by Mosby, Steve
The third victim on the waste ground had been identified as fifty-three-year-old Marion Collins. From what we’d learned, she’d had no enemies whatsoever. Her husband had reported her missing the same morning, but it had taken hours for the report to trickle through to us. Collins had worked the night shift as a cleaner in an office—a different one to Vicki Gibson—and during the day was a carer for her husband, who was disabled and wheelchair-bound.
Despite the age difference, she fitted into a similar demographic to Vicki—hard-working women, scrabbling to make enough money to support themselves and their loved ones. But nothing else was similar about the two of them, apart from the devastation their deaths had left behind for their loved ones. As far as we could establish, neither woman had outstanding debts that might have warranted retribution.
Forensics had given us nothing either. Not on the victims. Not on the letter. Not on fucking anything.
‘Back to earth, Hicks.’
‘I’m totally on earth, Laura. I’m one hundred per cent grounded.’
‘You’re not. You’ve been doing that a lot recently—disappearing off into the ether. It’s not like you to be so dreamy.’
‘It isn’t?’
‘No. Normally you’re more ambivalent.’
‘Wow.’
‘Not in a bad way.’
She meant it as a joke, but I didn’t like to think I came across like that.
‘I’ve never been ambivalent. It’s just there’s no point overdoing it, is there? The dead stay dead regardless. And our job is just to catch the people who made it happen. We’re not …’ I glanced behind us, back to the graveside. ‘Well, we’re not priests, are we?’
‘So what’s different now? Because something is.’
I shrugged. It was difficult to explain. It wasn’t just the case, but it was fair to say the case had come along at the wrong time for me, what with the issues Rachel and I were having.
‘Problems at home,’ I said.
‘Ah. Want to talk about it?’
‘Nope.’ I thought about it. ‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Shoot.’
‘Do you believe in good and evil?’
‘Fucking hell, Hicks.’ She pulled up. ‘Are you serious?’
I nodded.
‘Okay.’ We set off walking again. ‘I suppose it depends what you mean. Personally, I don’t have much of a problem using those words to describe people. I mean, they’re just words. They’re as good as any, for some of the things we come across, aren’t they?’
I didn’t say anything.
‘But then, there have been some occasions when I’ve had my doubts.’ She shook her head. ‘Like when you see some bastard crying over what he’s done, not understanding how it happened. It’s as though someone stepped in and did it when he wasn’t looking. You know?’
I nodded. ‘Do you think people can be born evil?’
‘Oh, Christ. I don’t know. No. I think people can be born empty. And have shit lives. But that’s not the same thing, is it? It’s like you always say. It’s cause and effect.’
‘Yes.’
‘But it’s all bullshit, Andy. Like you said, we’re not priests. We just have to catch the bastard, not explain him. And we will.’
‘Yes. We will.’
‘And when we do, there’ll be something. He’s not a force for evil. There’s something. There’s a reason.’
‘Because there always is.’
‘Exactly.’ She elbowed me gently. ‘You taught me that. Most of the time I despise you, but deep down I know you’re right about that. You should have more confidence in yourself. I need you on full power right now.’
‘You really hate me most of the time?’
‘It’s more mild irritation.’
‘That’s more what I aim for.’
We walked along a little way. I wanted to believe what Laura had said, but I wasn’t sure I did.
Up ahead, I spotted a groundskeeper. He was an overweight guy in blue overalls, raking the path free of a vague scattering of leaves that had fallen from the trees.
‘Wait here a second,’ I told Laura.
He looked up as I reached him, squinting from beneath a blue baseball cap. He was in his sixties, at least, with skin that was worn and reddened by the elements and by alcohol.
‘Hey there,’ I said.
‘Hey.’
‘You’re the groundskeeper, right?’
‘One of ’em, yeah.’
‘I’m Detective Andrew Hicks.’ I showed him my badge. ‘You work here most days?’
‘Yeah.’ He leaned the rake against a tree. ‘What’s this about?’
‘Not about anything in particular. What’s your name?’
‘It’s Henderson. Stephen Henderson.’
I made a mental note.
‘Okay. Here’s my contact card. It’s got my direct number on it.’ He took it, albeit a little reluctantly. ‘It’s probably nothing, but you ever get any vandalism here?’
Henderson looked around.
‘Not much. Every now and then, you know. The Jewish graves get done over sometimes, but that hasn’t happened for a while.’ He sounded almost accusatory. ‘We called you about that, though.’
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘I just want you to keep my card and let me know if anything happens in the future. Okay? Anything at all. Will you do that?’
Henderson frowned.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I’ll be talking to your management too. It’s just that a guy like you, you might notice something that other people don’t. So, anyone hanging about who shouldn’t be, any vandalism, I’d like you to call me. Okay?’
‘Okay.’
‘Thanks for your co-operation.’
I walked back to Laura.
‘What was that about?’ she said.
‘Just thinking on.’ We started walking again. ‘Just thinking on.’
