by J. S. Spicer
Lorraine threw a hopeless look in Max’s direction. She wanted to vent, lash out at someone or something, but Hauser’s reason for a second file did make sense. Max wanted to be angry that Hauser had forgotten Doyle’s father was the original landlord, but it was over twenty five years ago. Honestly, it was a bad slip-up, but could they really lay blame?
“Here!”
A folder was whipped from its slot and Hauser opened it out on a nearby desk. Immediately Max and Lorraine flanked him, leaning in to read over his shoulder. His hands shook as he sorted the pages. “You realise, of course, unless they’re still renting through this office, I won’t have their current address.”
“The name, Hauser. What is it?”
“Alright, alright.” He flipped the pages over so quickly Max assumed he knew just whereabouts in the file the information would be. “Here.” He stopped, stabbing his finger at a typed sheet of paper. “Steele. Gregory and Moira Steele. They rented from 1990 to 1993.”
“You have other information though? Dates of birth and such?”
“Yes, yes. Let me make copies for you.”
“You mentioned it was possible they might still rent another of the properties on your books. Is there a quick way to check?”
Hauser offered Max a sad look. “I don’t recognise the name, but of course a quick search on the computer will make sure.”
Labour was divided. Hauser checked his computer records for the Steeles. There was a certainty settling into Max’s gut that he wouldn’t find anything. The name hadn’t been familiar to Hauser. Sure, he had a lot of tenants, but even so.
Lorraine called Heritage. The Chief was breathing down their necks more and more with each passing hour it seemed. He wanted to know every detail. Plus, once they located the Steeles, extra manpower would be needed. They already had eyes on Chantelle Jacobs and on the house in Station Street; Carrie’s home. If more potential victims kept popping up Max didn’t see how they’d be able to keep them all safe.
Max called Carrie. She could find Gregory and Moira Steele quicker than anyone else. He almost hated to bother her. She was at home, worried for her parents. But he knew she had a laptop, and told himself she’d prefer having something to do, to keep busy. It was a feeble excuse. He made the call anyway. They needed to know.
After some key tapping, photocopying, and a few roving phone calls made by the detectives, the upshot was that Hauser’s instinct was right. The Steeles weren’t existing tenants. It was up to the police to locate them.
“Then we wait for Carrie to call back,” muttered Max, still fighting off his impatience. Judging by the aching in his jaw from grinding his teeth it was a battle he was losing.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
Carrie’s response was swift. Hell, Max doubted anyone could have got it done quicker.
The Steele’s still lived in Blackbridge.
The moment Carrie’s call connected with Max, he and Lorraine were racing for the car.
“Got it. Thanks, Carrie.”
He didn’t even bother to hang up, just threw the phone onto the dashboard as he flung himself into the driver’s seat and started the engine. Glad to have his car back the AC was cranked up nice and high to make up for the previous days sweating and steaming inside that tin can. Lorraine had kept up, step for step, and slid smoothly into the passenger seat. He briefly realised they’d started working together, properly, as partners moving in one direction with unspoken agreement. He also realised he liked it; just like old times, before she’d begun to loathe him.
He cast a quick look across to the passenger seat. Lorraine stared ahead, alert, focussed on the road as he slotted into the late afternoon traffic.
West Blackbridge was a suburban sprawl. The police were mostly familiar with a few pockets dotted amongst the rest; hotbeds of crime where drugs, violence and prostitution flagged up on their radar. The Steeles home was in a quiet street not far from the Swallows Estate, hanging on to its respectability despite rubbing shoulders with one of the roughest parts of town. Max didn’t envy them living in such a place. He could feel the shadow of the Estate as he stepped out of the car. Trouble was bound to spill over from time to time, tainting the lives of normal, hard-working people. The street they’d parked in was lined by semi-detached houses with a few bungalows squashed amongst them. There wasn’t any wealth here, but signs of pride shone through; washed windows behind tidy front lawns edged with straight, neat fencing. Max knew though that the property prices here were rock bottom. There were several ‘For Sale’ boards poking up over those neat fences, but shifting those houses would take time and repeated price drops.
Like the others, the Steele house was tidy. The front lawn looked healthy despite the arid conditions, trim and well-watered. A stone hedgehog squatted near the front door and wind chimes hung silent in the open window.
It was peaceful.
Lorraine pressed the doorbell. They both heard the chirpy tune echoing inside. Otherwise it was quiet. After waiting a couple of heartbeats Max rapped loudly on the wooden door with his knuckles.
“Maybe they’re out?”
He nodded to the open window; ground floor, flung wide on a hot day. “You think they’d leave that open in this neighbourhood?”
He knocked again, pounding loud enough to cause a face to appear at the neighbour’s window. Lorraine spotted it too.
“I’ll make enquiries,” she told him.
Max watched her walk down the path and head next door. He looked again at the open window. Too tempting to resist, especially under these circumstances.
In two strides he was at the window. Another second and he’d swung one leg through.
“Max!” Lorraine hissed over the garden fence, eyes like saucers when she saw what he was doing.
He just shrugged and hauled the rest of his body into the house.
