‘I wouldn’t be surprised if he lets them both out tomorrow. If they’re released without charge, the papers’ll be free to sling even more dirt – perhaps that’s his plan.’
‘Hmm.’ The moment had come to say what was on her mind. ‘Talking of the papers, have you seen today’s Sun?’
There was no sound from Todd’s end of the line. ‘Are you there, Dave?’ She heard him cough.
‘Yes, I have seen it. I hope you don’t think it came from me?’
This threw her. She hesitated a moment, then said: ‘I don’t know who it came from, but I think I’ve a right to know, don’t you?’
‘Well, if I was you I bloody well would!’ She heard him tutting under his breath. ‘I don’t know who it was. It could have been anyone at Tipton Street – a relative of an officer, even. I’m afraid that kind of thing gets round pretty fast.’ He sounded genuinely angry, Megan thought. She wished she could see his face. It was so easy to lie over the phone.
‘I was going to phone you anyway,’ he said, the tone of his voice changing. ‘I’ve got some news about that call to Joanna Hamilton’s mobile.’
‘Oh?’ Was he trying to distract her?
‘It came from Bob Spelman – d’you remember? The driving instructor from the church?’
‘Spelman?’
‘I know,’ Todd said. ‘Bit of a coincidence – that’s what I thought. But we’ve been round there. He said she’d been enquiring about driving lessons. Said he was phoning to give her an appointment.’
‘So why didn’t he come forward before’
‘He said he only knew her as Jo. She hadn’t given her surname. Said he would have taken all the details at the first lesson. He saw it on the news but he didn’t make the connection.’
*
Ceri was upstairs, crouching on the bathroom floor. She lifted a corner of the rectangle of patterned muslin hanging across the window. She was right. It was a photographer. The phone had alerted her. It had rung ten minutes ago but she had taken Megan’s advice and left the answering machine on. There had been no message, but for a split second she had heard office sounds in the background. A newspaper office, she guessed. She crawled out of the bathroom on her stomach, getting to her feet only after she had closed the door behind her. Walking along the landing she called to Emily, who was playing in her room. Then she scooped Joe, still asleep, from his cot and made her way downstairs.
There was a gate in the wall of the back garden that led to an overgrown footpath. It ran the length of the houses and came out by the shops. ‘Come on,’ she said to Emily, ‘we’re going for a little walk.’ Placing Joe gently down in his buggy, she eased her way down the back steps to the cobbled patio. They would go to the park. It was a hot day and there would be lots of people. No one would recognise her in her in her baseball cap and sunglasses.
*
Megan had pulled her phone out of its socket. Anyone who needed to get hold of her could call her on her mobile. She fished the small silver phone from her jacket pocket and picked out the digits of the Spelmans’ home number. It was engaged. She would have to try later. The more she thought about it, the more odd it seemed that Bob Spelman was the last person to have telephoned both Tessa and Joanna. She wondered if the police had checked his alibi for the evening Joanna died. Driving instructors must do a lot of evening work, she reflected. How would he account for the gaps between clients? Times when he was driving from one appointment to the next? And surely there must be the odd session when a client failed to show?
These questions buzzed round her head as she searched for her bag. Where had she left it last night? There wasn’t even a crust of bread in the house and she needed to go to the shops. Not that she was hungry – Patrick had seen to that. She found her bag in the hall, where she had dropped it when she’d come in last night with the Chinese takeaway. Her insides flipped over at the memory of Patrick coming to greet her. ‘Oh God,’ she wailed. ‘How long before I stop thinking about him?’
She swallowed hard and headed to the door but stopped before turning the latch. What if there were reporters outside? She darted into the living room and peered through the thin lilac sari fabric that served as a net curtain. She could see no one. Good.
Her car was parked right outside the house and she scrambled in. Still no sign of anyone. She went to the big Sainsbury’s half an hour’s drive away. When she’d done her shopping she decided to linger in the café for a while. The thought of going home depressed her. When Patrick left it had suddenly seemed so empty. She bought a copy of the local evening paper and tucked it under her arm as she went to get a black coffee. There were plenty of empty tables and she chose one in a corner by the window that overlooked the carpark. She poured two sachets of brown sugar into her cup and while she stirred it she watched the people going to and from their cars. It struck her how easy it would be to single out a lone woman and follow her home. Even on a pushbike it would be possible, she reflected, given the congestion on the roads.
