‘No need to break my bloody arm,’ he grumbled.
On the point of arresting him, Geraldine heard herself say instead, ‘We need you to come with us to the station to answer some questions.’
She couldn’t have said why, but she wasn’t convinced he was the man they wanted after all.
‘Even though he so obviously resisted arrest?’ Reg Milton asked her, when she voiced her reservations later on.
‘We need to search his flat, sir.’
‘Looking for what exactly? A journal where he confesses to murdering Jessica Palmer?’
‘No, sir. We need to find a star shaped pendant with one piece missing.’
She showed the detective chief inspector a photograph of Jessica Palmer and explained that the victim had been wearing the same chain in every picture found in her flat.
‘But it wasn’t on the body and it wasn’t in her room. So I wonder if her killer kept it.’
‘As a trophy you mean?’
‘It’s possible, sir.’
The detective chief inspector looked sceptical.
‘What about her missing teeth? Wasn’t it your assertion that the killer had taken them as trophies? Just because something’s missing doesn’t make it significant. People lose things all the time.’
Nevertheless he agreed to arrange the search Geraldine had requested.
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘My name’s Reg,’ he reminded her, smiling.
‘Yes, sir – Reg.’
It felt strange addressing her senior officer by his first name, but she didn’t want to be regarded as a county mounty.
‘I don’t think I could’ve have stood up to Stafford the way you did. He’s a big bloke,’ Geraldine said to Sam when she saw her later on.
Sam laughed.
‘That’s nothing. You should see my ninjutsu instructor.’
‘Ninjutsu? Like jujitsu?’
‘Yes. It’s a form of Japanese martial art.’
‘I see. So you were about to toss Robert Stafford over your shoulder when I stepped in and cramped your style by cuffing him?’ Geraldine grinned and Sam chuckled.
‘Something like that, only I didn’t want to hurt the poor man! I’m not joking, Geraldine. I’ve been training for ten years.’
Geraldine wasn’t convinced the sergeant would have got the better of a man like Stafford if she hadn’t caught him off guard. She hoped Sam wasn’t going to court danger by overestimating her own physical prowess. But there was something about the way he had caved in to the sergeant that seemed to confirm Geraldine’s suspicion that Stafford wasn’t a brutal killer.
25
A POSSIBLE SUSPECT
‘Mrs Carson’s on her way.’
‘Who?’
‘The Palmer girl’s mother.’
Geraldine went to the morgue to speak with Jessica’s mother, a tiny woman who had identified the victim as her daughter.
‘I hardly recognised her. Why did this happen?’
She reached out with a claw-like arthritic hand to grasp Geraldine’s sleeve and her bloodshot eyes filled with tears.
‘Why my Jessica?’
‘I’m very sorry, Mrs Carson.’
‘Who did this to her?’
‘That’s what we want to find out. Can you think of anyone who might have had a grudge against your daughter?’
‘A grudge?’ the little woman repeated as though in a daze.
‘Anyone who might have been angry with her?’
‘Angry with my Jessica?’
‘Can you give us a list of her associates?’
Mrs Carson looked at Geraldine in bewilderment.
‘Who were her friends?’
‘Her friends at school?’
‘Did she still see them?’
‘I don’t know. She left home when she was just sixteen. Her sixteenth birthday.’
‘I know. We’re interested in her life here in London. Do you know who she mixed with?’
Jessica’s mother gave a low sob and pressed one hand against her mouth.
‘I don’t know,’ she whispered, dropping her hand and shaking her head. ‘I don’t know. She didn’t keep in touch. She didn’t get on with my husband. They never saw eye to eye. They used to argue all the time and then when she left - ’
She broke down sobbing.
Geraldine waited a moment before she continued.
‘What did they argue about?’
‘She used to stay out till all hours. You know what teenagers are. But Martin didn’t like it that she stayed out all night. He knew how I used to worry so he wanted her home early. They used to argue all the time.’
‘When did she last see him?’
‘When she was sixteen. She left home and we haven’t seen her since. She called me to say she was alright and that she had a job as a beautician doing all the make-up for ladies, in a shop, you know. I begged her to come home but she just laughed and said “Not bloody likely.” And that was the last time I spoke to her. I reported her missing but they just said she’d left home of her own accord, and if she didn’t want to come home there was nothing they could do about it. If they found her and brought her back, they said she’d only run off again. But they didn’t know that, did they?’
As she stared at Geraldine, her eyes glittered with growing anger.
‘The police didn’t care. And it’s no different now, for all your fine talk. I see what you’re thinking.’
‘We are doing our best to find the person who killed Jessica - ’
‘But she wasn’t a white girl, was she? Oh yes, I know how it is with you, all of you. Do you know how many times my nephew is stopped in the street, every week, just for being a black boy?’
‘Mrs Carson, police officers do their best to treat everyone fairly - ’
‘Not a day goes by, not one day, when that boy isn’t hassled going about his business, and he’s a good boy. Is it any wonder some of them go off the rails, when they are treated like scum, whatever they do. And now my Jessica - ’
She began to cry again.