The first thing he spotted was a dog bed. For a second he froze, alert for any sign of the animal, hoping it wasn’t too big.
The room he was standing in was the living room, long but narrow, stretching from the front to the back of the house. The back window was also pushed open wide. Had the windows been opened by the Steeles, trying to tempt a rare breeze on a hot day?
Then he saw the blood.
At the end of the room was an old armchair, the kind that reclines. It faced the TV. Max saw the screen flicker but heard nothing. Must be on mute. The chair had been a beige fabric, narrowly ribbed like soft corduroy, rubbed and worn here and there from continued use.
It was no longer a place for comfort.
Now it was splashed and sodden with fresh blood. Max could tell it was fresh, from the look of it, from the unpleasant tang hanging in the air. He stepped closer, careful now, trying not to touch anything. They were too late, that much was clear, but this was now a crime scene. The crime was very recent. For a second he wondered if the perpetrator was still in the house. Unlikely, so silent and still. But, there was a good chance he was still in the vicinity.
Approaching the chair the devastation was clearer, more shocking. So much blood! The chair itself bore the thickest, densest concentration of it, soaking in for ever, running down the back, the arms, and pooling sickeningly into the seat cushion. But more had sprayed all around the vicinity of the chair, gashes of it struck across the grey carpet, streaks were trickling down the wall opposite, and across the TV screen where a football match silently played out.
Someone had died here.
Max thought about the other victims. The killer liked to move the bodies, stage them somewhere away from the kill site. Maybe, this time, they’d be able to catch up.
He moved swiftly, back towards the front window. He was already talking into his phone as he clambered back outside.
They’d already called in the Steeles location, expecting, hoping, to station a guard, but they were too late for that. The first patrol car arrived just as Max left the house. His latest phone call quickly brought more. Nobody wanted more murders. This had to
stop. In a matter of minutes the quiet street was thrown into orderly chaos as police poured in, more and more cars, more and more officers. Each received instructions from Lorraine.
The second she was up to speed she had a map in her hand and in her head sectioned up the surrounding streets. She masterminded the search parties; they would leave no stone unturned. Max didn’t interfere. She had a much more orderly mind than he; this kind of thing, he had to admit, was playing to her strengths.
Whilst Lorraine barked orders and organised the troops, Max and another officer searched the house. There was no-one there. Other than the horror show in the living room all looked normal, undisturbed.
The forensic investigators would be more thorough, but for Max his focus was still on the Steeles. From the volume of blood in the living room at least one of them was now dead. Which one? Or maybe it was both? Dead or alive, he needed to find them, and find them fast.
The search had been underway for less than twenty minutes when he got the call.
A body had been found.
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
Stan Everson crouched beside the body. He’d already been on his way to the area when the call diverted him to this miserable spot. Others were beginning to converge on the scene; his forensic team colleagues, the police, a few curious residents. These last were being kept well back. The one good thing about the location was it was easy to cordon off; covered, dark, private. But no place to breathe your last. Lamps were being set up to illuminate the details, but Stan could see enough by the traces of daylight seeping in from the tunnel’s opening.
Seeing Max Travers hurrying towards him, Stan straightened up with a creak and a groan. He had a moment or two only to assess the Detective Inspector before he was right in front of him. Travers looked both stressed and hopeful.
Stan let out a despondent sigh.
Max looked down at the body, then let his eyes drift over the scattered grocery shopping, much of it now stained by the pool of blood which had spread out from the body.
“Moira Steele?”
Stan nodded. “Yes, I checked her handbag. How did you know?”
Now it was Max’s turn to sigh. “We found the connection between the victims. At one time or another they all lived at the same address. A house where Felix Vine spent a summer staying with a friend, back in ‘89.”
Stan frowned. “I still don’t see the motive.”
“He’s off his head, is the motive.” The anger in Max’s voice was low and throbbing; he was doing his best not to lash out, but this wasn’t just another case, not any more. Every death felt like it was his fault. He’d failed to stop the guy, even though they knew who he was!
Everson waited a moment, looked out towards the opening, where life and sunlight were still the order of the day, giving Max time to calm down.
Finally, gesturing at the dead woman lying on the concrete floor of the tunnel, he said, “She was stabbed eleven times, same as the previous victims.”
Travers acknowledged this information without comment.
“Can you describe the scene at the house for me?”
Travers, his tone now matter of a fact, but with haunted eyes, told him in detail about the bloodied mess on and around the armchair.
Everson stepped around the body at their feet, checking what he already knew was correct.
“Max, this lady was killed here.”
Travers closed his eyes for a second, squeezing them shut tight as if to block out Everson’s words, but Stan saw that he didn’t look surprised, just saddened.
“You’re sure?” Max was looking at him again, but the detective had seen how much blood was at this scene too. He had to question, but he didn’t doubt.
Everson nodded. “There wouldn’t be so much blood in both locations. Not from just one victim.”
“Thanks, Stan.”
Travers moved away, fishing his mobile out of his pocket. He walked a few metres from the corpse of Moira Steele to stand in the shadows, staring at the screen of his phone. His first instinct was to call Lorraine, fill her in. But another thought occurred to him. He dialled another number instead.