She took a sip of coffee and scanned the front page of the newspaper. ‘Occult Killings – Second Man Held,’ the headline read. She scanned it quickly to see if Justin Preece had been named. It appeared not, but the column ended mid-sentence. ‘Turn to Page 3’, it said. She opened the paper and did a double take. Her own face was staring up at her.
*
Dave Todd sat in the canteen at Tipton Street police station. Through the window he could see Sean Raven and Justin Preece on their way to a waiting squad car. Beyond the compound a gaggle of reporters and photographers were waiting. He wondered where the two men would go; certainly not home, he thought. Suddenly a newspaper came skidding across the table, almost knocking his cup out of its saucer.
‘Looks like your friend’s turned into a Page Three Girl!’
He looked up to see Detective Constable Craig Hollis standing at the other side of the table, arms folded and a silly grin on his face. Todd opened the newspaper and stared at the photograph on page three.
‘The sister of a top criminal profiler has been revealed as the woman involved in a sex romp that sparked a police raid in Wolverhampton,’ the text read. ‘Ceri Richardson, the sister of Heartland University academic Dr Megan Rhys, was named as the woman found tied up by police who raided the house in the Stockhall area of the city yesterday. Married mother-of-two Ceri Richardson, 34, of 23 Church Terrace, Stockhall, is a part-time lecturer at Pendleton College.’ Dave Todd read on, his eyebrows arching when he got to the quote about Ceri wearing nothing but red stilettos and a smile. The last line of the article read: ‘Neither Dr Rhys nor her sister were available for comment.’ I bet they bloody well weren’t, he thought.
*
Megan grabbed her mobile and punched out Ceri’s number. It rang five times before the answering machine cut in. Then she tried her sister’s mobile, but it was switched off. She phoned the house a second time. ‘Ceri, it’s Meg,’ she said, as the machine bleeped. ‘There’s a piece in tonight’s paper. It gives our names and your address. I really don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be staying there. Ring me back, will you?’
Megan hurried back to the car and loaded her shopping into the boot. She thought about driving over to her sister’s. But would Ceri be back by the time Megan got there? Had she perhaps gone to a friend’s house? It would make more sense to go home and wait for her to call.
Megan drove up and down her street twice before pulling in a few houses up from her own. She glanced up and down the pavement before going to her front door, wary of any lurking reporters. Perhaps she was being paranoid. Perhaps, now the story was out, they would lose interest.
After unpacking the shopping she tried to distract herself by preparing a salad of mozzarella cheese, tomatoes and basil. She still didn’t have the slightest appetite, but she must eat something. Phrases from the newspaper article rattled around inside her head. How was Ceri ever going to live it down?
It was nearly dark outside when her sister phoned. She had s
een the article in the local paper and and had decided not to return home until the evening. She told Megan about the photographer she had seen outside the house earlier, but seemed almost unbelievably calm about it all.
‘I thought you’d be beside yourself when you saw the paper,’ Megan said.
‘Oh, I was,’ Ceri said. ‘But what could I do? I had the kids with me. I couldn’t break down in front of them, could I?’
‘What are you going to do? Will you come over?’
‘No, but thanks for asking. I’m going to take the kids to Wales first thing in the morning. I’ll stay at the cottage for a couple of days; give things a chance to die down.’ Megan heard her give a heavy sigh. ‘I’ll have to come back Tuesday night because Neil’s due back from Brussels on Wednesday.’
‘Have you decided what you’re going to say to him?’ Megan held her breath.
‘We’ll have to work out what’s going to happen with the house,’ Ceri said, her voice wobbling. ‘Get an estate agent round to value it.’
‘The house? You’re going to sell up?’
