Staring at the photograph Geraldine had shown her, Caroline shook her head. ‘It doesn’t ring a bell. I told you Brian’s taken Ed. Please, you have to find him. I went round there,’ she went on, suddenly animated. ‘He wouldn’t let me in, but you could get in. You can go anywhere, can’t you?’
‘You told me you didn’t know where he lives.’
Fighting back tears, Caroline described how she had followed Geraldine to Brian’s house.
‘Ed’s there. I know he is! He has to be!’
Leaving Caroline, they went to question Rob’s father. He said he had never heard of Caroline or her sons.
‘Rob knew all sorts of people,’ he added unhelpfully.
Having investigated Eve as far as she was able, Geraldine turned her attention to Brian. Looking further into his background, she discovered that his dead wife had a sister living in Milton Keynes, a woman called Mary Drysdale. Family members could prove a useful source of information, so she decided to talk to the woman face to face. It was an excuse to get out of the office, and away from Nick’s empty desk. Sometimes a change of scene helped her to think.
Mary Drysdale was a thin woman with greying blonde hair and a sharp-featured face. At first she seemed reluctant to speak to Geraldine.
‘I know I agreed to meet you, but there’s really nothing I can tell you about my brother-in-law. I haven’t seen him for years.’
‘What did you think of him? Anything you can tell me about him might be helpful.’
‘But you can’t tell me why you want to know?’
‘I’m sorry. But please…’
‘Well,’ Mary said, appearing to relent, ‘to be honest I hardly ever met him, but I never liked him. And if you’re asking about him because you’re reopening the investigation into Susan’s death, I still don’t believe it was suicide, whatever they said at the time. It wasn’t like her at all. I knew my sister, Inspector. She loved life. What she ever saw in that Brian…’ She pulled a face. ‘It was bad timing. She was on the rebound when she met him. She’d been seeing a married man, poor cow. When that all went wrong, she settled for Brian, far too quickly. I knew it was a mistake. I think she did too, deep down. Anyway, she took up with Nick again, and then suddenly she was dead. It didn’t make sense. Why would she have gone and killed herself?’
Mary was clearly still distressed by the loss of her sister, but Geraldine’s attention had been caught by something else.
‘Nick?’
‘Yes. That’s the man she was seeing, before she met Brian. He was messing her around, telling her he’d leave his wife, and then letting her down. More fool her for letting him. You know the story, it’s hardly original, but he was breaking her heart. That’s the only reason she married Brian, she said she wanted someone safe, someone who would always put her first. Only then it all started up again with Nick…’
‘What was his other name?’
‘Who?’
‘Nick. The man she was seeing. The married man. What was his surname?’
Mary shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Think, please. This could be very important.’
But Geraldine already knew the identity of the married man who had been in a relationship with Brian’s dead wife. He was the missing link that connected the murder of her colleague to the murder of Caroline’s husband, and to Rob the odd-job man who had somehow become caught up in the spiral of killings.
‘Was it Williams?’
Recognition registered in Mary’s face. ‘Nick Williams, that was it. Susan told me he worked for the Metropolitan Police.’
By the time Geraldine reached London, her reservations about Brian had grown into a firm conviction that he was involved. She would have waited until the morning to follow it up, but concern for the missing boy lent urgency to her actions. If Caroline was right, Brian was keeping Ed captive. Although hard to believe, it was possible. And if Geraldine’s hunch was correct, Brian was capable of murder as well as kidnap. Meeting Brian’s former sister-in-law had crystallised her thoughts. There was no time to lose. Ed’s life might be in danger.
74
People were milling around, watching the departures board, or striding purposefully towards the platforms, dragging cases behind them. Brian’s train wasn’t due for another twenty minutes. He perched on the end of a bench, head lowered, one hand resting on his suitcase, waiting. Gazing around through dark lenses, he couldn’t spot any security cameras in that corner of the station. He had selected Scotland as his destination, having once seen a film of The Thirty Nine Steps in which the hero had evaded capture by moving around remote places in the Highlands. He fancied he could do the same. He wasn’t travelling straight there. Instead he would start his journey by going west. At the counter he used his credit card to buy a ticket to Oxford. By the time the police were on his trail he would have arrived in Oxford and bought an overnight ticket to Inverness, making a cash purchase that would be difficult to trace.
