Death Bed

by Leigh Russell

  ‘Yes, it’s shocking,’ Geraldine interrupted Sam’s invective, ‘but we’re not working for the vice squad and they were all consenting adults.’

  Sam scowled at Geraldine.

  ‘Now please, let’s focus on the investigation. Donna was from a wealthy family. She’d bought an expensive flat in one of the most sought after areas in London. As far as we can tell, the two women’s paths never crossed. Donna never visited the massage parlour. Neither of the victims was associated with any religious group or organisation where they might have come across one another and we can’t find anything to suggest they ever met. Let’s assume we don’t know the killer’s identity. It might’ve been Stafford, but then again it might not have been, so let’s keep our minds open to any possibility. Did the killer know both of his victims independently and target those specific women, or were they picked at random off the street, in the wrong place at the wrong time?’

  She stopped to drink her coffee. Sam waited.

  ‘We know they were both last seen getting smashed in different areas of North London. They both staggered outside and weren’t seen again. It looks like they were just easy prey to someone roaming streets, in which case it could be chance they were both black and in their twenties. But why would they get in his car with him? Jessica might well have been perfectly willing to be picked up on the street, but would Donna have got into a car with a stranger?’

  ‘I agree Jessica would have been easy to pick up even if the killer wasn’t Robert Stafford – although we don’t yet know it wasn’t him. But as for Donna, well I suppose she might have got in a car with a stranger if she was drunk enough, and it probably wasn’t just alcohol.’

  Geraldine nodded.

  ‘You’re right, it wasn’t just alcohol. I was going to tell you, we had the tox report about an hour ago. I take it you haven’t seen it yet? There were traces of coke in Donna’s blood, and cannabis, so she could have been completely off her trolley when she left the bar, with no idea where she was.’

  ‘So it’s quite likely a well-dressed, well-spoken man might have enticed her into his car, perhaps with some cock and bull story that he knew her, or was a good Samaritan going to take her home.’

  ‘He definitely sounds the sort to appeal to Donna, with a high class accent and BMW,’ Geraldine agreed.

  She nearly told Sam that the killer was posing as a police officer, but Reg had been adamant that she mustn’t share that information with anyone. Reluctantly she decided to keep that to herself for now.

  ‘Whoever he was, he must have spun some credible story to lure them into his car,’ she said lamely.

  ‘Whether he was the genuine article, or just Robert Stafford playing the part, he must have seemed like he was reeking of money, the sick bastard.’

  ‘So where did he take them?’

  ‘Yes, where?’ Sam echoed.

  ‘And what’s he doing now? Should we be warning young women not to get picked up by men they don’t know?’

  ‘Come on, Geraldine, kids of five know that much. There’s no point warning girls about what’s already been drummed into them, if they then go out and get so off their faces that they don’t know what they’re doing. No amount of warning’s going to make any difference to them then.’

  Geraldine stared at her empty coffee cup.

  ‘It looks as though he’s taken two women in two weeks.’

  She looked up at Sam.

  ‘There’s every chance he’ll strike again, and all we can do is sit around hoping we find him first.’

  ‘He’ll make a mistake sooner or later.’

  Geraldine shook her head.

  ‘The trouble is, I’m not sure he will. He’s got this all worked out. He knows we’re looking for him – it’s all over the papers – but he’s more than one step ahead of us. He knows the area and he knows who to target. He’s cunning, Sam, and clever. We don’t know how long he’s been getting away with this. Does that sound like Robert Stafford to you?’

  ‘Whoever it is, we’ll get him,’ Sam said between clenched teeth.

  Geraldine wondered if her sergeant was really convinced of that.

  39

  ADDITIONAL PRESSURE

  Since a second body had been found, the case had taken on a more urgent momentum and Reg Milton had called on the services of a profiler. He introduced them to a smiling young woman dressed in a flowing floor-length skirt and a multi-coloured pashmina. With her mass of long curly hair and heavily made-up eyes, Geraldine thought she looked like an art teacher.

  ‘I’ve worked with Jayne before.’

