by J. S. Spicer
“Sara. Get me the file on 11 Station Street. Now, please.” He snapped the door shut again before she could offer some excuse or refusal. “Should just be a minute,” he told the detectives. As he resumed his seat he decided he’d be rid of them quicker if he played nice. “Can I offer you a cup of coffee?”
Sara audibly tutted when coffee requests were flung at her. She slapped the Station Street file in front of Hauser and stomped from the room.
“Here we go.” He straightened the folder and opened it out. He silently cursed Sara as he leafed through, noting the pages were all out of order and bent up in places.
“Don’t you store your data on computer?” asked Travers, eyeing the manilla folder as though it offended him.
“Oh yes, everything gets scanned and backed up, but there’s still a paper element what with signed agreements and the like. What do you want to know, specifically?”
“Can you give us the names of all the tenants and the dates when they lived in that property?”
It didn’t take long; thankfully the list was quite short. Five families had rented 11 Station Street from Bryan Doyle. They traced the residents back to Chantelle Jacobs in 1997. Max and Lorraine watched like hawks as Campbell Hauser sifted through the file and jotted down the information they’d requested.
Carrie had been right; the three victims were all there. In the cases of the first two the tenancy had been in the names of Helena Drummond and Stanley Trent, but Carrie had already confirmed through her own investigations that these were the parents of Karl and Andrew. Max’s primary concern now was who else might be targeted. If Felix Vine was indeed going after people who’d lived in that house then, besides Bryan Doyle, it left just Chantelle Jacobs, and Carrie and her parents.
“Mr Hauser, are you sure nobody else has come round asking for these details,” Lorraine pushed.
Max reached into his back pocket and opened out the picture he’d taken to carrying everywhere. “Maybe this guy?”
Hauser shifted his spectacles to take a good look at the picture. “Ah, the fellow on the news.” Then he paled slightly at the implication of a murder investigation linked to one of the properties on his books. “Listen, I’m only sharing with you because you’re police officers. I don’t make a habit of this I can assure you, and I’ve never seen that man, except his picture on the TV recently.”
“And nothing strange has happened lately, in the last few weeks say? Anybody hanging round, anything going missing?”
He shook his head. “No, there’s nothing missing.” They both saw something dawning on the man’s face. He became still and silent, looking off into the distance.
“Mr Hauser?”
“There, em, there was a break in. A couple of weeks ago,” he admitted, in a small, guilty voice. “I didn’t report it though. As I said, nothing is missing; I thought it was just kids messing about.”
“What happened?”
“The toilet window, out back. The latch had been jimmied. I got it fixed the next day, and checked everywhere. We keep a cash box here and that was still locked in a drawer. No damage, no theft. There was just the broken window latch. Didn’t seem worth bothering the police.”
Max felt unreasonable annoyance. They could have found fingerprints, matched them to a wanted man, stopped more deaths. He bit his tongue. Even he had to admit, a forced window wouldn’t have merited an in-depth investigation, not without more loss or damage. It probably wouldn’t have made a bit of difference.
When he and Lorraine left the agent’s office, Hauser and his secretary were packing up for the day. It was almost noon.
“I guess we’re lucky they were open on a Saturday morning,” Max muttered as he held the door for Lorraine.
“Yeah, like you’d have waited until Monday morning for this?” she pointed out, wafting the sheet of names and dates at him.
She was right; he’d have dragged Campbell Hauser kicking and screaming from his bed to get his hands on this information.
Still, despite having a clearer picture of what was going on, Max still had an uncomfortable itch somewhere in his brain. People like Vine came up with all kinds of sick, unreasonable excuses for doing what they did, but what did the guy have against the people who’d lived in that house?
CHAPTER TWENTY
Max knew when to keep his distance. He could, at a push, be charming. But comforting, that was another matter. Lorraine, surprisingly, could soften up like melted toffee when the need arose. She was sitting next to Chantelle Jacobs, sitting close, a reassuring presence, firm, steady fingers gently held onto Mrs Jacobs’ own quivering hand. They were at a neighbour’s place, just down the street. Mrs Jacobs’ own house swarmed with officers, searching, checking. Max knew they had to follow the procedure, but Vine was gone. His fingerprints and DNA were no help; they already knew who he was. Still, maybe something would turn up. A cursory search told them he’d found just enough time to grab his few belongings. Mrs Jacobs had already confirmed he’d turned up with just a small backpack. Max suspected he’d kept it packed at all times, ready to go at a moment’s notice. He didn’t have much more than a moment as it turned out, they’d been on the scene fast, but despite that he was still long gone when the first officers arrived. No, he doubted the house where Vine had holed up for the past few days would tell them anything more than they already knew.
Chantelle Jacobs was another matter.
This woman had spent all those hours, all those days, in the presence of a murderer. Here was somebody who knew him. Jasmine Burke had only vague recollections of a boy from her childhood, but Chantelle knew the man.
Lorraine took her time, her patience was a thing of wonder to Max. He hovered in the background, resisting the urge to pace like a caged beast, or to pounce on the old lady to wring her dry of every bit of information she might possess.