There was an airport at Inverness. From there it must be possible to leave the country. It would involve taking a bus to the airport, or another train, or maybe both. He might hire a car if he could do so without disclosing his identity. Perhaps it would be best to ‘borrow’ a car, without the owner’s permission, of course. That way he would be able to travel without leaving any tracks, at least until the owner of the vehicle reported it missing. He could fly straight to Europe from Inverness, and stay overseas until he was no longer in the news and the police lost interest in him. He could quite happily spend years renting a room on the coast somewhere sunny, biding his time. He would be in no hurry to return to England. He might never come back. When his money ran out he could get a job, working in a bar, or teaching English.
He was going to leave the UK before the police came back and searched his house. It was a pity that by the time they discovered the boy it would probably be too late to save his life, but there was nothing Brian could do about it now. It was all for the best really, because if he had been found alive, the boy would have been able to tell the police how a man had fallen to his death in Brian’s back garden. They couldn’t prove Brian had deliberately caused the man’s death, but the boy could describe how they had heaved the body into the van, and how Brian had driven it away. It was a pretty damning account.
His platform came up, and he walked quickly to the turnstile, taking care not to jostle anyone, or do anything that might draw attention to himself. He was an unremarkable man embarking on an unremarkable journey. When two British Transport Police passed him, he didn’t flinch. One of them glanced at him as he walked by, trailing his case behind him. He lowered his eyes and hurried on, like any other traveller. The train was busy. He found a seat near a luggage rack, sat down and buried his face in a free newspaper he had picked up on the underground. There wasn’t much room, but he extended his legs as far as he could, arching his back and rotating his head gently. For the first time he wondered how the boy was feeling, cooped up in his cellar. Dismissing the thought, he turned to look out of the window at the countryside flashing past.
Thinking about leaving the country, and wondering where to go, he reached for his leather bag. The strap on his shoulder wasn’t there. With a sick feeling he realised what he had done. In his rush to get away, he had left the bag on his bed at home. He could picture it lying there, the black strap snaking across his pillow. There was nothing else for it. He had to go back and get it. He would slip round the back of the house under cover of darkness. Leaving his suitcase concealed behind the low wall of his narrow front garden, he would race upstairs to the bedroom, and be out of there again before anyone saw him. It was going be dangerous, because the police were bound to be watching the house, but he would manage it. He had no choice. Without his passport he was stuffed.
Heaving his suitcase off the train at the next stop, he made his way across to the opposite platform where he waited for a train to take him back to London and the quiet house where his documents lay, all ready, packed into
a leather bag. He had been an idiot to leave them behind, but there was no point in getting worked up about it. Now more than ever he needed to keep a clear head. The worst was happening, and he had done it to himself, but there was still time to retrieve the situation.
‘Failure is not an option,’ he muttered furiously to himself. He kept his head down, afraid that an inquisitive official might notice he had arrived at the station only to turn round immediately and return to London. He wished he had gone to sit in the waiting room, out of sight, although there were probably cameras in there. CCTV cameras were everywhere on the train lines. It had probably been a blunder, travelling by train, but it hadn’t occurred to him that he would have to go back to London. He should have been in Oxford by now, buying his ticket to Inverness.
At last his train was announced and he clambered aboard, lugging his suitcase which seemed to be much heavier than it had been when he left home. He was tired, and his arms were aching. He was tempted to unpack some of his clothes and leave them behind on the train. He didn’t need them. But there were other people in the carriage and he was wary of attracting attention. So far no one seemed to have noticed him, sitting quietly behind a newspaper. With a twinge of fear, he saw a train guard coming down the aisle towards him. He didn’t have a ticket for the return journey back to London. His carefully planned day was fast degenerating into a nightmare. With one swift movement he was on his feet, walking away from the guard. He kept going until he reached a toilet. It stank in there, but he stayed crouching on the seat with the lid down, until he heard an announcement over the tannoy. They were approaching the London terminal.