***
Jasmine Burke was about to go out, had her keys in her hand, when her mobile buzzed from her bag. She’d taken the precaution of putting the detectives’ numbers into her contacts, so she knew it was him before she answered. She’d hoped to hear no more of the murders, or of Felix Vine, but hadn’t really believed it would be that easy.
“Hello?”
“Ms Burke, it’s Detective Inspector Travers.”
“Yes, hello again.”
“Look, I’m sorry to bother you. I just have a quick question.”
“OK.”
“When we spoke before, you said that you, Felix, and Bryan played together as kids. Did you ever spend any time near the Swallows Estate?”
Max listened to the silence down the line. She was thinking about it, casting back through her memories. “Yes, a couple of times. I didn’t like it there, but the boys thought it was exciting.”
“Can you remember where you went, exactly? Was it just by the high rise flats, or was there anywhere else in the area you visited?”
“We only went to the flats once. There were all these undercover walkways where other kids hung out, but they were drinking and sniffing glue. We didn’t stay long, thankfully. Other than that, I don’t know, we were kids, you know, we wandered the streets.”
“So, nowhere specific.”
Again a silence hung between them for a few seconds. “Hold on, yes, there was a little play area. A children’s playground not far from Swallows Estate. We went there a few times, it was mostly only little kids so we felt a lot braver going there.” She gave a self-conscious laugh. “God, I’d forgotten about that place. I remember now, the boys loved the roundabout. They’d make me spin them until they were dizzy on that stupid thing.”
“OK, thanks. Can you tell me exactly where this playground was?”
As soon as he’d cut the connection with Jasmine, Max called Lorraine.
“Hi, bad news. The body in the tunnel is Moira Steele, but Everson’s convinced she was killed here too.”
“Really!” Lorraine’s shock echoed his own disappointment at the discovery. “All the other victims were moved, killed in one location and dumped in another.”
“I know. I think I may be on to a theory about the dump sites. I’ve just spoken to Jasmine Burke again. I think I know where we’ll find Greg Steele’s body.”
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
Felix was shivering.
Despite the warm air filling the afternoon streets. Despite his recent exertion. Hungry for satisfaction, determined not be denied again, he’d had to move fast. He’d felt something almost close to guilt for leaving Moira Steele where she’d dropped, lying amongst her shopping bags in the piss-stinking tunnel. He told himself it still counted, that maze of covered walkways weaving around the blocks of flats. As a boy it had all seemed more sinister, less pathetic. Their forays into that alien landscape had shone with the light of adventure.
Still, it had felt cheapened. A worm of doubt stirred; he shouldn’t have been so ambitious, two in one afternoon.
But the game had changed. By now the police could have made the connection and he didn’t want to be stonewalled at every turn. So speed had been of the essence.
Her husband was another matter. Once he’d killed Greg Steele, stuffed the man into his own car, and driven him away from the house, then, and only then, had Felix been able to slow his breathing, take his time, and do the job properly.
The children’s playground had changed a lot in the intervening years. It had been brand new back when he and Bryan had visited it as boys. The swing seats, vivid red plastic dancing on polished chains. The bright painted aluminium climbing frame and roundabout. That had been Felix’s favourite; the roundabout. He, Bryan and Jasmine would spin and spin, faster and faster. They could never go fast enough, no matter how sick they start
ed to feel.
Now the place hadn’t just lost its lustre, it had decayed. No more gleaming steel, now it was flaky with rust. The red and yellow plastic, once so perky and bright, had faded, become scratched and stained, and cracked from exposure to the elements. Time wasn’t the only enemy of the place. Years of abuse by the neighbourhood kids had taken its toll. Half the swings now hung in broken fragments, every surface graffiti-riddled. Felix felt an affinity with the place, with its sad yet inevitable decline.
It was just as well, he supposed. Back in his youth the playground would have been full of kids on a warm Saturday afternoon. But now, broken and beaten, the place was deserted.
Felix had known this would be the case. He may have had to move faster than he liked, but he’d still done his homework. The piles of litter accumulated at the foot of the high fence shielding the play area told its own story. Empty cans, broken glass, used syringes and condoms; no parent worth their salt would bring their kids here anymore. So Felix had the place to himself. His old favourite, the roundabout, vandalised and a little crumpled in places. Nevertheless, with a creak of age and protest, it would still move. Felix couldn’t restore this piece of children’s apparatus to its former glory, but he could improve it in his own way; a Felix makeover.
Late afternoon light, slanting and soft, cast long shadows as Felix worked fearlessly in the fence’s shadow. He didn’t want to get caught, true, but he didn’t much care if someone stumbled onto him as he worked.
No-one did though.
From his backpack he extracted the two items he needed to set the seal of perfection on this moment. First was a crumpled carrier bag, lumpy with assorted candy. He selected a rainbow straw then returned the rest. The second thing was his camera.
He tore the top from the slender straw with his teeth, and poured the harsh sugar into his mouth. Feeling it fizz across his tongue and raw in his throat, he aimed the camera.
