The Tangled Lock (The National Crime Agency Series Book 3)

by Bill Rogers

  He had another reason to feel pleased. The rest of the press had adopted the name that the reporter Anthony Ginley had given him: the Backstreet Barber.

  Every serial killer had a special name. One that struck fear into those of a nervous disposition. It spoke of power. It showed respect. Like some of those he most admired: the Grim Sleeper; the Yorkshire Ripper; the Night Stalker; the Suffolk Strangler. And now he had his own. The Backstreet Barber.

  He smiled to himself. There was a special irony about their choice of name. They were oh so close and yet nowhere near close enough.

  From his hiding place on the tarmac path beside the bushes opposite the pedestrian entrance to the brewery, he spotted her coming towards him down Joshua Lane. His pulse began to race. He felt for the locket around his neck. This was how his mother must have been, returning home in the early hours. Happy. Confident. Unquestionably less sober. Blissfully unaware of her son’s sweat-soaked sleepless nights. Desperate for the sound of the key in the lock. The footsteps on the stair. He let go of the locket, patted his pocket, and tightened the straps of his backpack. The gap narrowed.

  ‘Turn left,’ he whispered. ‘Turn left.’

  Jacinta paused at the junction with Green Lane. Decision time. Go straight on, which meant sticking to the main road, or turn left, and repeat the circuit where she’d picked up her first, and most profitable, punter. If she had a coin, she’d toss it. Fate decided for her. Beyond the traffic lights she caught a flash of blue and yellow as a police patrol car approached. She turned left down Green Lane, and prayed she had not been seen.

  Chapter 52

  ‘We need to stop meeting like this.’

  ‘That’s not funny, Max,’ said Jo.

  He shrugged, and slammed the boot of his car shut.

  ‘I never said it was.’

  Jo picked up her shoes, placed them in the boot of the Audi, and closed it. The two of them walked side by side towards the tape marking the start of the common approach path.

  ‘You realise this is number six?’ she said.

  ‘Looks like he was going for the record,’ Max replied.

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘The Ipswich serial killer? Also known as the Suffolk Strangler. Five prostitutes in just over a month. Our guy’s killed six in just three months, four of them in the past seventeen days.’

  ‘You think he’s a copycat?’

  ‘There are three points of similarity,’ he said. ‘They were all prostitutes, there is no evidence that any of the victims had been sexually assaulted, and death was by asphyxiation. Not identical I grant you, but similar.’

  ‘If I remember rightly,’ said Jo, ‘the Suffolk victims were all found naked, and some of them were displayed with their arms out in cruciform pattern – I don’t remember anything about him having taken trophies. And then there’s the hair fetish. There was certainly none of that in Ipswich.’

  They halted at the end of the row of red-brick terraced houses to show the crime scene loggist their IDs. They then began to follow the blue-and-white tape down the metalled path that ran between the side of the end house and farm field. Two CSIs were already searching a line of blue, brown, green, and black recycling wheelie bins beside the field fence.

  ‘It’s only two days since Genna Crowden was found,’ Max observed. ‘There was just over a week between her and Flora Novak, and before that seven days between Novak and Mandy Madden. I’ve heard of escalation, but this is ridiculous.’

  ‘It’s not ridiculous,’ Jo said. ‘It’s horrific, and it’s frightening.’

  All the more so, she reflected, on a day like this. The early-morning sun shone brightly in a cloudless sky, drying the dew, leaving behind an earthy fragrance. Swifts swooped and darted low across the fields, oblivious to the tragedy unfolding beneath them.

  The path ended after less than thirty yards. Now they were following a narrow grassy track that led on to undulating open land consisting of rough grass and heather. The tape took them left, where it ran beside an even narrower grassy track, uphill at first, and then down for a hundred yards between two small hillocks to a sandy track that led to a six-foot-long bridge made of stone slabs laid over a narrow gully over the dried bed of a stream. A tent had already been erected ten yards down the gully on the far side. Gordon emerged from the tent, and waved them over.