No one even glanced at him lugging his case off the train.
‘I seem to have lost my ticket,’ he muttered to the station official at the barrier. ‘Can you let me through please?’
He didn’t suppose any of the station staff would remember him, and the police would hardly be expecting him to be returning to London from Oxford.
The barrier guard didn’t even look at him. ‘Go to the excess fares counter over there. You’ll have to pay the maximum fare.’
The ticket was a rip off but he didn’t protest, and was soon hurrying down to the underground. The nearer to home he was, the more anxious he became. He could feel his shirt clammy with sweat beneath his overcoat, and his head began to hurt. He was probably dehydrated, but he didn’t stop to buy a bottle of water. Shops all had CCTV, and the police were bound to be looking out for him this close to home. Carefully he turned his head away from the cameras in the station, pulling his coat collar up to his chin.
It was the obvious place to wait, in the park across the road. At last the sun set and darkness swallowed the empty expanse of grass. It was just past nine o’clock when he rose to his feet and stole silently along the pavement towards his house. The street was deserted. No one knew he was there. This might be easier than he had expected. All he had to do was run upstairs, grab his bag, and leave. He wouldn’t so much as look at the door under the stairs. He just wanted to slip away quietly. He hoped the boy would do the same.
75
Matthew had known all along that something awful had happened to Ed. He was deeply upset that his mother had lied to him about it. When he demanded to know the reason, all she could say was that she had wanted to protect him.
‘Protect me from what? I can look after myself.’
‘I wanted to protect you from being upset.’
Now he was even more upset, because she had kept the truth from him about Ed being kidnapped.
‘Why did you lie to me? Why?’ he repeated.
‘I thought you’d be upset,’ she repeated lamely.
At last he calmed down enough to listen to her.
‘What are we going to do?’ he asked.
‘What do you mean?’
‘We can’t just sit around doing nothing. He’s been gone for ever! We have to save him!’
Caroline was infected by his enthusiasm. She knew it was a mistake as she blurted out that she knew where he was being kept. Matthew jumped up.
‘Come on then!’ he shouted.
Caroline shook her head. This could all go terribly wrong. She hadn’t told Matt that Brian wasn’t just a kidnapper. He was a killer as well. Matt began pestering her to tell him where his brother was being held captive. To her relief he yelled at her that they had to go and tell the police. She had been afraid he wanted to rush round there and confront Brian himself.
‘How come you haven’t told them yet? Don’t you want Ed to come home?’
‘Of course I want him home. I went to the police days ago, but they didn’t believe me.’
Another mistake.
‘Well, I believe you. Come on, if the police won’t help us, we’ll go and rescue him ourselves!’
‘At least let’s wait until it’s dark,’ she said, playing for time.
Somehow she had to persuade her son it was too dangerous even to try. If the police couldn’t save Ed, there was nothing a woman and a ten-year-old boy could do. The last thing she wanted to do was put Matt in danger as well. Yet despite her trepidation, she couldn’t help feeling excited. With Matt’s help, there was a possibility they might succeed. Together they began to plan Ed’s rescue. Matt was adamant that he would accompany her.
‘That way one of us can distract him while the other one rescues Ed.’ It sounded like a sensible plan. ‘Then we can kill him and chop him up in little pieces and feed him to the rats, and dissolve his bones in a vat of acid,’ he concluded, in a sobering reminder that he was just a child. ‘Or we can feed him to pigs. They eat everything, bones and all. They crunch the bones up with their teeth!’
She couldn’t help smiling at his childish enthusiasm. ‘Where are you going to find pigs?’
He stopped capering round the room. ‘You can find them. That’s your job. I’m the ideas man.’