Nineteen
WE HELD THE PRESS conference in the middle of the afternoon, which wasn’t ideal for the evening paper but worked well for the broadcast news. By now, the nationals were picking up on us as well, of course: a serial killer always delivers the requisite headlines. Several news teams had set up camp outside the building, and whenever I ventured through reception, there always seemed to be reporters either leaving or arriving.
I did my best to avoid them; I wasn’t entirely comfortable with the attention—with being the ostensible face of the investigation. Not because the letter had been addressed to me, as such, but because I’d never been happy in the press spotlight.
I’d had to get used to it.
The press room was packed this afternoon, the air hot and still. I sat at the end, behind a small table, speaking into a microphone, a dark blue banner behind me. Laura was beside me, silent for the moment. The pre-prepared statement was mine today. In front of us sat rows of journalists, taking feverish notes on their laptops, maybe even writing copy live for website feeds. Cables spooled across the floor. The whole time I spoke, I was assaulted by camera flashes from the photographers crammed in at the sides of the room.
‘We are now sure,’ I concluded, looking up, ‘that Marion Collins, John Kramer and Sandra Peacock are the victims of the same killer as Vicki Gibson and Derek Evans. We encourage anyone with any information relevant to this inquiry to come forward at the earliest opportunity. Thank you.’
I leaned back slightly, signalling that my part was done.
Laura took over. ‘There will now be a few minutes for questions.’
A dozen hands went up at once. She signalled to one person at a time, and I listened to the questions and her measured responses. Laura was much better at handling the media than I was, even though she disliked them at least as much as I did. Blood sells, and a lot of papers aren’t shy about splashing the lurid details around, so when you’ve sat with the grieving relatives, when you’ve invested in the lives of the victims, it’s difficult to feel much love for the parasitical fuckers.
&nb
sp; ‘Do you believe the killer was known to the victims?’
‘That is something we cannot say for sure,’ Laura said. ‘It’s certainly possible, and it’s one of the avenues we’re pursuing.’
Bullshit, of course—I was increasingly certain that if we could rewind Vicki Gibson’s movements alongside those of the killer’s, the time and place of her murder would be the only real connection they shared. The same with the other victims. I didn’t think he scoped them out in advance. But of course, we couldn’t be sure. Maybe he was each and every one of them’s best friend, and we’d somehow missed it.
So you never say anything definitive to the press. It’s a balancing act—a weird kind of arms race. You need them and they need you. You need to get information to and from the public; they need a story to shift units. As an investigation progresses, they need new angles. It’s inevitable that, having drained all other resources, the angle that ‘the police know nothing’ appears eventually. Regular as clockwork, usually—you can time an investigation by it. You get to expect certain questions. Reporter bullshit bingo, we call it in private.
‘Have you any suspects at this time?’
‘We have spoken to a number of people in the course of our enquiries. We will continue to do so.’
The woman pressed it. ‘But nobody in particular?’
She wanted a quote on Tom Gregory, obviously, who’d been smeared in more than one of the papers and then predictably outspoken in others upon his release. Not our fault. Scenting blood, the press had just leapt ahead of us like a pack of hounds.
Laura said, ‘Several people have been questioned and those people have subsequently been eliminated from our enquiries. We are grateful for their assistance.’
The reporter seemed unhappy with that answer. She looked down at her laptop and began typing something.
Another hand.
‘Are you happy with the way the investigation is progressing?’
Out of sight beneath the table, I made a little ticking gesture on an imaginary scorecard. There it was. A stinker of a question too. What were you supposed to say? Yes? No?
‘We are not happy,’ Laura said slowly, ‘that the individual responsible for these horrific crimes remains at large. But our team is working hard, round the clock, in an attempt to apprehend him. We will continue to do so. Everything that can be done is being done, and I am confident that results will be forthcoming.’
‘Should the public at large be scared?’
Another tick there—because the one thing that sells newspapers even better than a serial killer is a serial killer who might theoretically come after you. It makes it very important you buy the paper to find out about him, and whether the police investigation is going well or not.
‘We are advising the public to be mindful,’ Laura said, sounding cautious. ‘We have more officers on the streets than ever before and are doing everything we can to safeguard the public. Where possible, we do advise people to avoid isolated areas, and to travel in groups whenever they can.’
Laura spun it out a little longer. Experienced as she was, she knew we were dealing with time here rather than a set number of questions. So she ran with that one. It also helped her avoid answering the question directly.
Should the public be scared?
Yes.
They certainly should.
‘But as we have said, the most important thing the public can do right now is come forward with any information they might have. Someone out there knows this man.’
‘Is there any connection between the victims?’
‘At this stage, we can’t comment on that.’
Another hand.
‘Have you had any communication from the killer?’
I did my best to remain implacable. It was too hot in here, and I wanted to loosen my shirt collar, but the cameras pick up everything.
Laura said, ‘Any communication?’
The reporter looked a little sheepish.
‘It’s not unheard of for killers of this type to communicate with the police, is it? Given the apparent lack of any motive for these attacks, I was wondering whether you were considering the possibility that he was enjoying the attention.’
