by Roberta Kray
Masterson lowered himself into the easy chair and leaned forward towards the tray on the coffee table. On it stood a white ceramic pot along with two china cups, a sugar bowl and a milk jug. Jess couldn’t recall the last time she’d had tea made in a pot. She never got beyond dunking a bag in a mug of boiling water.
‘So,’ he said as he poured. ‘You want to know about Donald Peck.’
‘That’s right,’ Jess said. ‘Although when I first started writing the article I wasn’t interested in the original case. I was planning a piece about the long-term psychological effects on people who knew someone who had been murdered. I got friendly with a woman called Sam Kendall. Does the name mean anything to you?’
Masterson put down the pot and shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not.’
Jess wasn’t surprised. Sam hadn’t given evidence at the trial, and although her name must have been known locally at the time of the killing, there was no reason for him to recall it fourteen years later. ‘She was one of the girls who were hanging out with Minnie Bright that day.’
‘I see.’ His right hand trembled as he passed her the cup, but she had no way of knowing whether this was down to the emotive nature of the subject matter or simply the ravages of old age. ‘Help yourself to milk and sugar.’
‘Thank you.’ Jess added some milk to her tea and stirred it. Then she took a quick breath and gave him a rundown on the threatening notes, the damage to Sam’s car and the sudden decision of the two other girls not to talk. She didn’t mention the fire, or Becky Hibbert’s death. He may have heard about the murder on the news, but if he hadn’t recognised Sam’s name, then he probably wouldn’t have recognised Becky’s either. The one thing she didn’t want to do was spook him. If he thought there was a chance of getting caught up in a murder inquiry, he might decide to keep quiet.
When she came to the end of her story, she took a sip of tea and put the cup down again. ‘So that’s how I started to wonder if there was more to the case than had come out at the trial. I could be completely wrong, but I’d like to hear your take on things. You were Peck’s probation officer, so I imagine you knew him pretty well.’
Masterson paused for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts together. ‘I’m not sure if anyone can really claim to understand a man like Donald Peck. He was … how shall I put it? … a highly complex and damaged man. I imagine you’re aware of his history. Do you know much about exhibitionism?’
‘No, not really,’ Jess admitted. ‘When I hear the word I tend to think of furtive men in shabby raincoats jumping out from behind bushes and flashing their bits, but I’m sure there must be more to it than that. I presume it’s a psychological disorder and that they get some kind of sexual thrill from exposing themselves.’
Masterson paused again before answering. ‘That sums it up to a degree. I’m no expert, you understand, but I did look into the subject. It’s helpful to know what you’re dealing with when you have clients like Donald.’ He put a level spoonful of sugar into his cup and stirred it carefully before looking up at her again. ‘Research suggests that the main perpetrators of such acts generally fall into two groups: in the first are those who are shy and inhibited, unable to relate well to others and often suffering from feelings of guilt and sexual inadequacy; in the second are the more dangerous, possibly psychopathic offenders who may go on to commit much more serious and violent acts.’
‘And which group did Donald fall into?’
Masterson’s thin lips crawled into an uneasy smile. ‘For the fifteen years or so that I worked with him, I always believed it to be the first. As indeed did the many doctors and psychiatrists. He was not a man who related well to other people, especially women, but he never displayed any tendencies towards violence.’
Jess frowned. ‘But isn’t flashing an act of aggression? I mean, surely the perpetrator must be aware that he’s going to scare the hell out of the women and children he exposes himself to?’
‘Well, that’s the complicated part. In some respects you’re right, but the reasons behind it aren’t always straightforward. He wants to provoke a response as the only way of proving his virility, his power, in a world where he possesses neither. The response may be a negative one – one of fear and hostility rather than love – but it’s still a reaction. It proves that he’s powerful enough to make an impact.’
And that’s enough? That’s what he’s after – just a quick thrill from scaring some unsuspecting girl?’
Masterson’s shoulders shifted up. ‘For men like Donald, who are incapable of forming normal human relationships, any connection is a gratifying one. In all the time I knew him, he never displayed any desire to touch or even talk to his victims. The very idea filled him with horror. He was incapable of having a normal sexual relationship but still craved some kind of contact. That’s why … why I found it so hard to come to terms with what happened.’
‘You think it was out of character?’
‘From what I knew of him, yes. His background, of course, was a troubled one. These things usually start in childhood, and his was particularly traumatic. I won’t go into details, but suffice to say that by the time he was taken into care, the damage had already been done. He’d seen psychiatrists, had years of counselling, but some disorders are so entrenched that they can never be eliminated. Controlled perhaps, but never cured.’ He raised a hand briefly to his chest, a thin, wheezy breath escaping from his lungs. ‘Was he capable of murder? The truth is that I just don’t know.’
‘But you had doubts about his guilt?’
‘Donald was always very honest with me. He freely admitted to his crimes, never tried to deny them. This time he swore that he was innocent, but …’ Masterson spread out his hands, palms up. ‘It’s possible that finding the girl in his house made him angry, in much the same way anyone would be angered to find an intruder in their home. His reaction, however, could have been more extreme. He may have felt threatened, out of his comfort zone. Perhaps he lost his temper and lashed out.’
