by J. S. Spicer
Chantelle pushed up from her chair with a grunt. She picked up her spectacles and slid them up her nose. The room came into focus, or at least into better focus. Then she hunted round looking for the TV remote. She always left it on the coffee table. Where could it be?
She shambled over to the television and pushed the ‘on’ button on the set itself. She wasn’t sure how to change channel, but when she heard the familiar theme music for the local news decided that was good enough. Chantelle returned to her chair. TV was an alternative to a nap, and sometimes it managed to lull her to sleep anyway.
Her attention was only half on the TV. Her gaze drawn for a moment to the garden beyond. It had grown so much. A wet spring and a hot summer had swollen her tiny patch of nature into untidiness.
Would it be cheeky to ask Felix to tackle the lawn?
Felix Vine.
His name echoed in her head. No, not in her head.
From the TV!
And there, his face. A photograph of Felix was filling the screen. What were they saying?
Chantelle caught only fragments, the surprise of seeing her house guest pop up on the news threw her already muddled mind into further confusion. The words she caught made her heart thump in her chest. At the end of the report the newsreader gave out a number to call with any information on the whereabouts of Felix Vine, right after warning the public not to approach him; to consider him armed and dangerous.
When the shock released Chantelle she scattered magazines and coasters on the coffee table, trying to find a pen and scrap of paper to note down the contact number. She couldn’t find anything to write with, then realised it was no longer on the screen and she couldn’t remember any of it.
As she struggled to decide what to do there was another creak above her; a floorboard flexing in the spare room under the weight of Felix Vine. His footsteps suddenly sounded loud, ominous. When Chantelle heard the bedroom door open she was shot through with hot panic which brought her to her feet so fast it made her giddy.
For days the sound of his footsteps heading for the stairs had been a comfort, filled with anticipation for company, for someone to fuss over. Now the anticipation had shattered into a fear which threatened to overwhelm her. She couldn’t stay, couldn’t face him.
Chantelle Jacobs, without her keys, or handbag, or anything, ran out into the street still wearing her old carpet slippers.
**
He paused at the head of the stairs as he heard the front door open. He hadn’t heard the bell. Felix cocked his head to listen. No voices. But he hadn’t heard the door close again either. Chantelle never got visitors; it was why this was the perfect place to stay. He moved slowly, silently, taking one step at a time, pausing frequently to strain for any sounds. The narrow stairs turned just at the bottom, curving finally into the downstairs hallway. Felix cautiously peered around the edge of the wall, his feet still three steps up. The hallway was empty. The front door stood wide, just the rectangle of daylight illuminating the doormat. No sign of Chantelle Jacobs.
Felix jumped down the last few steps. “Mrs Jacobs?”
No reply.
He flung doors left and right. She wasn’t in the kitchen nor the living room. The TV was on. He stared at it for a moment. Weather report, the tag end of the local news.
This was bad.
Felix hurried to the open door, halting at the threshold as if the outside air was a painful barrier. He forced the calm; he wouldn’t panic. He darted a quick look down the street. There was no sign of Mrs Jacobs; the old dear must have shuffled away at speed. Several doors down there was a small gathering of neighbours. Did they look his way? Did they know?
No time to hang around and find out.
Felix attacked the stairs, pounding up them two at a time; very different from the cautious descent moments before. His belongings were few, fitting easily in his backpack, but they were precious to him and he wouldn’t leave without them.
Felix snuck out of the house mere minutes after Chantelle’s departure. He took a different route, scaling the back fence and disappearing into the warren of alleyways criss-crossing the neighbourhood.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Eyes raw, head thumping with a bitch of a headache, Carrie Winters just kept on digging. She pulled at so many information threads that they either unravelled to scatter before her eyes, or else they’d tie her up in knots. Frustration? That didn’t hit the mark. She surfaced briefly from the self-induced torture of her screens around four o’clock.
Vine had been sighted!
As the details trickled through the office she kept her ears open, jotting down some new information; Chantelle Jacobs, 86 years old, 39 Montague Terrace, Blackbridge.
She fed these facts into her computer, adding to the pile of details that had yet to coalesce into any kind of pattern, into anything helpful.
Around her, with news of Vine’s last known whereabouts, the station quickly emptied as bodies hit the streets. Apparently he’d been staying with the old lady until she caught the local news report. And realised she had a murderer in her spare room.
Chantelle Jacobs was a very lucky woman.
Max had been the first out of the door, with Lorraine hot on his heels like a terrier catching the rabbit’s scent. Time was of the essence for them; if Vine had lost his hideout he might be easier to catch, out in the open, wandering the streets.
Like everyone else, Carrie hoped they’d scoop him up and it would all be over. But searching the back streets and parklands of Blackbridge wasn’t her job. Her job was deep in the virtual world of computer-generated information. Until handcuffs were snapped onto Felix Vine she wouldn’t let up, wouldn’t let the side down.
She started searches on Chantelle Jacobs, almost glad of a fresh lead since all other avenues were ending in dusty cul-de-sacs. She held out little hope, just a gullible old woman who’d allowed a killer to reside beneath her roof.