  The detective chief inspector beamed as the profiler looked around, careful to make eye contact with everyone.

  ‘The question we need to ask is why is this man acting in this way?’ Jayne asked.

  ‘Killing people, you mean?’ someone called out.

  ‘And amputating limbs,’ another voice muttered.

  Geraldine found herself struggling to focus on what the profiler was saying. Her voice was gentle and reassuring, but she didn’t impress Geraldine as having much intellectual rigour. The fact that both victims were black shouldn’t have made any difference to the investigation, although of course it put them all under additional pressure from the media. Alienated sections of the population were quick to exploit the case to rack up hostility towards the police, which didn’t help in their efforts to gather information. But the murder investigation team had to continue with their work regardless.

  ‘The victims were both chained by the wrists and ankles. This is a killer who wants to control his victims,’ Jayne went on. Geraldine did her best to master her impatience as the profiler stated the obvious, speaking very slowly and in such a low voice that Geraldine found herself straining to catch the words.

  ‘Do you think he’s likely to kill again?’ the detective chief inspector asked.

  The profiler considered for a moment, her curly head lowered, before concluding that seemed likely.

  ‘It’s possible the killer may be compulsive.’

  ‘You mean we’re dealing with a serial killer?’ the press officer asked. No one spoke for a few seconds.

  At last the profiler replied.

  ‘It’s difficult to say.’

  ‘Anyway, we know he’s killed at least twice,’ Reg said. ‘No one outside the investigating team knew that the two victims’ injuries were virtually identical until the details came out in the papers after the second murder, so this wasn’t a copycat killing.’

  Geraldine frowned, realising that the detective chief inspector had agreed with her analysis all along. She understood why he would argue against her theory, making sure her case was watertight, but it irked her that he didn’t acknowledge her work. A forceful character, effective in managing resources, he was hardly a team player. That accusation that had been levelled against her in the past, but at least she had never presented someone else’s ideas as her own.

  ‘The press have got hold of it now, but what happened to Jessica wasn’t public knowledge before Donna Henry was killed,’ he explained before turning back to Jayne.

  ‘Both bodies were found close to each other, so he’s likely to be operating in an area where he feels comfortable. And is it a coincidence the victims are both black?’ the profiler asked.

  ‘Would that question be raised if they were both white?’ a black constable demanded.

  ‘I was only wondering if we are dealing with a hate crime,’ Jayne replied.

  ‘Against blacks or against women?’ the constable snapped.

  ‘Anything’s possible,’ the detective chief inspector stepped in. ‘We don’t know anything about the killer so we can’t form any firm conclusions about his motive yet.’

  Geraldine strained to control her irritation at this nebulous discussion which wasn’t helping the investigation.

  ‘Can you tell us anything about the killer that we don’t already know?’ she challenged the profiler.

  ‘I suspect he’s taken the te
eth as trophies because he’s pleased with the success of his attacks and that may be why he wants to keep souvenirs of his victims. It may also be significant that he’s removed the same teeth each time. The dismemberment seems to be escalating, from a finger to half a limb, which suggests he’s likely to kill again.’

  ‘Yes, we’d figured that out,’ Geraldine muttered. ‘This is merely speculating,’ she added more loudly.

  ‘That’s all we can do until you come up with something more concrete,’ Jayne replied evenly.

  ‘Well, I still think Stafford’s our man,’ Sam interrupted.

  ‘If Jayne thinks he’s likely to kill again then we’re looking for a pattern. We know Stafford was a member of the National Front and both the victims were black.’

  ‘Their colour might not be significant,’ Geraldine argued. ‘Maybe the pattern is that both women were in the wrong place at the wrong time, too drunk to sense they were in danger until it was too late.’

  A heated discussion followed a male officer’s suggestion that the two women had placed themselves in danger. Sam made no attempt to restrain her fury.

  ‘So you’re saying women shouldn’t go out after dark? A female curfew, would that do it? Is this just for women who’ve been drinking, or are you suggesting women shouldn’t be allowed out on the streets at all? Perhaps you’d like to chain us all up?’

