and warming to their nostrils after the chill of the morgue.
When they were seated, Woodhouse turned to Jack with a grin and said what Jack had been thinking earlier: “Stanley Winstanley? What a terrible thing to do to a kid. I can only imagine the poor child’s nickname – Stanley Stanley.”
“Like New York, eh? So good they named it twice.”
Chapter Sixty-Six
Lunch had been a welcome change, and both men sat nursing bellies full of spicy chicken tikka and naan bread. Woodhouse had had a pint, but Jack had stuck to water. With a drive back and plenty to think about, he wanted his wits about him. Having seen firsthand the horror the victims had gone through, it was high time the culprits were brought to justice, both the ringleaders and those who had frequented the house – they were all guilty.
Jack sorted the bill out – it was the least he could do after Woodhouse’s offer of resources – and they walked back to the station together. They’d spent their lunch hour filling in some of the more obvious blanks, but many gaps remained. They had decided to work on one puzzle each and see what they could find out with the few scant letters that were still visible. They would also give copies of both puzzles to their teams to take a shot at. The more brains working on this the better. It reminded Jack of the Zodiac murders in the US, where the police had asked for the public’s help to solve the puzzle the perpetrator had left them by printing it in the newspaper. It was a shame they couldn’t get the list of names printed in the same way. Now that would be a triumph for any paper, though a right royal lawsuit in the making if they exposed those names, not to mention the vigilante spinoff.
While he was a decent detective, puzzles were too frustrating for him to tackle as a hobby after he’d been working a case all day – he preferred to rest his brain to music, thank you very much.
Hey you, pretty face. . .
He didn’t doubt that the young woman in the morgue had once had a pretty face before she’d died in the freezing pond water.
It was nearly 2 pm already and even at this hour, the sky seemed to be closing in, losing its energy like a dimmer switch was slowly turning the light down to nothing. In another couple of hours or so, it would be fully dark. He’d be late home again. He needed to let Janine know but he’d call later. He was keen to get a move on with the local resources before they were turned off.
Jack was making his way with Woodhouse to the side entrance when his phone rang, making him jump. Woodhouse smiled at his reaction as he walked.
“I’ll never get used to it. Makes me jump every damn time,” he moaned as he went to answer it. “Jack Rutherford.”
“Jack, it’s Eddie. I’ve news on the van. It’s been found abandoned near Waterloo station.”
“Empty?”
“Yes, but SOCO are heading out there now to see what they can gather. My guess is the driver got on a train somewhere. We’re checking the CCTV that’s available, but since it was down a side street, I don’t hold out much hope. I’ll keep you posted. Where are you?”
“I’m in Epsom. I’ve been to the morgue to look at the young female victim from the pond. Looks
like she was one smart girl. She somehow swallowed a list of what looks like names, and the pathologist found the remains of it in her stomach contents, along with another list in the cuff of her track suit bottoms.”
“Whoa!”
“We’re thinking a list of customers rather than culprits, maybe off credit cards?”
“Who’s we?”
“The local DI, Peter Woodhouse, met me there. I’m back at his station now to make a start, see what we can decipher, then I’ll head back with the rest. I reckon Mo could be the right person for this. I’m pretty sure she’s a puzzle master.”
“Right. Okay. Look, I’ll let you know what forensics come up with, whenever that might be. See you later, then.”
As Jack hung up, he thought about the van and its driver. Waterloo. That meant trains to the south, to start with. It also meant trains to the continent, to France. And from France, Europe was practically borderless. The perpetrator could go undetected almost anywhere, and that gave Jack and his team a problem all in itself. Sure, there was Interpol, but without a name or a photo they were no use at all.
Names. They needed names.
“News?” Woodhouse asked, breaking into his thoughts.
“Oh, kind of. The van we think the girls were moved in has been found dumped. Looks like our driver could have left the country. It was near Waterloo.” Jack rubbed his face with both hands, feeling his energy levels dimming like the daylight around him, and wished he was closer to home than he was. But more than that, he wished he had an answer for the poor young woman in the folder he had under his arm.
Names. We need names.
“Come on, let’s get this show on the road, then, see how far we can get. SOCO will find something for you to go on, because my bet is this outfit are a stupid lot. They’re bound to have screwed up inside the van. From what you’ve told me so far, they could be sat around at their mums’ now, sipping tea and eating ginger-nuts, and not on a train to anywhere. The job now is to find the names of these two men, and fill in the blanks on this list, of course.” Woodhouse smiled as if it would be the simplest task in the entire world.
They both knew it would be anything but.
Chapter Sixty-Seven
By the time Jack had set off for home, rush hour was well under way, and he inched his way forward to insert himself into the traffic headed north. It was going to be a slow journey home. His eyes stung from staring at the computer screens and the photocopied puzzles, but their efforts had been fruitful: they now had a partial list of names with only a handful still to be filled in. It seemed the names belonged to customers: none of them had matched names in their database in connection with other sex-related cases. With hundreds of people with the same name, it could be a slow job tracking down the right ones, but not impossible. At least with a crossword, you knew how many letters you were searching for to complete the word.
He glanced across to the passenger seat, where her lifeless face stared back at him from a glossy 10x8 print. Her mousy hair fell in lank strands, fine like a baby’s, and there were dark circles under each eye. She looked tired. Had she looked so tired in life, too? What had her role been in all this, and what was her name? She needed a name.
He dialled Eddie to tell him how they’d fared and get an update at his end. It went straight to voicemail – no surprises there. He dialled the station and was put through to the only person in the squad room – Mo.
“Where is everyone, Mo?” He could almost sense her turning red at his question.
“Gone home, I expect.”