Been reading too many books, I thought.
But he was right, of course. We remained undecided as to whether the letter was genuine or not. With an operation like this, you deal with cranks. Aside from the letter, the front desk had received three confessions in person and eight over the phone. All turned out to be impossible, but each had to be followed up, and everyone involved would be charged with wasting police time. It sounds frivolous, that charge, but time is all we have.
‘Firstly,’ Laura said, ‘I would say it’s far too early in the investigation to speculate on what the killer’s motive might be. And as I said, we are discounting nothing. We are pursuing all possible lines of enquiry. As for communication—no, we have received nothing specific.’
Nothing specific. If the letter was fake, it was of no consequence. If it was real, perhaps not mentioning it would encourage the killer to write another. Or do something else.
I thought about that as Laura moved on to the next question, indicating that it would be the last. Or do something else. That was another balancing act.
Twenty
BACK IN THE OPERATIONS room, Laura and I slid into plastic seats on either side of the sergeant in charge of scanning the nationwide databases.
Her name was Alison Pearson, and she was the officer who’d asked the question about the killer’s motive during our initial briefing three days ago. She was only young—not yet in her thirties—but had seemed focused and on-task from the beginning. Her role was multifaceted: analysing missing person reports, both on and off the system, and searching for any past murders with similar specs to our current series, as it seemed more than possible that, despite the assertions in the letter, this was not our man’s first experience of killing.
We had a mounting pile of mis-pers on our desk, and had looked over a steady stream of possibly connected earlier crimes. Each one had been followed up as extensively as manpower allowed and come to nothing. Frustrating work, but necessary, and if there was anyone in the room who was not going to miss an important detail, it was Pearson.
‘I found this report on the system an hour ago,’ she said. ‘It was only added in this afternoon, so I pounced.’
The report was up on the screen, and I scanned the details quickly. On the far side of Pearson, I could see Laura squinting at the monitor too. Pearson talked over us as we read.
‘Victim is Kate Barrett, thirty-one years of age. She was killed this morning during what appears to be an aggravated robbery in which her scooter was taken. Bludgeoned to death.’
‘Christ,’ I said, more to myself than anyone else. The report indicated that her husband and son had observed the attack, but had been unable to reach her assailant in time.
Laura nodded. ‘Witness—her husband—says the killer hit her more than was necessary in order to steal the bike. Like he murdered her out of spite.’
‘No post-mortem yet,’ I said. ‘So we don’t know the weapon. Who’s in charge of this?’
‘Nobody here.’ Pearson tapped the screen. ‘It’s in Buxton.’
‘Buxton?’
Pearson nodded. ‘It’s about thirty miles south—’
‘I know where it is.’
Of course I knew. It was where I’d grown up—and I didn’t have particularly fond memories of the place. The name was just another random little dig in the mental ribs, as if the case wasn’t bothering me enough as it was. But Pearson looked put-out, and I realised I’d been too sharp with her.
‘Sorry, Alison. I’m just stressed out at the moment. It’s hard enough handling all this here without having to factor another bloody town in.’
Factoring it into the alleged pattern, of course, but I was thinking mainly of the inter-departmental work it would entail if the cases did turn out to be connected. We were the
bigger city, at least, so we’d have primary, and we might blag a few officers by pooling efforts, but it would still be a massive headache to be co-ordinating investigations at this point. We were drowning in paperwork as it was. Drowning full stop.
‘It still might be nothing,’ Laura said. ‘As far as we know, robbery’s never been a factor before.’
‘No.’
‘And we don’t know the weapon.’
‘PM’s set for tomorrow morning.’ Pearson sounded a little brighter now.
‘Good.’ I stood up. ‘Can you get us a printout of this, Alison? Thanks again. Sorry for being snappy.’
‘Of course, boss. No problem.’
Back at our own desk, Laura sat down opposite and peered across at me.
‘What’s up, Hicks?’
‘Buxton. If this turns out to be true, it’s going to be a fucking nightmare.’ I held up a basic A4 printout of the city with the five known victims marked on it, along with various pencil swirls where I’d doodled prospective patterns, to no avail whatsoever. ‘Call stationery. We’re going to need a bigger bit of paper.’
Laura pulled a face.
I put the sheet down. ‘Also, I suppose I was hoping that this was over. But it’s never over, is it?’
‘Look. It might not be connected.’
‘No. But that man, the husband, he still saw his wife being murdered. So if it’s not our guy, it means someone killed a woman for a fucking scooter. I’m not sure which is better.’
‘This case is getting to you.’
‘Obviously.’
‘And it’s not like you at all.’
‘Yeah, we discussed this earlier.’ I sighed. ‘It’s not just that anyway. Like I said, it’s Rachel too. We’re supposed to go to counselling tonight.’
‘Counselling?’
‘Marriage counselling.’
‘Shit, Andy.’ Laura leaned back. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realise things had got that bad.’
‘We’ve been going for a few weeks. It’s rubbish, but I’m trying to—you know—show willing.’
‘Things are really that serious?’