After softly spoken assurances and a bit of pointless small talk, Lorraine finally eased into her questions, starting with how Felix Vine came to be living under her roof.
“He just turned up on the doorstep. Recognised him right away. I used to teach, you know.” Her gaze shifted to the patio doors, to the neighbour’s young children playing on the parched lawn. “I’m forgetful these days, lose my glasses ten times a day, but I still remember many of those children.” She kept watching the boy and girl in the garden, as though their presence helped pull her back in time.
“And you remembered Felix Vine, from back then?” Lorraine kept her voice low, still the kid gloves approach; no loud noises, no sudden moves. Chantelle Jacobs was glass; brittle and fragile.
“He was Bryan’s friend, came one summer.”
The thought immediately sprang to Max’s mind; if she was a teacher, how would she meet Vine? He was there during the school summer holidays. He hadn’t realised he’d taken a step towards them until he was pinned by a withering look from Lorraine.
“So, this was during the summer holiday?” Lorraine had picked up on it too, but she would ease out the answers at her own pace.
Chantelle nodded, finally turning away from the garden. “Yes, that’s right. I lived just down the road from the Doyles. The boys would play in the street or go down the park.” She dropped her gaze into her lap for a moment, seemed surprised to find Lorraine’s hand loosely resting on her own. “Back then I knew most of my neighbours,” she continued, raising her eyes again, looking about her as if just realising where she was. Max felt a tug of pity for her. The shock had hit harder than he realised. “Bryan was a lively kid, bit cheeky.”
“And Felix?”
“Quiet lad. Bryan bossed him about a bit, but he didn’t seem to mind. He followed that boy around like a loyal little puppy all summer.”
“You said you lived just down the road from them. Was this in Station Street, Mrs Jacobs?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“What number did you live at, can you remember?”
“At that time me and my old man lived at number forty two. He died a f
ew years later, I struggled to manage. The house was old and needed work.”
“And number eleven, when did you move there.”
“About a year after my husband died. When the Doyles moved out they had the whole place renovated and modernised; low maintenance, you see. And Patrick, Bryan’s dad, he let me live there for a very reasonable rent.”
“So, how long did you rent from Patrick Doyle?”
“Let me see, I was there for about four years, from 1993 to 1997. Partway through Bryan took over from his father.”
“Took over?”
“Yes, when Bryan turned eighteen the property passed to him. But he kept my rent low too, bless him. That’s why I still rent from him now. He’s always treated me very well.”
“And do you remember, Mrs Jacobs, another little boy from that street, Justin Burke?”
“That poor boy! And his family, devastating. And the Doyles, it was in their pond the boy drowned, you know.”
“You didn’t mind living there then, after what had happened to Justin.”
“Oh no, I’m not superstitious about such things. The pond was taken out as part of the renovation anyway. Besides, the previous tenants were fine about it.”
The air seemed to have been sucked out of the room.
Previous tenants?
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
Moira Steele was hot, her feet hurt, and the shopping bags she carried were trying to slice her fingers off. She cursed Greg as she lumbered down the steps of the bus. Some husband he was, letting her trudge around the shops alone whilst he lay sprawled in front of the TV watching football. The afternoon was dwindling. Moira’s head was full of thoughts of getting into comfy slippers and planning the evening meal.
She didn’t notice the man who fell into step behind her as she stepped out onto the pavement.
The walk from the bus stop to Moira’s front door took around twenty minutes if you followed the street route, but she could halve that by cutting through the Swallows Estate; a warren of pathways and underpasses snaking around the high-rise council flats which overshadowed the cul-de-sac where she and Greg lived. She was slowed a little by the cumbersome bags swamping her; continually shifting them round to try and even the load. The fingers in her right hand were getting numb where the handles restricted the circulation.
Again she silently cursed Greg.
In the early days things were very different. She remembered how he used to meet her after work each day when they were newly-weds so they could walk home hand in hand. The memory was like a stone in her heart. When was the last time they’d held hands?
Like so many couples they’d fallen into the murky shallows of habit and compromise. Greg used to love his job at the garage, would go out a couple of times a week with the lads, laughter always came easy to him. But over the years he’d slowed. Doing the same job, exactly the same job, day in, day out, had chipped away at his optimism, carving it away almost imperceptibly. He’d stopped having nights out, and the laughter, once free and sincere had reduced to a cynical bark if something on the TV amused him. The television was his best friend now. He’d return home each evening, weary with life, and seek the solace of his armchair and the remote control.
As Moira struggled breathlessly along the street she decided tonight she’d make him a nice dinner, perhaps even open the wine she’d bought that day. Instead of trays on the lap before Saturday night telly, they’d sit at the dining table for a change. Perhaps even have a conversation. She still loved her husband, and he wasn’t so much lazy as defeated by the weight of responsibility.
She began cataloguing the food she’d bought. She’d stopped by the butchers earlier, picked up some nice cuts of lamb. What to do with them? She had some potatoes; those and the wine were some of the chief contributors to the aching in her arms. Perhaps she could turn them to a positive, maybe have a go at Dauphinoise?
