‘And then there was Angie Robinson,’ Ian went on.
Jeremy shook his head again, and a few beads of sweat trickled down his forehead. At his side the lawyer looked faintly uneasy.
‘Angie Robinson?’ Jeremy repeated, frowning. ‘Who the hell is that?’
He was sweating more profusely now, fidgeting with the buttons on his shirt and avoiding meeting Geraldine’s gaze. There was no doubt that he was nervous.
‘Angie Robinson, as you well know, is the woman who complained to us about you stalking her.’
‘Oh yes, I remember her all right,’ Jeremy said, ‘I just didn’t know her full name. That woman was a hundred per cent crazy. We met a few times, but she became obsessed with me. I’m telling you, she wouldn’t leave me alone. In the end I had enough of it and I told her straight, it was over between us. She went berserk and that’s when she went to the police and accused me of running after her, when it was entirely the other way round.’
‘She was married,’ Geraldine pointed out. ‘Happily married by all accounts.’
Jeremy shrugged. ‘All the more reason for her to leave me alone,’ he muttered.
‘So you don’t deny you knew Angie Robinson?’ Geraldine said quietly.
It wasn’t a question.
‘I told you, she wouldn’t leave me alone,’ Jeremy muttered sullenly.
‘You have a history of stalking women, don’t you, Jeremy?’ Ian asked.
‘No.’
‘Jane Stanhope was going to take out an injunction against you for stalking her,’ Ian went on. ‘Or was she also following you? Did the police get that the wrong way round too?’
‘It was a mistake,’ Jeremy blustered. ‘She was my girlfriend. She was crazy.’
‘Another mistake? Jane was threatening to take out an injunction against you to stop your harassment, and then Angie complained you were stalking her.’
‘No, no, I told you she was lying.’
‘You admit you knew her,’ Ian said. ‘She reported you to the police for stalking her, and now she’s dead.’
‘Dead?’ Jeremy’s jaw dropped and he looked genuinely shocked. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Inspector, is this going anywhere?’ the lawyer asked. ‘My client hasn’t been charged with anything and he would like to go home.’
Ian glanced at Geraldine then turned back to the suspect.
‘Jeremy Flannery, I’m arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Angie Robinson.’
Jeremy sat dumbfounded while Ian read him his rights. Then he turned to the lawyer.
‘They can’t do this. Do something. Get me out of here.’
Ian sighed. ‘This will be a lot easier for everyone concerned if you stop denying what you did, and tell us exactly what happened between you and Angie.’
‘No, no, I didn’t do anything to her. I never touched her. Listen, I’ll tell you everything. It’s true, I liked Angie. I did. I really liked her. I would never have hurt her. I couldn’t have. I liked her too much. She was – she was special.’
‘She was married,’ Geraldine replied curtly.
‘So?’ Jeremy blustered. ‘What’s that to me? I suppose her husband killed her, because he was jealous.’
‘Of you?’ Geraldine made no attempt to conceal the scorn in her voice.
‘Yes, why not?’ Jeremy face flushed. ‘What’s so funny about that? You think because she was married she would have preferred her husband to someone else?’
‘Someone like you?’ Geraldine smiled.
‘Can you account for your movements on these dates?’ Ian asked, citing the dates of the two murders.
Geraldine was not surprised when Jeremy said he had no idea where he was on the nights when Angie or Leslie were presumed killed. It did not take much research to discover that he had been away visiting family in Scotland three weeks earlier, when Angie had been killed. Leslie had been wheeled into the alley eleven days before the interview, and they were keen to place him at that scene at least.
‘The Saturday before last?’ Jeremy repeated, his face breaking into a worried smile. ‘Yes, I know exactly where I was that night. It was my grandmother’s birthday, and we all went to Edinburgh to see her. Ask anyone. If ninety-five isn’t something worth celebrating, I don’t know what is. I hadn’t seen some of my cousins for years. We don’t keep in touch, and I can’t say I care. I wouldn’t have gone, but I never fell out with my grandmother and I thought it might be the last time I would see her alive.’
If Jeremy’s alibi checked out, he couldn’t have been the figure who had wheeled Leslie’s body into the alley. Either he had an accomplice or else he was innocent of any involvement in the murder of Leslie and the disposal of her body. They took a break while Jeremy’s alibi was being investigated.
‘He’s bluffing,’ Ian said. ‘He has to be. It’s too much of a coincidence his being in Scotland when both murders were committed.’
While the police in Edinburgh were looking into Jeremy’s alibi, tracking down his grandmother and the other members of his family, the results of the tests arrived, establishing that no DNA found on either victim was a match with Jeremy Flannery’s. They had no evidence to link him to the bodies, only supposition. A handful of witnesses were willing to swear he had been in Edinburgh on the night Leslie was killed. CCTV footage of him boarding the train confirmed his story.
‘Could it be – Could he have –’ Ian stammered.
‘Ian, what part of “It wasn’t Jeremy Flannery” don’t you understand?’ Eileen snapped.