“So why haven’t you?” He regretted the question as soon as he’d asked it, suspecting he already knew the answer. He felt foolish. And a bit sad. But if he retracted it with an apology, he’d only draw attention to his faux pas. Best leave it be. An empty silence filled the car while Mo must have been thinking about an answer. Finally, she spoke.
“Thought I’d try and find the poor girl in Epsom morgue, her real name. No one deserves to be nameless. It’s bad enough she was disposed of like that.”
Jack pressed his eyes shut for a second, long enough to feel the pleasure of the pressure but not long enough to run into the back of the vehicle in front of him.
“And how did you fare?”
“I have twenty-seven missing girls’ descriptions to choose from.” There was satisfaction in her voice.
“That’s wonderful news, Mo. Can you get the details down to the morgue, to Dr Charles Winstanley? Apparently, the girl he has there has had both arms broken in the past, and of course there’s dental to look at, so with twenty-seven possible names, this will make it a whole lot easier, not to mention quicker. Good work, Mo. Thanks.”
“I will,” said Mo after a pause, during which Jack could almost hear her blushing. “Is this doctor any relation to Dr Barbara Winstanley, by any chance?”
“Yes, he’s her father. Oh – one more thing before I go, Mo. Any news on those VINs? Those two vehicles at the house have to have belonged to someone, though I’m betting they were stolen, which would be another dead end.”
“I’ll chase them up in the morning. They’ll all have gone home too, I expect. I’ll keep you informed.”
The traffic in front of him was starting to speed up and thin out a little, requiring him to put both hands on the wheel and get rid of his phone.
“Thanks. Right, I’d better concentrate now and drive. See you tomorrow.”
He hung up and pressed the on/off button on the stereo system, and ELO once more filled the car. While Jack didn’t bother to sing along this time, he listened to the words he knew so well. If the group ever needed a replacement singer at a concert one night, Jack figured he could fill the role easily, though the audience might not appreciate his tone. Two more songs came and went and as he approached Sutton from the south.
His phone rang, making him jump again.
“For heaven’s sake, Jack! Get a grip,” he reprimanded himself as he answered it, trying to calm his nerves. “Jack Rutherford.”
“Jack, it’s Mo again. There was still someone in the office.” She sounded excited, like a kid on Christmas morning, and for a split second, he wondered who’d she’d spent her own with.
“What you got, Mo?”
“Two names for two vehicles. And lucky for us, neither has been reported stolen.” He sensed her beaming smile at the other end of the line.
“And I’m guessing you’ve run the names already.”
“Indeed. The names are Bernard Evans and Robert Stiles. Both have records. And get this – Bernard’s mother is a convicted paedophile, released only recently to an approved premises here in Croydon. Father’s inside for murder.”
“Oh lord, this is too easy. They can’t be the ringleaders, can they? Could they be so stupid as to leave registered vehicles there, parked right outside?”
“Customers, maybe?” Mo offered. “Though still stupid.”
“Right – exactly. Do me one last favour before you go home, would you?”
“Of course. What is it?” There was excitement in her voice now.
“See if there is anything else from SOCO on the van found at Waterloo station. If we can link either of these two to the van, we’ll be pretty certain which part of the puzzle they belong to. Then we can move in a little closer.” He thought for a moment before adding, “And do a passport check too, please, if you can. If they have left the country, I want to know about it.”
“I’m on to it.”
“And thanks, Mo. I know it’s not strictly your domain. If you need my login, let me know.”
“Already have it from last time, Jack.”
Jack smiled at the phone. Thank goodness for the woman’s commitment to the job, unlike some he could mention. When this was all over, he was going to have to do something about that, take it further up than DI Morton, since he was part of the problem.
“See you in the morning, Mo.”
When he’d hung up, he drove the last part of the journey home in silence,
thinking about not only where he was up to with finding the girls’ captor and killer, but about how he might move Eddie and the DI out of the way so someone who gave a damn could lead the team. While he could do so much on his own, he couldn’t do it all, and relying on Mo’s generous nature was not the solution. Nor was giving her his login details. That alone could come back to bite him in the ass if anyone found out.
But that was for another day. Tomorrow, he felt sure, would bring the positive news he craved.
As it turned out, that was only partly true.
Chapter Sixty-Eight
The case had more loose ends than a plate of spaghetti.
By the time Jack arrived home, Coronation Street was just starting, the familiar theme music playing in as he walked in the front door. Janine greeted him as he slipped his overcoat off.
“You look worn out, Jack Rutherford,” she said gently. “Do you want a beer before your dinner, maybe?” He watched her as she hung his coat up on the peg, admired the curve of her body in the deep pink wool dress she was wearing. Janine was a woman who took pride in her appearance. He slipped his arms around her waist from behind and gently pulled her close, nuzzling into her neck.
“Mmm. You smell good, Mrs Rutherford.”
Smiling, she turned around to face him, still enclosed in his embrace.
“And you look lovely, as always,” he added. “I’m a lucky man to live with you.”
Holding his gaze, she replied, ‘That you are, Jack,” and leaned in to peck him on the lips. “Now let me get you your dinner before I ravish you here in the hallway.”
Jack smirked; she’d read his mind.
“Well, since you mention ravishing, don’t let me stop you. I’m all for a spot of ravishing.” Eyes twinkling, Janine mock-slapped his shoulder and squeezed out from his arms in an effort to get to the kitchen before Jack decided dinner could wait.
“You need to eat, and rest. I’ll ravish you later,” she kidded as she walked off, leaving him standing with his hands on his hips, smiling broadly. “I’ll bring it into the lounge,” she added over her shoulder, so Jack obliged and went through.