She shifted the bags again, this time peering inside, trying to plan a menu for that evening. For the first time she became aware that someone was behind her. Moira paused, stepping to one side to let the man pass. She paid him little attention as he walked by and turned off towards the flats. An average sized man, perhaps late thirties, short hair, wearing a short jacket. Moira briefly wondered if he wasn’t warm in it, the heat hadn’t broken yet, still firmly t-shirt weather.
With some ideas for dinner, Moira once again redistributed her load. By the time she walked around the corner and headed past the first concrete block of flats she was feeling a bit better; less tired, though she still yearned to kick off her shoes.
She didn’t see a soul as she followed the graffiti coated walls. The pathways around the council blocks had many tributaries, shooting off towards the high-rise entrances, into car parks, and disappearing beneath covered walkways.
It was as she hurried through a stale-smelling tunnel that she became aware once again that she wasn’t alone. Glancing over her shoulder she saw him. It was the man in the jacket.
She thought little of it; the council complex could be a maze, he could easily have gone a different way and ended up behind her again. She slowed, her instinct to let him pass by again rather than have him behind her. His footsteps slowed too.
Moira glanced back at him again, this time with a glint of annoyance.
That’s when she saw the knife. The fierce blade sweeping in front of him, pale steel flashing in the shadows.
The shock held her rigid, just for a fraction of a second, then with a cry of alarm she began to run.
She made it less than six feet before a strong arm seized her by the neck. Her chin was jerked upwards as she was yanked back. The shopping bags fell to the ground. Even as she struggled Moira heard the wine bottle break and felt a sting of regret that their dinner plans were ruined.
With her hands now free of the shopping she clawed at the arm about her throat. Suddenly it released. She could escape. But before she could make a move the knife appeared right in front of her face. He was in front of her now, not behind, backing her against the urine splashed wall of the tunnel.
Moira heard a whimpering sound, realised she was the one making it. Then, summoning the dregs of her courage, she screamed. The sound ricocheted around the confined space, amplified and scattered. Arms thrashing now she took a breath to scream again; someone would hear. Someone would help her.
The second scream never came. She tried, but heat and pain and a soft wet gurgling filled her throat.
She saw his eyes sparkle in the gloom as he slid the knife out of her neck. He leaned in, his cheek up against her own, his mouth close to her ear.
“I’ll give Greg your love,” he whispered.
Moira’s life was gushing from the slice in her throat, but she heard the words. Her eyes filled with tears even as breath began to fail her. As the knife plunged into her abdomen she saw her shopping bags spilling out onto the ground. The broken bottle seeped red wine into the concrete floor, the redness was slowly spreading outward, soaking the shattered remnants all around.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
It didn’t take long to track down Campbell Hauser again. Just as well, as Max was ready and willing to smash his way into the letting office to find out who the tenants were that had been missed off the list. Hauser was dragged from his family barbecue, not literally, but it came close. Lorraine was just as frantic. Their eagerness to find the tenant’s name bordered on panic. Back at the letting office, even as Hauser was bumbling about with the key in the door, Max could feel his heart thumping too fast. He tried to focus on his breathing, slow it down. He was too pumped up. It would impair him, cloud his focus, inhibit the synaptic networks in his brain. Frantic was OK if your quarry was running down the street right in front of you; you could use the adrenalin to catch the bastard and drag him to the ground. But right now Felix Vine still eluded them. He’d given them the slip at every turn; vanishing into the shadows. So Max needed his calm head on, the one that would form connections, spot tiny but important details, pick u
p any loose threads.
The unknown tenant of 11 Station Street was one hell of a loose thread. How had they missed it?
The question had already been fired at Campbell Hauser. Flustered, red-faced and wearing unflattering Bermuda shorts, the man had initially insisted he’d provided all the information. He’d made a half-hearted attempt to fob them off, telling them to speak directly to Bryan Doyle if there was a problem. Two stony-faced detectives had quickly undermined this lack of helpfulness. On the drive over at first Hauser had wittered on, verbalising every thought chasing around his head, then he’d quietened. Max suspected a few barbecue beers were swilling around in there, but there was no room for excuses as far as he was concerned.
When the key finally sprang the door open to the office, Hauser, though still rosy cheeked and badly dressed, did seem to have regained much of his composure.
He headed straight for the filing cabinet.
There was yet another fight with another key in a lock, then, with a protesting creak on its burdened runners, the file drawer slid out.
“I didn’t think of it before,” muttered Hauser, thick fingers deftly sifting through the name tabs poking from the top of each slot. “Nearly all of my dealings over the years have been with Bryan, you see. But his father, Patrick, was the original landlord.”
“But why wouldn’t it all be in the same file?” Lorraine demanded. “It’s the same bloody property.” The edge nettling her voice was enough for Max to see he wasn’t the only one having trouble keeping it together.
“True,” Hauser agreed, wincing a little and avoiding making eye contact, preferring to keep his focus on the file drawer. Smart move, thought Max. “But, other things were different. The landlord’s details themselves; his home address, bank account, next of kin, all that sort of thing.” Hauser glanced at the detectives under his arm then renewed his efforts to find the right file.