‘I think so, Meg.’ There was a pause, then the sound of Ceri blowing her nose. ‘What I said before, about brazening it out – it’s not going to work is it? Imagine what it’d be like for the children when they’re a bit older; other kids in the playground teasing them about their mum. People round here have got long memories.’
‘And what about…?’ Megan could hardly bring herself to say the name.
‘Justin?’ Ceri cut in. ‘I don’t know, Meg. I still don’t believe he’s done anything wrong.’
‘Will you see him? When you get back I mean?’
‘If those bastards ever let him out, then yes, I probably will.’
The television had been on in the background while Megan was talking to Ceri. She had put it on to see Crimewatch, wanting to know how much further Steve Foy was going to go in his bid to nail Sean Raven. As she said goodbye to her sister his face suddenly filled the screen.
Foy looked every inch the assured senior officer. He oozed confidence and his delivery was word-perfect. ‘Tessa Ledbury was involved in a local witches’ coven before she converted to Christianity,’ he said. ‘She was last seen at the shopping centre near her home in Pendleton.’ His face disappeared, to be replaced by a shot of Kate O’Leary in the blonde wig, walking towards the chemist’s at Pendleton precinct.
Megan picked at the limp salad that lay untouched on the coffee table. She wondered why Steve Foy was being so blinkered. But what if he’s right? The voice nagging inside her head was Patrick’s. What if both murders were linked to the occult? She shook her head. Patrick’s bombshell had knocked her confidence. She reminded herself that the only reason for the occult theory was the pentagram on Tessa Ledbury’s head; no one knew if the wounds on Joanna’s head were a pentagram, and even if they were, it didn’t prove the killer was involved in the occult. There were other lines of enquiry that needed to be followed up. She must try to get hold of Bob Spelman. Find out more about his call to Joanna Hamilton.
She also wanted to know more about this link between St Paul’s and the open prison at Whiteladies. If they held services there, perhaps they held them at other prisons in the area too. What about Featherstone? That was near Wolverhampton and it held Category ‘A’ offenders. What if someone from St Paul’s had befriended a sex offender who, on his release, had started hanging around Pendleton for the want of anywhere else to go?
But when she tried ringing the Spelmans there was still no reply. She looked at her watch and groaned. It was nearly ten o’clock – too late to keep trying for much longer. Then an idea struck her. She could catch them if she went to Pendleton church in the morning.
Foy’s voice made her glance back at the television. ‘I’d like to appeal to anyone who might know of any dabbling in black magic by the two victims to come forward,’ he said, looking gravely into the camera. ‘Any information we receive will be treated in the strictest confidence.’
‘In confidence? Bollocks!’ Megan threw her slipper at the screen.
*
It was only a portable TV, but watching the reconstruction was as good as any Hollywood blockbuster. They’d managed to dig out a new photograph of Joanna Hamilton as well, tanned and happy-looking on some Australian beach. A wide shot of the studio next, with all the coppers manning the phones. Still no idea about the third woman, then. It was so tempting to call in. Easy enough to do, thanks to the stolen mobile. Concealing it in the lining of the cycle helmet, along with the craft knife, had been a stroke of genius. No chance of anyone stumbling across it there. And finding a weapon to kill them with had been a piece of piss. A vegetable knife from their own kitchen drawer had done the trick on all three occasions. The craft knife was for the artwork. Oh. Number coming up now. Better write it down.
*
A policewoman picked up the phone. Foy was standing nearby, eager to stay in shot.
‘Hello, my name’s Dorothy and I’ve got something important to tell you.’ The policewoman frowned. It didn’t sound like a woman. Difficult to say. The line wasn’t very good.
‘Can you speak up?’ the WPC said. ‘I can’t hear you very well.’
‘My name’s Dorothy and I’m wearing the witch’s ruby slippers. There’s a number three, you know,’ the voice said.
The policewoman blinked. ‘I beg your pardon?’ The line went dead.
‘Anything?’ Foy asked, bending over her.
‘Just another nutter, Guv,’ she replied.