Clearly as disappointed as everyone else that they had failed to nail the suspect, she told Ian to release Jeremy. Geraldine went to the VIIDO office and watched the footage of the bin being wheeled into the alley once again.
‘You know the definition of insanity, Sarge?’ a middle-aged VIIDO officer asked her, his round face creased in a cheerful grin.
‘Working in this place?’ she replied, returning his smile.
‘That too,’ he agreed. ‘But I meant doing the same thing again and again hoping to get a different result. We’ve studied this repeatedly, and you must have watched it right through at least ten times, and it hasn’t shown us the killer’s identity yet.’
‘Just play it for me once more,’ she said.
The portly constable complied and together they stared at the grainy grey image. It gave very little away. The height and stature of the figure was obscured by his loose jacket and the way he bent over to push the bin. It wasn’t even clear whether the figure was a man or a woman. Geraldine watched it again, this time focusing not on the person pushing the bin, but on other pedestrians. Even at six o’clock on a Friday the pavement was fairly busy outside the club, although it was not yet open, although nowhere near as crowded as later in the evening. The bin with its macabre cargo trundled past a number of people, none of whom appeared to take any notice of it. All the same, it was possible someone might remember seeing it, and recall the appearance of the person pushing it along the pavement. Geraldine put her idea to Eileen, who organised a plea on the local news bulletin that evening. She addressed anyone who had been walking past the Livewire Bar at around six o’clock two Fridays ago, and recalled seeing a garbage bin being wheeled along the pavement, urging them to come forward. They all knew it was a long shot, but it was worth a try.
52
Everything had been worked out to ensure the operation worked seamlessly. The plan was actually foolproof, so it came as a shock to learn that the police knew about the bin. After so much care and meticulous attention to detail, it was galling to learn from the media that the police had found out how the body had been moved into the alley beside the Livewire Bar. No, it was worse than galling, it was maddening. The police had no business snooping around the streets like that. It seemed that no one was safe from their prying. But the fact that they had discovered the bin was neit
her here nor there. It didn’t matter that they had traced it on CCTV all the way back to the van. It must have taken them hours and hours, and no doubt they thought they were very clever to have found the van at all. But so what? It made no difference, because they had no idea who had been driving the van and pushing the bin, and they were never going to find out.
In the end, in spite of all that time and effort, nothing the police had done had made any difference to their investigation. Even spotting the van on film wasn’t going to help them, because there was no way they were going to trace it. There was no longer anything that could link the van to the woman’s corpse. Only a thorough search for DNA in the back of the van could possibly throw up proof that the body had been transported in it, and that was never going to happen because the van was safely locked away in a garage with its genuine registration number showing once again. The false registration plates were probably already in landfill by now, after being wrapped in black rubbish bags and thrown away days ago. That was the kind of attention to detail that guaranteed the police would never stumble on the truth. Without any leads, they were reduced to crashing around blindly. Used to dealing with idiots, drunks, crackheads and petty criminals too dumb to do anything even vaguely intelligent, they were helpless against someone with real brains.
It was faintly worrying, yet at the same time entertaining, to see how the media reported the story. They had begun calling the killer ‘The Shadow’, because no one had the faintest idea who was behind the deaths.
‘Never before have the police hunted for so elusive a killer, a killer who leaves no clues,’ one of the local papers said. That was a very nice compliment. ‘This killer really seems to be as impossible to pin down as a shadow,’ the reporter went on. Another journalist claimed that ‘a man’ was helping the police with their enquiries, but that was just sheer desperation on the part of the police. It meant nothing. The police had to talk to the media, even though they had nothing to say. Nothing at all.
For now, it was time to lie low and resist the temptation to kill again, at least for a while. That was the hardest part, having to be patient and do nothing. But it would be foolhardy to claim another victim just yet, and The Shadow was no fool. Two women had been killed, and the police were completely clueless about who was responsible. They were running a massive investigation, and most killers would have been caught by now. But not The Shadow. The national papers were already running articles, although the story had not yet reached their front pages. One more victim and The Shadow would be headline news. Meanwhile, The Shadow was the perfect name for a killer who was never going to be caught. Two women had been killed so far, and there would be more. Soon everyone in the country would be talking about The Shadow. It was an exhilarating and terrifying thought. Not that The Shadow was interested in notoriety. No, these murders were driven by a different motive. And that was why The Shadow would never be caught.
53
Gradually the pain of losing her sister grew less raw and Geraldine was able to focus on her work without a constant ache at the back of her mind, draining her energy. It was still an effort to stop herself thinking about Helena, but she forced herself to concentrate on the case, pushing every other consideration from her mind. She even began sleeping better, and her nightmares grew less frequent. Although it hurt her to think that she might one day remember her unfortunate sister without becoming emotional, she knew that was better than continuing to torment herself about what could have been. Helena had gone, and had probably forgotten about her by now. If she hadn’t moved on with her life, she soon would. Geraldine tried to think of her sister developing relationships with friends who knew nothing about her sordid past, and finding peace at last. The idea made Geraldine want to weep.