The next time she checked her watch it was almost seven o’clock. As she suspected the lady herself yielded no golden nugget of opportunity. Refusing to give up, even though she was continually coming up empty, Carrie decided to run a search history on the old lady’s current address. Maybe Vine had gone there for a reason?
As she waited for the results to trickle back she fetched coffee and grabbed one of the pastries left out in the kitchen. It was stale, but full of sugar; she needed the fuel, she told herself, knowing full well something with better nutrition would be more conducive to concentration.
Sitting down again she rubbed at the base of her spine. She’d been hunching again, bunching up over her keyboard instead of sitting straight. She had the best chair in the station, good lumbar support, high backed, even the luxury of arms. But hours of bad posture, just sitting all day long, did her back no favours. Her ass wasn’t winning any awards either, growing a little wider with each passing year.
She washed down the pastry with lukewarm coffee then pushed aside her discomfort. Dismissing her pounding head and aching back she began looking through the property information.
Then she froze, blinked several times as if to clear her vision. Could it be?
It wasn’t long before she confirmed it. There was a connection. Chantelle Jacobs didn’t own her house, she rented the property from a private landlord. His name was Bryan Doyle!
**
Max was glad to be immersed in the spray of hot water coming from the showerhead. The satisfaction wasn’t just cleansing and freshening, it was a temporary haven from the swirling chaos of the job. They’d had every available body trawling the streets for any sign of Felix Vine. Cordons were set up, cars stopped, outbuildings searched, but so far nothing. After the first couple of hours Max decided to drop by home to shower and change. It was going to be another late night. There was still a massive search going on out there, but in his gut Max didn’t think they’d find Vine tonight. He had too much head start. If they were going to pin him down in some alley or find him hiding in a garden, they’d have d
one so by now.
He needed to regroup, mentally. Vine didn’t seem the most cautious individual; he’d allowed himself to be seen at the park, and hadn’t kept the old lady from spotting him on the news. Yet still he gave them the slip. The problem was they didn’t know what was motivating him. Other than his first victim, who he’d worked with, there was no way to explain his choices. If he was just a blood thirsty maniac why had he spent days with Chantelle Jacobs without harming a hair on her head?
Max rinsed the shampoo from his hair then let the water hit the back of his neck for a while before shutting off the stream. Maybe he’d head back to the station, sit with Carrie. He was sure she’d be working late with everything that was going on; it was the way she was. Max wasn’t big on profiling; he wasn’t that keen to get into the heads of the criminals he pursued. But this case was like trying to grab smoke. He needed to pull together what they had, find something usable.
Tying a towel around his waist he wiped condensation from the bathroom mirror and pondered the face staring back at him. He needed a shave. He needed more sleep!
A light rapping on the door.
“Max?”
“Yes, dad. I’ll be out in a minute.”
“Come downstairs when you’re dressed. You have a visitor.”
A visitor? Max saw his own puzzled expression in the mirror, which was already fogging up again.
“Who is it?”
No reply. Typical. His father was the master of brevity.
Max pushed open the window to let out the remaining steam then stepped into the hallway. No sign of his father.
Quickly throwing on jeans and a t-shirt he hurried downstairs in bare feet, curious to see who it was. Maybe Lorraine about the case, though she’d probably call rather than come to the house. Maybe it was Jennifer; that thought put a spring in his step.
He checked the kitchen first. Empty. Next he walked into the living room; also empty. Then he heard soft conversation, it was coming from the old family dining room, now converted into his father’s study.
Gus was precious about his private space and didn’t openly invite people in. Though retired for years, his father, the professor, still preferred to immerse himself in history rather than deal with real life. Max popped his head around the door, curious who had managed to instil in his father the kind of civility that made him share his sacred ground and indulge in rare chit chat.
Sitting in a high backed chair, which had been hastily cleared of its usual pile of books, was Carrie Winters. She had a mug of tea in her hands. Gus had pulled his own chair from behind the table and sat close by, leaning forward, attentive.
Something was wrong.
“Carrie?”
She started at the sound of her name, the tea in her hand slopping a little into her lap.
“Oh, I’m sorry!” She began wiping at it with her own sleeve.
“Not to worry,” Gus said, patting her arm kindly and throwing Max a warning look. He got the message. Something had shaken Carrie; tread gently.
Dislodging a pile of papers from a low stool he moved it so he could sit on Carrie’s other side, gave her what he hoped was a comforting smile. Gus gently took the tea from her and placed it on the corner of the table.
“Maybe something stronger,” he suggested.
Max stifled his irritation with his father’s continued, unhealthy draw to alcohol. Instead he focussed on Carrie, as Gus headed for his drinks cabinet.
“You OK, Carrie?”
A curt and unconvincing nod. “I found something, Max.”
She was talking about the case he realised. Hopefulness tried to claw its way in but why did Carrie look so upset.
“What, Carrie, what have you found?”