  ‘That’s enough, Sergeant,’ the detective chief inspector interrupted her sharply. ‘This kind of infighting isn’t helping. We’re all frustrated at making such slow progress, no one more so than me, but we’re agreed we need to gather more information. So let’s all work together as a team and see what else we can find out. Thank you for your insights, Jayne.’

  Geraldine was worried about the report from Kentish Town but didn’t dare take it further without the detective chief inspector’s authorization. She approached Reg after the meeting.

  ‘At the very least we should run a check on CCTV, see what cars were in the area at the time of the encounter, and conduct house to house enquiries along the street. There’s no need to even mention the idea the killer might be using fake ID.’

  She hoped it was false, for all their sakes. The thought that the killer might really be a police officer was too terrible to contemplate.

  Reg brushed her concerns aside.

  ‘Useful informants are difficult to spot among the host of attention-seeking cranks and time wasters, with so many people claiming to have seen the killer.’

  Geraldine pointed out that Jill Duncan hadn’t even mentioned the killer. When the detective chief inspector insisted they didn’t have sufficient manpower to pursue the matter she couldn’t control her frustration any longer.

  ‘How can we not have the resources? This is a murder enquiry - ’

  ‘And I’m in charge. Or had you forgotten that?’

  He turned on his heel and strode away.

  ‘What was all that about with you and the DCI?’ Sam asked Geraldine when they were back in the relative privacy of her office.

  ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘Well he looked damned stroppy to me. Do you think he’s crumbling under the pressure?’

  ‘No, I’m sure he’ll be fine. His sort always are.’

  Sam looked at her inquisitively but didn’t comment, asking instead what Geraldine thought of the profiler.

  ‘I’ll take your psychological insights over hers any day,’ Geraldine answered, and was surprised to see the sergeant’s face light up in genuine pleasure.

  40

  A MINOR TRAFFIC INCIDENT

  It was late morning when Geraldine received a call from South Harrow police station.

  ‘William Kingsley’s here, ma’am. You wanted to know what happened at the identity parade?’

  Geraldine felt a glimmer of hope until she heard the sergeant sigh down the phone.

  ‘We haven’t got anything out of him I’m afraid, ma’am. I think he’s done his best. He arrived on the dot of nine but he hasn’t recognised anyone. We’ve got him looking again but he says it’s impossible. They all look and sound the same to him, and he doesn’t seem able to remember the man he sold his car to anyway. I don’t think he’s being deliberately obstructive, he genuinely can’t help. First off, Kingsley picked out one of the officers making up the numbers in the line up. He kept on about how he’s no good with faces. We could try an E-fit, but I think it’ll be a waste of time. Kingsley’s keen to get away and I suspect he’ll soon be ready to agree with anything, just to get finished. He’s more interested in the insurance claim. He’s making a hell of a stink about it, seems to think we should sort it out for him.’

  ‘Insurance claim?’

  ‘Yes. He said he didn’t want to mention it in front of his wife but he received a letter from an insurance company.’

  ‘What letter?’

  ‘The BMW was involved in a minor traffic incident after he claims he sold it.’

  Geraldine was suddenly alert.

  ‘Has he got the letter with him?’

  ‘Yes, but there’s nothing we can do about it. It’s between him and the insurance company. And if the car’s still registered in his name - ’

  ‘Don’t let him go. I’m on my way.’

  ‘But he wants to - ’

  ‘Don’t let him leave before I get there.’

  Geraldine hung up without waiting for a reply and drove straight to South Harrow police station. She found William Kingsley looking agitated.

  ‘You can’t keep me here,’ he complained as soon as she entered the interview room. ‘I’ve been stuck here for hours and I really need to go. I’ve got a job waiting.’

  Geraldine sat down.

  ‘Mr Kingsley, my colleague mentioned an insurance claim? Please.’

  She gestured at the chair opposite her and he sat down, mollified.