‘And you have some very good ideas, but I think we should concentrate on finding Ed, and leave his kidnapper for the police to deal with.’
‘You said the police didn’t believe you.’
‘But if we rescue Ed…’ She paused, struck dumb by the enormity of what they were discussing.
They might already be too late. The idea of Matt stumbling on his twin brother’s corpse was too horrific to contemplate. On the pretext of making some tea, she went into the kitchen and poured herself a generous slug of whisky. Her husband had been the drinker, not her. But since his death it had been the only way to deaden her anguish. Feeling slightly tipsy and very brave, she returned to the living room to confront her son.
‘You can’t come with me,’ she announced firmly.
‘What?’
‘I can sort this out on my own.’
‘But it has to be two of us so one of us can distract him while the other one rescues Ed. That’s our strategy. It’s what we agreed. You said. There has to be two of us.’
‘No. It’s too dangerous.’
‘You’re going.’
‘He’s my son.’
‘He’s my twin.’
There was no arguing him out of it.
They waited until it was dark before driving to Brian’s house. Leaving the car parked a few doors away, they hurried across his front garden. It was only nine o’clock but there were no lights on in the house. Caroline hesitated. She hadn’t thought about whether they should try and break in, or march up to the front door and ring the bell. Now they were there, she was terrified Brian would see them. He had already taken one of her sons. She wasn’t prepared to risk Matt’s safety as well.
‘Round the back,’ she whispered.
Matt nodded to show he understood. Cautiously she led the way to the side gate. It wasn’t locked. She activated the torch on her phone. By its narrow beam of light they shuffled along the passageway that led down the side of the property. There were glass patio doors at the back of the house, flanked by two windows, all divided into small square panes. She tried each one in turn. They were all securely fastened
. The only way they could get in was by breaking a window. She would have to do it without making any noise. She swung the torch around, looking for something to use. She wished she had come better prepared. Most of their planning had revolved around ways to dispose of Brian’s dead body in the absence of any acid, or pigs, or convenient quicksand.
There was a low dry stone wall surrounding a small rockery at the side of the garden. Crouching down, she selected a sharp stone. As she raised it, Matt put his hand on her arm to stop her. Without speaking, he pointed to a different area of the window. In the darkness his face looked ghastly, wide-eyed and pale. She looked to where he was pointing, and nodded. She had been about to smash the large central pane of the window. He had guided her to the pane beside the window catch. If she broke the glass there, it should be easy to reach inside and open the window.
Matthew was only ten, but he was more clear thinking than her. She blinked, feeling muzzy-headed, regretting having downed so much whisky before coming out. She hoped she would be able to drive home without crashing the car. That would be just perfect.
The sound of breaking glass seemed to echo across the still night air. She winced. Without a word, they both stood with their backs pressed against the back wall of the house. There was a chance they might escape notice if anyone looked out. Nothing happened. In the moonlight, high tree branches stirred silently in the breeze. No lights came on, no voices yelled out from neighbouring houses demanding to know what was going on. They waited. At last, Caroline turned her attention to the window. Concentrating on keeping her arm steady, she reached in through a jagged hole in the glass and carefully pulled the window latch. For a terrible second she was afraid it was locked in place. Then, with a jolt, the catch lifted.
The delicate skin on the underside of her forearm brushed a jagged sliver of glass. For an instant she felt nothing, then a fierce pain stabbed her. Too late, she lifted her arm. Infuriated, she wiped the blood on her T-shirt. It was only a scratch but it stung dreadfully. Worse, she had left a smear of blood on the broken glass. Shining her torch on the teeth of glass that bordered the hole, she spotted the one she had caught her arm on. Carefully she knocked it out of the window with her stone, and caught it in her outstretched T-shirt. Carrying it to the rockery, she scrabbled at the dry earth with her fingers, and buried the pointed sliver of glass. The police might still be able to prove she had been there, but she was damned if she was going to make it easy for them.
Killer Plan Page 28