Further testing had discovered an unattributed trace of DNA on the lid of the bin that had been used to transport Leslie’s body. For days a team had been working to collect DNA samples from all the refuse operators working in York, and the forensic lab had been busy testing the samples and comparing them with the trace left on the bin. It had taken nearly two weeks, but they had all now been eliminated, along with the people who worked in the shops near the alley. No one who gave a sample admitted to having been in the alley, or to having touched the bin or opened the lid to peer inside.
‘It could be from a rough sleeper,’ Ariadne suggested.
‘Whoever it was, someone touched that bin and we need to know who it was,’ Eileen said.
So a team of constables was sent to the shelters and the breakfast club, and to walk around the streets in the evening, collecting samples from all the homeless people they could find. At the same time, Eileen prepared to make another television appeal, this one slightly unusual. They all knew they were going to receive a lot of calls from members of the public after the broadcast, and more officers were drafted in to answer the phones.
If you were near the Livewire Bar around two weeks ago, we need you to come forward as you may have vital information that can help us in the course of an investigation into a serious crime.’
The following morning, Geraldine received a letter addressed to Detective Geraldine Steel, Police Station, York. The envelope was handwritten in an untidy childish scrawl, and the wording was peculiar. Faintly curious, she slit open the envelope and drew out a slightly grubby sheet of paper. As she read the opening words of the letter, she felt a strange sensation, as though she had slipped into a dream. She blinked, but she wasn’t mistaken. The letter was still there, clutched in her trembling hand. Barely able to see for the tears that suddenly filled her eyes, she stumbled to the toilets and sat down in a cubicle to read the whole letter.
‘You will never find me but don’t you be sad about that. I already caused you enough grief. You always tried to take care of me but now I’m on my own and believe me it’s better that way. I never was any good for you. All I ever did was mess things up for you and you know that’s the truth. Now I’ve been given a second chance at life, and that’s thanks to you. I got clean and I’m going to try and stay that way. One day at a time. But I’m sorry it had to end like this between us because I think we would have been good sisters. You showed me how to try but now I won’t have a chance to show you I can be a good sister too, same as you was to me. When your friend came to see me he said you sent him but I knew straight away he was lying. He told me you had agreed never to see me again, but I never believed him. I knew you wouldn’t let me go without you saying goodbye to me. But if it was your doing that we never had that chance I want you to know I forgive you. And whatever happens from now, I want you to know that I love you. And I never loved anyone before. And that’s because I never knew how. You were the only person ever to be nice to me because of who I am and we will always be sisters. Now I’m going to stop because thinking about you and how we can’t see each other again is making me so sad I can’t bear it and I never want to feel so desperate again that I do something stupid and you know what I mean. I’m going to stay clean for you so you will always know you done that for me. I want to do something for you and that’s all I can do and that’s a promise. You won’t ever see me again but I won’t ever stop thinking about you. That’s another promise. And I never promised nothing to anyone before except our mother and that doesn’t count because she was a crackhead same as me.’
The letter was unsigned. Helena hadn’t even written her name. All she had given Geraldine was a promise for an unknowable future. Geraldine would never learn whether her sister had kept her word. Clearly she intended to, but there was no guarantee that she would succeed in staying off drugs, day after solitary day, year after weary year, without Geraldine to support her. A promise wasn’t enough. Perched uncomfortably on the lid of a toilet seat, in a locked cubicle, Geraldine wept silently.
‘There you are,’ Ariadne said when Geraldine returned to her desk, hoping it wouldn’t be obvious that she had been crying. ‘Eileen’s been asking for you.’
G
eraldine went straight to the detective chief inspector’s office. Eileen gave her a curious glance.
‘Geraldine, at last. Where have you been? Never mind. No time for that.’
Eileen told her that they had a match for the DNA found on the bin.
‘It’s a young man who worked Saturdays in the shoe shop near the Livewire,’ she said. ‘He’s only recently been tested, but according to the constable who took his swab, he didn’t seem reluctant to give a sample of his DNA. He wanted to know how long we would hold on to it and why we wanted it, all the usual questions, but once he knew we were taking swabs from all his colleagues he couldn’t refuse to co-operate. There was nothing suspicious about his behaviour, according to the constable who saw him. I want you to talk to him straight away, see if he can shed any light on all this.’
With a nod, Geraldine hurried away to talk to the man whose DNA had been discovered on the bin and discover whether they had found an oblivious passerby, a witness, or a killer.
54
Phil Jamieson was a student at York St John’s University living in digs outside the city in a house near the village of Heslington. Geraldine drove out there that evening, hoping to catch him at home, and a young man of about twenty answered the door. He blinked sleepily at her, although it was only around eight o’clock in the evening.
‘Are you Phil Jamieson?’
‘What? No.’
‘I’d like to speak to Phil please.’
‘OK. I’ll get him.’
The young man shut the door and Geraldine waited on the doorstep. One of the uniformed constables with her scuttled round to the back of the property, while the other one hovered by the side entrance. After a few moments the front door opened again and a different youth looked out.
‘I’m Phil,’ he said, gazing at her through a shaggy straw-coloured fringe. ‘What’s happened? What’s up? Who are you?’
Evil Impulse Page 22