  ‘Better late than never,’ Gordon said grimly as he pushed the hood of his Tyvek coverall clear of his forehead.

  ‘Is it him?’ asked Jo.

  He rubbed his chin with the back of a gloved hand.

  ‘If it isn’t, it’s a bloody good copycat.’

  The two NCA investigators exchanged a glance.

  ‘Who’s the pathologist?’ asked Max.

  ‘Professor Flatman’s on his way. Apparently he’s staying in Manchester for a conference at the university. Said to expect him about an hour from now. We’ll have to wait on him for approximate time of death. But the paramedic reckoned she’d been dead at least four hours.’

  ‘Who found the body?’ asked Jo.

  ‘Couple of thirteen-year-old lads on their off-road dirt bikes. Hoping for a practice before school. Got the shock of their lives.’

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘Half seven. Paramedic arrived fifteen minutes later. I wasn’t called out till eight thirty. Her bag wasn’t near the body, unlike the other victims, so we don’t yet have a name. I’ve told the search team finding it is a priority.’

  Gordon stared at the tent.

  ‘You’d better come and have a look before Flatman gets here,’ he said. ‘When he does, there won’t be room to swing a cat.’

  He lifted the flap, ducked his head, and entered first. Jo followed him; Max brought up the rear.

  She lay on her right side with her back towards them. Her right arm and leg lay on the upper bank. Her left leg, drawn up at right angles, and her outstretched left arm clung perilously to the side of the gully. She was fully clothed, but her blue denim skirt had ridden up and exposed the strap of a scarlet thong. Her hair, dyed a dramatic emerald green, was cropped short, exposing telltale purple bruising around the neck.

  ‘What is this?’ asked Jo, breaking the brooding silence. ‘A hundred and fifty yards from the road? A quarter of a mile from Middleton Junction? If the paramedic is right, she must have been killed sometime between 2 and 4am. Why would she come here with a punter in the dark? That’s assuming this was where she was killed.’

  ‘Evidence suggests it was,’ said Gordon. ‘You see where those markers are? There are two pairs of footprints in the sandy soil. The smallest in front of the other pair. Those smaller prints are badly scuffed, suggesting she was struggling, her feet scrabbling to get a purchase, whereas his are firmly rooted, presumably as he braced himself.’ He pointed to the side of the top of the bank, close to where they stood. ‘And here, from the flattened grass, you can see where she was lowered to the ground and then dragged away from the path before being left as you see her now.’

  ‘So my question stands,’ said Jo. ‘Why would she agree to come down here?’

  ‘Because this isn’t her usual patch, and he says he knows the perfect spot to do the business?’ Max suggested.

  ‘I don’t buy it,’ said Jo. ‘We passed plenty of safer spots than this between the bridge and here.’

  He shrugged.

  ‘What if he was prepared to pay enough to make it worth her while?’

  ‘Or he used force,’ said Gordon.

  He bent close to the woman’s head, and pointed with his index finger. ‘There’s dried blood behind her left ear. Looks like it must have come from this nick. The kind of thing the point of a knife might make.’

  ‘Or a pair of scissors?’ said Jo.

  Gordon nodded. ‘Or a pair of scissors.’

  Jo bent closer. The injury was barely three millimetres wide and a couple of millimetres deep. She visualised the unsub with his right arm wrapped around her chest, his left hand holding a pair of scissors aga
inst her neck. The poor girl, knowing this was unlikely to end well, dragging her feet to try to slow him down. Pleading with him not to hurt her. Stumbling on the rough ground, causing the point to pierce her skin. First the pain and then the trickle of blood warm on her neck.

  Lower down were the familiar concentric circles where the garrotte had been applied. The bruising was thicker and the indentation deeper slightly left of centre of the nape of the neck. She pointed to it.

  ‘This looks as though it was the point where the two hands met as the garrotte was tightened,’ Jo said. ‘That suggests someone who is right-handed. But if that was the case, I’d expect the scissors or knife or whatever the weapon was he used to have been held to the right side of her neck.’

  There was silence while the three of them pondered the anomaly.