  ‘At last someone’s listening to me. Only it could affect my premium, couldn’t it? It’s not just the money. If my wife finds out – she’s already mad at me for forgetting to send those papers off to the DVLA.’

  He pulled a letter out of his pocket. Geraldine took the crumpled paper from him and unfolded it.

  ‘I’d already sold the car so I can’t be liable, can I? If the bloke who bought it from me had an accident, that was his fault, wasn’t it? I mean, I know they’ll say it was still technically my car, but I’d sold it, the money had changed hands, so legally it’s nothing to do with me. You can tell them that, can’t you? They’ll listen to you.’

  Geraldine scanned the letter. The BMW had been involved in a minor accident with another car a week after William Kingsley claimed to have sold it. No one had been injured but the other vehicle had sustained some slight damage. According to Arthur Jones, the driver who had made the claim, the driver of the BMW was at fault.

  ‘It can’t affect my insurance, can it?’ William Kingsley persisted.

  ‘I need a copy of this,’ Geraldine said.

  William Kingsley claimed to have sold the BMW before it was involved in a minor traffic accident. If that was true, the likelihood was that whoever had caused the accident was the killer of Jessica Palmer and Donna Henry.

  Back at Hendon she told the detective chief inspector about this latest development.

  ‘So the car William Kingsley claims to have sold - ’ Reg Milton began.

  ‘To the killer,’ Geraldine added.

  ‘Let’s make that assumption for a moment,’ he agreed cautiously. ‘The car was parked in Bruton Place in central London on Saturday the twenty-first, a week after it was allegedly purchased from Kingsley. Let’s hope the other party can give us a better description of the driver than Kingsley’s been able to come up with.’

  ‘Sometimes people remember these incidents very clearly,’ Geraldine replied.

  Their eyes met. She was voicing an optimism she didn’t really feel but the detective chief inspector’s face was glowing, his confidence restored.

  Arthur Jones was a stout man in his late sixties,
white-haired and ruddy faced. He spoke in a loud forceful tone, like a retired military man.

  ‘I was driving along Bruton Place and some idiot in a black BMW pulled out right in front of me. He just didn’t look. I swerved but couldn’t avoid a prang. Of course I jumped out straight away but the bugger simply drove off. Yes, shocking, isn’t it?’ he added, misunderstanding Geraldine’s dismayed expression as she realised he might not have had a clear view of the BMW’s driver.

  ‘Did you see who was driving the other car?’

  ‘The driver? No. But I got his number alright.’

  ‘Think carefully, Mr Jones. This is very important. Can you tell me anything at all about the driver of the BMW?’

  ‘I can tell you the damn fool shouldn’t be allowed behind the wheel of a car.’

  ‘Is there anything else at all you can tell me about him?’

  ‘No. I told you, he drove off.’

  ‘What about the car?’

  ‘Bloody inconvenient. The nearside headlight’s smashed and it’s going to need a new bumper.’

  ‘And the other car? Did you get a clear view of it?’

  Arthur Jones looked puzzled.

  ‘Surely you can trace it from the registration number? I definitely got that. Wrote it down at once. He drove off but I wasn’t going to let him get away with it.’

  He gave a satisfied nod.

  ‘Which direction did he drive off in?’

  ‘He turned left at the first corner. By the time I got back in my car, he’d gone.’

  ‘And you say he pulled out from the kerb?’

  ‘Yes. Pulled out right in front of me as though the traffic was going to stop for him. Well, I did my best but I couldn’t avoid him altogether. It wasn’t possible.’

  ‘Can you tell me exactly where he was parked?’

  Arthur Jones was explicit about what he had witnessed. It was only a pity he hadn’t seen the driver. Scene of crime officers were despatched to check the parking space and the area around it, but ten days had passed since the BMW had been there and with the passing traffic, pedestrians and rain, they couldn’t realistically expect to find anything that could be linked to the driver or the car. All Geraldine could do was send a team of uniformed officers to ask people working in Bruton Place if anyone had seen the car, or knew of someone who had recently acquired a black BMW, with the registration number Arthur Jones had taken down. The constables all came back with nothing.