Chapter 16
Megan had had a bad night. She had lain awake until dawn began to lighten the curtains, turning things over and over in her head until it ached. Eventually she had drifted into sleep, only to dream about Patrick. When she came to she’d reached out for him before she’d woken up enough to realise he wasn’t there.
She groaned and stumbled into the bathroom. She must get herself dressed and drive over to Pendleton. She showered quickly, then dabbed concealer under her eyes in a vain bid to hide the dark circles. She stared at her reflection and took a deep breath. In the past her job had always provided a refuge from any troubles in her personal life. Whatever else happened, she was not going to let this affect her work.
It was odd driving through the centre of Birmingham on a Sunday morning. It was something Megan didn’t do very often. The streets were so quiet, so empty of cars. What if he’s out there now, killing again? The thought sprang into her head out of nowhere. ‘But I don’t think he would be,’ she said aloud. Sundays were days when women were most unlikely to be at home alone. Normal women. Not women like Delva and herself. Or Joanna Hamilton.
As she turned onto the Birmingham New Road the news came on the radio. Sean Raven and Justin Preece had been released. She whistled under her breath. Foy must be getting desperate, then.
At Pendleton precinct the newsagent and the supermarket were the only shops open. Megan stopped outside the paper shop, running her eyes over the stands. The headline in the News of the World caught her eye. MURDER SUSPECT’S SEX ROMP WITH VICTIM. She pulled the paper from the rack. There were head-and-shoulders shots of Sean Raven and Tessa Ledbury on the front page. The article itself was only a few paragraphs long, but there was a line in bold type at the end saying the full story and pictures could be found on the centre pages. Were these the photos Carole-Ann Beddowes had tried to sell to Delva, Megan wondered?
She was about to open the paper when she heard a loud cough from inside the shop. A young girl was staring pointedly at her from behind the counter. Megan took the paper inside and dug out her purse.
‘My mum knows him,’ the girl said, cocking her head at the picture of Sean Raven as she scanned the paper through the till.
‘Oh, really,’ Megan replied, looking at her with a little more interest.
‘Tessa used to come in here too,’ the girl went on. ‘Used to bring her kids into get sweets after school.’
Megan took her paper and her change, acknowledging this s
nippet of information with a slight tilt of her head. The girl was obviously showing off, but Megan had the feeling that any direct questions would make her clam up. So she fumbled with her purse, trying to prolong the encounter in case she came out with anything else. She didn’t have to wait long.
‘Richard Ledbury was in here earlier as well, you know.’
‘Oh, was he?’ Megan put on an expression of polite concern.
‘Couldn’t believe it when I saw him.’ The girl shrugged. ‘He didn’t come in, just hung about outside the shop while this woman he was with came and bought the paper.’ She flicked her tongue over her teeth and Megan caught a flash of chewing gum. ‘You’d think he’d be the last person to want to see it wouldn’t you?’
‘Yes, you would.’ Megan paused for a moment longer but the girl turned away and started filling the shelves behind her with cartons of cigarettes.
What woman? Megan pondered the girl’s words as she walked out of the shop. Could it be Kate O’Leary? She glanced at her watch. It was another ten minutes before the service was due to end. There was a low wall running along the path and she sat down to read the paper.
The photographs were every bit as sordid as she had imagined. Sean Raven must have taken them with a time-release mechanism attached to his camera. The pictures had been doctored with black blobs over the points where the naked bodies made contact. In the main shot Sean Raven’s face leered into the camera. He was lying on top of Tessa. She was looking away but her profile was unmistakeable. Megan thought about what the girl in the newsagent’s had said. Why would Richard Ledbury want to torture himself with this? Had it been the woman’s idea, whoever she was? Bite the bullet and get it over with?
Megan got up and walked across to the path that led to the church. She stopped short. There was a photographer standing behind a bush a few yards in front of her. His telephoto lens was pointing at the entrance to the church. She slipped behind a large concrete litter bin, wondering what to do. He must be after Richard Ledbury. Trying to get a reaction to the story in the News of the World. Richard must have bought that paper on his way to the service. She would have to think of some way of catching Bob Spelman without passing the vulture lurking behind the bush.
Strange Blood Page 17