  ‘There’s no sign of the garrotte,’ said Gordon. ‘We won’t know till Flatman’s performed the PM, but it looks identical to all the others. Who’d have thought that human hair could be used like that?’

  ‘It’s not as strong as steel,’ said Max, ‘but it’s not far off. Did you know that a head of hair like yours, Jo, would support the weight of two elephants?’

  ‘It’s not something I’ve ever contemplated. How come you know this?’

  ‘Circus performers do it all the time,’ he said. ‘Besides, we had a case in the Met about ten years ago where a woman was found hanging by her hair from the banisters in her own house. One of the neighbours alerted us when she heard the screams. It was one of her husband’s little ways of letting her know who was boss.’

  Jo shook her head.

  ‘Bloody men!’ she said. ‘Present company excepted.’

  ‘We’d better move away and let CSI get on with their work before Professor Flatman tramples all over it,’ said Gordon.

  He lifted the flap of the tent, and led the way.

  Chapter 53

  They reassembled by the bridge. Gordon pushed his hood back, and rubbed his chin with the back of his hand.

  ‘This is worse than a recurring nightmare,’ he said. ‘Gates is threatening to ask the Association of Chief Police Officers to find someone from another force to take over the investigation. Though God knows what they’re going to do any different. I’ve already got three syndicates working on it.’

  ‘No surprise she doesn’t want to do it herself,’ Max observed.

  ‘When’s the Sumac deputy SIO coming up to Manchester?’ asked Jo.

  ‘God, I’d forgotten about her,’ said Gordon, looking at his watch. ‘She’ll be arriving at Piccadilly station in half an hour. I’ll get Nick to pick her up and babysit her till we’re ready for her. He can fill her in on where we’re up to – at least that’ll save time.’

  ‘There’s no point in Max and me hanging around waiting for Mr Flatman,’ said Jo. ‘Why don’t we scout the area and see if we can work out how she got here? That way we’ll know which CCTV to harvest. Then we’ll head back to the MIR, and meet you there.’

  ‘Fair enough. There’ll be a full briefing at eleven thirty. I’d appreciate it if all your team could be there.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘By the way,’ he said, ‘an area car reckons they might have seen her round about 2am turning off Joshua Lane into Green Lane. They assumed she was a tom but didn’t see any point in having a word. After all, she wasn’t actually breaking the law.’

  ‘That time of night they were probably heading for a coffee break or a power nap,’ said Max.

  ‘Either way I bet they’re regretting it now,’ said Jo.

  As they emerged from behind the row of terraced houses, Jo and Max were confronted by a mass of reporters and photographers. Their cars were parked on both sides of the road for as far as the eye could see. Three uniformed officers were gamely trying to hold them back.

  ‘Don’t say anything,’ said Jo. ‘Not even a “No Comment”.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he told her, ‘I wasn’t going to. What I am tempted to say would get me sacked.’

  They had to suffer the indignity of being photographed taking off their coveralls, bagging them, and dropping them into the receptacle provided. Then, heads down, they shouldered their way through the crowd, jostled at every turn, ignoring the camera flashes, the microphones shoved in their faces, and the insistent questioning. When they were finally clear and walking towards their cars, a voice called out. One that Jo recognised. She turned.

  Agata Kowalski was following them. Jo touched Max’s arm.

  ‘You go on,’ she said. ‘I’ll join you in a minute. I need to see what she wants.’

  The reporter advanced, grim-faced. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said to Jo. ‘This was the last thing you needed.’

  ‘That any of us needed,’ said Jo. ‘Except that lot behind you. It seems to have made their day.’

  ‘Look,’ said Agata, ‘I’m not after any information. I want to offer you some help.’

  In Jo’s experience, when a reporter offered to help you there was always a catch. ‘In return for what?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Nothing? Not even a promise to give you an exclusive?’

  Agata smiled. ‘That would be nice. But no, I’m not asking for anything.’

  Jo sighed. ‘I’m grateful for the way you persuaded those girls to talk to us about DS Henshall,’ she said. ‘I’m just not sure how else you can help. But I am open to offers.’