Geraldine spoke quietly.
‘Mrs Carson, I give you my personal assurance that we are doing everything we can to bring Jessica’s killer to justice. Now, can you answer one more question? Did you ever see Jessica wearing a chain with a star pendant?’
‘Oh yes. Her father gave her that, before he left us. She was only little, and when the chain got too small for her she put it on a longer one. She wore it all the time. She said it brought her luck, although what luck she ever had in her life I don’t know.’
She moaned softly and dropped her head in her hands.
‘I’m going to find out more about Stafford,’ Geraldine told Sam when she returned from the morgue. ‘See what you can dig up on him as well. We might as well focus on him. We’ve got nothing else to go on.’
Sam looked at her curiously.
‘We don’t need anything else, do we? Stafford’s our man.’
‘He’s a possible suspect,’ Geraldine agreed cautiously.
‘It’s got to be him. Look at the way he sweated when you spoke to him, and how he resisted arrest. Why would he be so reluctant to answer questions if it wasn’t him?’
‘There could be any number of reasons. Lots of people don’t like being taken to a police station, or locked in a cell for that matter. He might be claustrophobic. Not wanting to come with us doesn’t prove he’s responsible for Jessica Palmer’s murder any more than his sweating does.’
Geraldine took Sam with her to search Robert Stafford’s flat. He was a tidy man, his clothes neatly folded or hanging in the wardrobe. The bathroom was spotlessly clean. Everything appeared to be in order. They didn’t find Jessica Palmer’s chain, or anything else that suggested any possible connection between him and the dead woman. They did discover a handful of letters from a woman called Evelyn, and a few phone calls established that Stafford had left a wife behind in Scarborough when he moved to London. There were no photographs any
where in the flat, and nothing apart from the letters to suggest he was married.
‘She seems to write to him a lot,’ Geraldine said, looking at the dates on the letters. ‘I wonder if he ever answers. He left Scarborough six months ago and it doesn’t look as though he’s been back to visit her.’
‘She doesn’t sound like an abandoned wife. Listen to this. ‘Don’t stay out in the sun too long without covering your head, and remember to drink plenty of prune juice’,’ Sam read aloud. ‘Prune juice!’
She pulled a face.
‘No wonder he left her in Scarborough!’
They took the letters and returned to the station where a band of journalists were blocking the entrance.
‘What can you tell us about the man helping you with your enquiries into the Tufnell Park murder?’
‘Would the police be taking this murder more seriously if the victim wasn’t a prostitute?’
A strident voice called out above the clamour, ‘Isn’t it true you’d be doing more if the victim wasn’t a black woman?’
Geraldine hurried past, ignoring the shouts. She hoped her gut feeling was wrong and Robert Stafford would indeed turn out to be guilty of murdering Jessica Palmer. If not, then they were no closer to establishing the identity of her killer, for all their efforts.
Back at her desk she reread the post-mortem report. The victim had been chained by her wrists and ankles, the imprint of large metal links discernible on her cold bruised flesh. Geraldine stared at the photograph of Jessica Palmer in her green frock until every detail of it was imprinted on her mind, right down to the broken metal of the star around her neck. Her lucky charm.
26
SHARP EDGE
Donna chewed at her bottom lip until she tasted bitter salty blood on her tongue. The manacle on her right wrist had been looser than the left one so she had been working away, trying to force it through the metal ring until she thought she must have gouged all the skin off the back of her hand, twisting and wrenching it against the sharp edge of her shackle. Finally she had pulled it free and now her hand lay beside her on the bed, raw and bloody. It was too agonising to raise it in the air to gauge the damage. She felt sick with pain. She had no idea what to do with her free arm but lay motionless, hardly daring to breathe in case the movement disturbed the burning in her hand. She was worried that her wounds would become infected from contact with the filthy bed, but there was nothing she could do about it. She tried lifting her arm to rest her injured hand on her stomach but any attempt to move it was excruciating and she gave up.
She forced herself to stay awake, determined to conceal her small victory from her captor. Somehow she had to keep one step ahead of him if she was ever going to escape. But what could she do with just one hand whilst the rest of her remained chained to the bed? The burning in her hand helped her stay awake; she was afraid of falling asleep in case she didn’t wake up again. It was hard to concentrate while pain dominated her thoughts but she had to plan ahead. Somehow she had to take advantage of her situation and take her captor by surprise before he noticed her hand was no longer shackled, but she couldn’t remember if she was battling the man or the pain. Her hand was free and that meant she had a hope – but a hope of what?
She couldn’t stay focused. Her head throbbed. She closed her eyes and heard herself moaning as she surrendered to confusion.
… In the darkness a voice was calling her. When she opened her eyes her grandfather was standing in front of her.
‘Grandad? What are you doing here? I thought you were dead. We went to your funeral… ’
Her grandfather smiled but he didn’t answer. Yellow light dazzled her and she saw he was holding out a chipped cup.
‘You brought me a drink,’ she said without speaking and he grinned.