Her bag was propped against the chair leg and she reached into it, taking out a folded up piece of A4 paper. Carrie unfolded it, slowly, then flattened it out against her thigh. He could see it was a print out and fought the urge to snatch it away from her. Felix Vine was at large. Half the force was scouring Blackbridge for any sign of him. If Carrie had a lead there was no time to waste.
“I decided to check out the property of that old lady he was staying with,” she finally said, still smoothing the page in her lap.
“Chantelle Jacobs?”
Carrie nodded vigorously, looking into Max’s eyes. He recognised what he saw there, knew what he had to do. Carrie was scared! He had to take the lead.
“OK, take your time,” he told her, ignoring his own impatience. “What did you find out about her house?”
“Well, it’s not, not hers I mean. She rents it.”
“OK.”
Gus returned to his seat and pushed a small glass tumbler into her hands.
Carrie took it uncertainly, staring with suspicion at the amber liquid. “I don’t really drink,” she muttered.
“It’ll help,” said Gus, and gave her hand a nudge.
Carrie took a tentative sip, pulled a face then took a heartier gulp.
“Carrie,” Max strove to re-focus her attention. “What did you find?”
“Max.” Her eyes now shone in the dim light of the room. “Chantelle’s landlord is Bryan Doyle!”
Max sat back suddenly, forgetting for a moment he was on a stool with no back. He almost toppled backwards but caught himself. His mind raced to fit together other pieces.
“Does he rent out other properties?”
She nodded but didn’t look as though she was following him.
“The other victims Carrie, were they living in Doyle’s properties?” Even as he said it he recalled Trent had owned his flat.
Carrie shook her head. “No, not anymore. But Max, they all lived in the same house at one time or another.”
“Chantelle Jacob’s house?”
“No.” He was surprised by the tears that suddenly sprang forth. “Mine.”
“What? You’re what?”
“Max, all of the victims, including Karl Drummond, at some time over the past twenty five years or so, have lived in the house where I now live with my parents. Max, they’d all lived at number 11 Station Street.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Campbell Hauser straightened his tie.
“OK, Sara. Show them in.”
Arms folded she slouched from the room. She was a terrible secretary, always forgetting to give him his messages and misplacing files, but she was the best he could afford.
He sat up straight at the footsteps outside his office. Sara pushed the door inwards, admitting a tall blonde woman and a dark haired man, then she let it swing shut and was gone, before he could call for coffee. Hauser fixed an insincere smile on his face.
“Detectives.” He half rose from his seat, waving vaguely towards the chairs across from him. “What can I do for you?” Perhaps it was just as well Sara didn’t stick around to take beverage orders; he was busy and a visit from the police was never good news.
The woman gave him a stiff smile, no more genuine than his own had been. The man just sat, crossed his legs, and regarded Hauser with unnerving openness.
“Mr Hauser, I’m Detective Inspector Pope. This is my colleague, Detective Inspector Travers.” She took out a notebook. “I understand you rent out a number of properties belonging to Bryan Doyle?”
“Yes, that’s right. I’m a letting agent; I represent a number of landlords, including Mr Doyle.”
She nodded and for a second both detectives just watched him. “Tell me, Mr Hauser, if someone wanted to trace former residents, how would they go about it?”
Hauser squirmed in his chair. What was this about? When they’d mentioned Doyle’s name he’d begun to assume there’d been a break in or some criminal damage at one of the properties. Now it sounded like they were trying to trace a tenant.
“Is there some problem here? We vet all our tenants, you know.”
“I’m sure you do,” she adopted a reassuring tone, forced a slightly warmer smile. “There’s no problem, Mr Hauser, but if you could answer the ques
tion. If I wanted to know who’d rented a particular property in the past, how would I go about it?”
“Well, if it was one of the properties on my books you’d ask me, Detective. I have records of all past and present tenants.”
The detectives exchanged a look.
“Who has access to those records?” It was the male detective speaking now. He had a low, smooth voice, but something about the tone he used gave Hauser a cold feeling.
“I do. My secretary. A couple of junior agents that work for me. That’s it.”
Travers leaned forward in his chair, keeping that same unwavering, unnerving gaze fixed on Hauser. “Have you, or any of your staff, shared tenant information with anyone lately.”
Hauser shook his head vigorously. “We’d only do that if compelled to do so legally. Of course, the individual landlords also have information pertaining to their tenants. Maybe one of them…” He paused. “Look, without knowing what this is about I’m not sure how much help I can be.” Hauser folded his arms stubbornly.
Detective Pope took over again. “Number eleven Station Street. What can you tell us about that property?”
Hauser looked blankly at her. “I’d have to refer to my records. We have a lot of properties on the books, I don’t have them all memorised.”
She arched an eyebrow at him, settling back in her seat. His options darted around his head. He could demand a warrant before showing them the file, but then again the information in there wasn’t exactly earth shattering secrets. Besides, if he made things difficult for them they’d probably return the favour.
“One moment.” He unfolded his arms and swivelled his chair out from under the desk. In two strides he was at the office door, pulling it open just a crack.