  ‘The only reason he’s able to keep murdering these girls, Jo, is because, despite everything, they are still out there on the streets. Putting themselves in harm’s way.’

  ‘That’s because their need is greater than their fear. Not having food to put in their children’s mouths, not being able to pay the loan sharks, being slashed or beaten by their pimps, or going cold turkey because they can’t afford a fix – those are real and present dangers. Certainties if you like. By comparison, the odds of falling victim to this killer must seem remote.’

  ‘Tell that to your latest victim,’ said Agata.

  Jo couldn’t argue with that. ‘What do you propose?’

  ‘There is one person who could prove far more persuasive in getting these girls off the streets of Greater Manchester, albeit for a short while, than all these leaflets your officers have been giving out. At least it would give you and your colleagues a breathing space while you hunt him down.’

  ‘And this person is?’

  ‘Her name is Selma Strangelove. She’s the Convener of the North West Association of Prostitutes. And there’s another reason you might want to have her on your side.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘She’s on the warpath. She believes the only reason these girls are so vulnerable is because successive governments and local politicians are not prepared to face the reality that this is the oldest profession in the world and it’s not going to go away. She’s about to lobby the media with her view, and those of the national body, that there are simple solutions out there and it’s the failure to implement them which is allowing this man to murder at will.’

  Jo could see it now. It was bad enough having to defend their failure to catch the unsub without having also to deal with the fallout from a national campaign to liberalise prostitution focusing all the attention on Firethorn. It would up the ante for everyone. Helen Gates, the Chief Constable, the Mayor of Greater Manchester, and the Leader of the City Council. Even her own bosses at the NCA would rapidly lose patience with them if they hadn’t already after this morning’s discovery.

  ‘Can you arrange a meeting with her?’ Jo said.

  ‘Today.’

  ‘Very well,’ Jo said. ‘Do it.’

  Chapter 54

  ‘Do you want me to tag along?’ said Max.

  ‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea,’ she replied. ‘Are you?’

  He looked relieved.

  ‘No, you’re probably right.’

  ‘Why don’t we leave the cars here and walk up to the junction?’ she suggested. ‘That way we’ll be able t
o talk as we go, and get a better feel for it.’

  ‘Why do you think she offered to do this, Jo,’ he said, ‘if there’s nothing in it for her?’

  ‘I don’t know. Doing her civic duty I suppose. Or in the hope that we’ll credit her for it. That would certainly help her to sell her story. Isn’t that what all investigative journalists get out of helping the police?’

  ‘Or could it be that she happens to fancy you?’

  Jo laughed it off, but secretly she had been wondering the very same thing. If it wasn’t for all the unfinished business with Abbie, she might even have been hoping that it was so.

  She pushed the thought to the back of her mind when an elderly man, in his late eighties or early nineties even, with a Jack Russell straining at its lead stopped in the centre of the pavement, leaving them no choice but to do the same.

  ‘You’re police, right?’ the man said.

  ‘What makes you think that?’ Max replied.

  Silly question, Jo thought. No cameras, no mic. Observant faces, and an air of authority. Who else would we be?

  ‘That’s right,’ she said to the elderly man. ‘Do you have some information for us?’

  He grinned. ‘Funny you should ask.’

  The dog lunged forward to nibble the toe of Jo’s right shoe. ‘Rufus! Get back!’ the man shouted, tugging the dog’s lead, and reeling it in.

  ‘We haven’t got all day,’ said Max. ‘Do you have some information, or don’t you?’

  Jo was surprised. It wasn’t Max’s usual approach. She hoped he wasn’t reverting to his time with the Flying Squad.

  ‘Don’t mind my friend,’ she said. ‘Mr . . . ?’

  ‘Roberts, Alf Roberts.’

  ‘Well, Mr Roberts, we’d be grateful for whatever information you can give us, however small.’

  ‘That’s more like it,’ he said. ‘A bit of local knowledge never goes amiss, does it?’

  ‘You live around here?’ she asked, determined to keep him on side.