‘And staring at a life sentence, he might not have been quite so inclined to tell the truth this time.’
‘Possibly,’ he agreed.
Jess was listening intently, making sure that she remembered everything. She had lost her tape recorder in the fire, and although she had a notepad in her bag, she’d decided not to use it. She wanted Masterson to speak freely, without worrying about his words coming back to haunt him. ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking, but why were you still seeing Donald Peck at that time? I mean, you’d already retired as a probation officer, hadn’t you?’
‘That’s correct. I wasn’t seeing him officially. It was more of an informal arrangement. As I mentioned earlier, Donald struggled to make connections with people, but over the years, he’d come to trust me. I was someone he could talk to. He viewed me as a friend, and to suddenly withdraw that support … well, I’m not sure how he’d have coped with it.’ He glanced briefly down at the floor before lifting his gaze to meet her eyes again. ‘When Donald was anxious, his impulses took over. And when he felt insecure, he was more likely to offend. By talking to me, sharing his thoughts, he was able to find an outlet for his frustrations.’
Jess asked her next questions as casually as possible. ‘There were relatives, weren’t there? Didn’t he have a sister?’
‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘Her name’s Stella Towney.’
‘But they weren’t close?’
Masterson frowned a little. ‘I wouldn’t say that. But he didn’t want to burden her. There were things he couldn’t talk to her about, didn’t want to talk to her about. I’m sure you can understand the reasons why.’
Jess gave a nod. ‘It must have been tough on her, the trial and everything.’
‘Indeed,’ he replied shortly.
Jess sensed a discomfort in him, a sudden wariness. She saw his body stiffen as his eyes flitted down towards the floor once more. His hands, resting in his lap, began to tremble again. ‘Does she still live locally?’
Masterson lifted his shoulders again in an exaggerated shrug. ‘I’ve no idea. I’m sorry. We lost touch after the trial.’
Jess was sure he was lying. She’d have liked to press him further, but suspected that he might clam up completely. She decided to drop the subject and move on. ‘Would you mind if we went over the day that it happened? It was a Wednesday, wasn’t it?’
Masterson, back on safer ground, visibly relaxed. ‘That’s right. I saw him once a week, always on a Wednesday. I wasn’t living here then. I only moved a couple of years ago, after my—’ He stopped, and gave a thin smile. ‘But that’s of no relevance. The house that Donald came to was off Cambridge Heath Road. The bus stop was only a thirty-second walk away. He arrived at his usual time, about half twelve.’
Jess wondered if Masterson had been going to say after my wife died. Was he a widower? There was no ring on his finger, but then lots of men didn’t wear rings. She gave the room another quick glance, but found no photographs on display, no evidence at all that he had ever been married. ‘And he stayed for how long?’
‘About twenty minutes. Usually it was longer, but on that particular day I was feeling under the weather. I’d had a dose of flu that had knocked me for six and wasn’t really in the mood for company. Donald was kind enough to pick up some shopping for me and bring it over. He was very good like that. I made us both a cup of tea, we had a chat and he left at around ten to one. Perhaps a little after.’
Jess remembered what Sam had told her about the black holdall that Donald had been carrying when the girls had spotted him on Kellston High Street. So not, of course, full of tiny hands and arms and legs, but only containing some mundane groceries for Ralph Masterson. ‘And if he managed to catch a bus fairly quickly, he could have been back at Morton Grove by about one thirty.’
Masterson gave a slight tilt of his head. ‘If he got a bus. He always maintained the story that he walked around for most of the afternoon and didn’t return to his house for several hours.’
‘By which time there’d be no reason for Minnie Bright to still be there. The key was in the back door and she could easily have let herself out.’
‘Exactly,’ he murmured.
There was a short silence while they both thought about this. It was Jess who was the first to speak again. ‘Even if he did go straight home, that would still mean that Minnie Bright had been there for over an hour. What on earth was she doing for all that time?’
Masterson leaned forward a little, placing his hands on the tops of his thighs. ‘Well, the prosecution had two theories about that. One was that she was still searching for the treasure that she believed to be hidden there. The other was that, having failed to open the door when she was told to, she was scared of facing the other girls and wanted to be sure that they had gone.’
Jess could see how a jury would have accepted either of the options. ‘It would have helped if Donald had been less vague about what he had been doing during the rest of the afternoon.’
‘He’d often tramp the streets, sometimes for miles. I doubt if he recalled where he’d been or what route he’d taken. He may have … Well, he may have given in to his impulses at some point and not wanted to admit to it.’
‘Better than going down for murder.’
Masterson, as if the memory of it all was almost too much to take, slowly shook his head. His voice was tinged with resignation. ‘Except he may have believed that admitting to such an act would make the jury more inclined to convict him. It would hardly make them more sympathetic, would it? And anyway, there was no exact time of death for Minnie Bright, and so even if Donald hadn’t got back until much later in the afternoon, it could still have been argued that the girl had, for whatever reason, remained in the house.’
‘But it would have cast some doubt. A decent lawyer could have claimed that Minnie staying for an hour was just about possible, but not for two or three.’