He knew what she was thinking.
‘I’m so thirsty.’
Suddenly her grandfather reached forward and seized her wrist. Someone was screaming in her head, the sound flooding through her ears, deafening.
‘Did you think I wouldn’t notice?’ her grandfather was shouting.
Her wrist felt as though it was on fire. She stared in horror as yellow flames flickered up her arm. Her grandfather laughed and she felt something tighten around her right wrist, scraping the bone. She shut her eyes and pain shot from her wrist in bursts like fireworks exploding.
When she opened her eyes again sunlight was streaming into the room through a gap in the blind. Both her wrists were so tightly secured to the bed she couldn’t move at all and she was so thirsty she would have cried if she’d had the energy. Turning her head she looked around. A skull stared back at her from the shelf opposite, its empty eye sockets fixed on her in a horrid glare. Its teeth grinned at her and she recognised her grandfather.
‘You came back,’ she whispered.
‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘You knew I would. It’s time to leave.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘We’re going on holiday.’
‘I haven’t packed my things.’
‘There’s no time. We have to leave right now.’
‘But - ’
‘Come on!’
He seized her by the wrist.
‘Stop it. Let go. You’re hurting me,’ she protested, but he only tightened his grip on her and pulled harder until she screamed out in pain…
‘Be quiet.’
The man had brought her water and bread. Donna gulped at the water.
‘Slow down,’ he said. ‘You’ll make yourself sick.’
As if in response to his warning she gagged and vomited, turning her head to one side just in time so that water trickled into her ear. The pain in her arm was excruciating. She could no longer bear it.
‘Help me, please,’ she begged. ‘What do you want from me?’
The room spun unsteadily. The grinning skull seemed to vibrate.
‘It hurts so much. Please help me.’
There was no answer so she opened her eyes but the room was completely dark. With a start of surprise she realised the pain had gone. Aware that she was dying, she trembled with a fierce joy. Soon it would be over and the man wouldn’t be able to hurt her anymore.
The light was blinding.
‘Drink,’ her grandfather told her but she couldn’t open her mouth.
‘Drink,’ he repeated, urgently.
Donna tried to move her lips but nothing happened. She felt herself slipping into darkness.
‘Come on,’ her grandfather said. ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’
PART 3
27
A GRAND JOB
Geraldine wanted to find out as much about Robert Stafford as she could before questioning him. In the meantime it wouldn’t do him any harm to sweat in a cell overnight. He had no form, not so much as a parking ticket. All she knew about him was that he had briefly been a member of the National Front as a teenager, had a wife in Scarborough, and was employed as a bouncer at a North London pub.
The landlord of the Victory was very positive about him.
‘Robbie’s reliable and he’s a stickler for checking ID. Not that we aren’t careful who we serve but it’s difficult to tell nowadays.’
Robert Stafford had been working at the pub for four months.
‘To be honest, I’d be sorry to lose him. Good bouncers aren’t that easy to come by. There’s plenty of blokes think they can do the job, but it takes a cool head under pressure. Robbie doesn’t let the underage girls talk him round, and he’s got the physical build to carry it off if the lads want to play rough. He’s got the knack, manages the customers well when they’ve had a few too many.’
‘What about his injury?’ Geraldine asked but the landlord shook his head at her.
‘He never mentioned any injury and he’s certainly fit enough. There are circumstances where a physical presence is a big help, and he’s got that alright.’
He grinned.
‘Would you fancy your chances getting past him if he was blo
cking the doorway?’
Geraldine remembered how Sam had stopped Stafford in his tracks when he’d attempted to scarper.
‘That depends on who you are.’
Robert Stafford had moved to London six months earlier, leaving his wife behind in Scarborough. It was quite a trek but as it was her day off, Geraldine decided to go and speak to Evelyn Stafford face to face. She took a train to York where she was met by a local officer who drove her the last part of the journey. It was a sunny day with a few fluffy clouds scudding about overhead. Geraldine gazed at fields and distant gentle hills but was too distracted to enjoy the scenery as she planned her questions for Evelyn Stafford.
Number forty-two was situated beside a drab hairdressing salon.
‘I don’t suppose I’ve got time to watch a bit of the match, ma’am?’ her driver asked. ‘It’s the cricket festival this week and the cricket ground is only just round the corner.’
‘Wait here,’ she answered shortly. ‘I won’t be long.’
She rang the bell and was about to lift a polished lion’s head knocker when the door was opened by a stout woman with tightly curled brown hair and a heavily made-up face, on which powder was clearly visible in the bright sunlight.
‘Evelyn Stafford?’
‘Who’s asking?’
She studied Geraldine’s warrant card.
‘What do you want?’
‘You were married to Robert Stafford?’
‘Still am, not that it’s any of your business.’
Evelyn Stafford folded her arms across her ample chest. ‘What’s he gone and done then?’
Her expression changed suddenly to one of alarm. ‘Something’s happened to him, hasn’t it? I’ll fetch my coat.’
Death Bed Page 11