‘Perhaps you’re right. Unfortunately there were no witnesses either to Donald’s walkabout or to what time he returned home.’
‘Okay,’ Jess said. ‘What if, for argument’s sake, he didn’t do it? What I still don’t get is why he didn’t realise that the body was there. There must have been …’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘Er, some kind of smell.’
‘There probably was, but that would have been nothing unusual. The building was falling down and riddled with damp. And Donald wasn’t the best of housekeepers. I imagine he was used to his surroundings smelling less than aromatic.’ Masterson lifted his chin, and a flash of anger blazed into his eyes. ‘If it hadn’t been for those damn girls …’
‘For those girls?’ Jess urged softly.
‘They should never have made Minnie Bright go into his house,’ he hissed. ‘Why did they do that? What kind of ten-year-old doesn’t know the difference between right and wrong? And they’re still out there now, living their lives as if nothing—’ He stopped suddenly, as though he knew he’d said too much. His hands, which had been raised, dropped like stones to his knees.
Jess could have replied that not all of them were still living their lives. Lynda Choi was dead, and so was Becky Hibbert. As she looked at his face, she felt a wave of suspicion roll over her. Could Masterson be nursing a grudge? He was certainly full of anger about what had happened, and earlier he’d been evasive about Stella. No, more than evasive. She was certain he’d been lying. But could she really envisage him running around slashing tyres, pouring petrol through letter boxes and strangling a woman more than half his age? The idea was beyond ludicrous, and yet she couldn’t entirely dismiss the idea that he could have been involved in some way.
Masterson gave a sigh. ‘I must apologise,’ he said. ‘I spoke out of turn. I didn’t intend to …’
‘That’s all right,’ Jess said. ‘No problem.’ As if something toxic has been released into the atmosphere, she was feeling a sick sensation in the pit of her stomach. Suddenly she was eager to be away from this room, out of the house and back in the fresh air. Quickly she rose to her feet. ‘Look, I’ve taken up enough of your time. Thank you so much for talking to me. You’ve been very helpful. And thank you for the tea.’
Masterson stood up too. ‘You’ll stay in touch? You’ll let me know if there are any developments?’
‘I will,’ she said, heading towards the front door. Knowing that he was close behind her, she glanced back anxiously over her shoulder, as if he might be about to hit her over the head with a heavy blunt instrument. She gave herself a mental shake. Her imagination was running away with her. Masterson might not be all that he seemed, but he was hardly likely to bludgeon her to death in his own home. Despite these private assurances, she still had to force herself to pause on the doorstep, to shake his hand again, to smile and say goodbye.
As she hurried along the drive, Jess could feel his eyes boring into her. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. Hastily she got into her car and locked it. By the time she looked across again, his front door was closed. She pulled the seat belt across, her heart pounding. Something was wrong, very wrong. Perhaps the local Miss Marples had something to worry about after all.
37
It was almost midday when DI Valerie Middleton drove into the car park of Belles and pulled up beside a sleek green Mercedes. ‘Good, he’s here,’ she said to Swann. ‘That’s Chris Street’s car.’
‘Jesus,’ he murmured. ‘And they say crime doesn’t pay. We’re in the wrong job, guv. How much do you reckon a motor like that costs?’
‘More than we’ll ever be able to afford.’ She turned off the engine, sat back and gazed for a while at the entrance to the building. Despite the endless talk of an economic crisis, the club was doing a brisk trade even at this hour. The City boys, all suited and booted and flashing their gold Rolex watches, were pouring out of black cabs. ‘Look at them,’ she said. ‘You’d think naked girls were going out of fashion.’
‘It won’t just be the girls they’re here for. They’ll be after a bit of
the white stuff too, something to give them a lift before going back to work.’
Valerie gave a nod. ‘And the delightful Street family will be happy to oblige.’
‘Always the perfect hosts.’
‘One day we’ll catch the bastards at it.’ She frowned as she thought about the Streets. There had been a rumour a couple of years ago that the family was finally losing its grip, that their time as a major criminal force was drawing to an end. Unfortunately, a rumour was all it had turned out to be. Since then, Belles had been completely refurbished, redecorated inside and out, and become more popular than ever. Quite where all the cash had come from for such a major overhaul was anyone’s guess, but drugs, prostitution, extortion and theft probably figured somewhere on the list.
Swann slipped off his seat belt. ‘I wouldn’t hold your breath. Terry’s had a hold on this manor since before you were born.’
‘All the more reason to go after him. In fact that whole damn family needs locking up.’
‘And then what? The minute they’re gone, they’ll be replaced by some other piece of shit. Nature, as they say, abhors a vacuum.’
Valerie gave a snort. ‘So what do you suggest? We just sit back and let them get on with it?’
‘I didn’t mean that, guv. All I’m saying is that sometimes it’s better the devil you know. At least Terry doesn’t let things get out of hand. He knows how far he can go without crossing the line.’
‘He’s always crossing the line.’ She understood what Swann meant, though. A gap in the market simply created an opportunity for other firms to move in and try to take over. And if the crime level was bad now, it would be ten times worse with several warring factions battling for power.
