by Limey Lady
‘I think the coast’s clear, Dad,’ she said. ‘You can speak safely.’
‘This four-to-six-weeks business,’ he began. ‘I'm never going to swing the lead that long. I bet they've sent me home by next Friday.’
Heather’s heart leapt. ‘It'll be great if they do. Who said there's a chance of that?’
‘I heard those physiotherapists talking about me.’ Dad snorted. ‘Physiotherapists; they’re like physio-terrorists if you ask me. They reckon I'm back to ninety per cent already.’
‘Fantastic! What did Mum say?’
‘Oh, I haven't told her. She'll only start making plans.’
‘Dad . . .’
‘It’ll be a shame, really. I'm just starting to like it in here. I've never felt so rested in my life. I could do another month of this before I’m out and working again.’
‘Dad, you are so not going back to work, not anytime soon, not straight after having a stroke. And why should you, anyway? You don't need to. The doctors say it isn't advisable.’
‘Flipping, doctors,’ John snorted louder than ever. ‘What do they know?’
Heather had to laugh. ‘Your physio-wotsits are wrong. You're a hundred per cent your old self, not just ninety. I'm going to warn the nurses about you.’
‘No need,’ he said cheerfully. ‘They already know. Hey, you’ll never believe what that cheeky one said to me this morning . . .’
While Dad ran through one of the day's many risqué nurse exchanges, Heather watched young Jamie Rodgers arrive, trying to sneak in without her noticing. She smiled inwardly. Penny had asked her to keep an eye on Jamie, to make sure he visited every night while she was away, as he’d so solemnly promised. That wasn't as easy as it sounded because Geoff had secretly told him he didn't have to bother. So when Jamie didn't show up on the very first night she'd started to worry. It had been a relief when he'd got here bang on time yesterday, accompanied by his very attractive girlfriend.
Jamie was all alone tonight. He stood at his dad's bedside, coughing politely to rouse him. When he risked a glance over his shoulder Heather tapped her watch, letting him know she had copped him being twenty minutes late. He gave her his cute lopsided grin, making her want to just drag him into the nearest bed.
Is it really, really immoral to want to shag a friend's stepson, she wondered.
She killed the impulse. It probably was immoral and no way could she betray so nice a person as her new best-friend, Penny.
No, Jamie was out of the equation; she’d have to find someone else, and sharpish. Sean might not be the stud he thought he was, but he had definitely renewed her interest in new willies. Lately she’d fancied nearly every bloke who’d crossed her path . . . and without being afraid of anything.
Not that she’d been going without. She’d been with Nina a lot, and she hadn’t quite done with Krista (Krista whose scary but surprisingly submissive perfection never failed to excite her). And Mary Rose was due another trip up from her southern refuge. There really wasn’t much room left in her social diary.
It’s just as well that Vic and Graham are both systematically avoiding me . . .
‘And then do you know what she did?’ Dad was laughing at his own story.
‘No,’ Heather said, giving him her undivided attention, ‘please do tell.
’
‘She collared Mohammed's visitors. Told them me and her bicker so much we’re like an old married couple. That the only thing we didn't do together was cuddle each other to sleep. I told her she could get in for a cuddle, but not to expect any sleep.’
‘Did that shut her up?’
‘No it didn’t, not for one second. She said she couldn't go that far because I'm not in BUPA. You just can't get the last word with her.’
‘Not even you?’ Heather said doubtfully.
‘Nay lass, not even me.’
*****
The profiler was getting more disillusioned by the minute. This series of interviews had gone on to the extent where they were legally running out of time and, to him at least, their case was looking deader in the water than ever.
He hadn’t been satisfied with Trevor Lockwood from the start. Lockwood being six foot tall and the owner of a leather jacket had never been enough to convince him. No, he’d wanted to go through all the more usual points of comparison.
And the more he tried, the harder it got.
The Shipley Serial Killer was without doubt organized. No way was he one of the random, kill-and-hope-to-get-away-with-it types. He didn’t rely on base cunning and made clinically sure he left no traces behind him. This didn’t exactly fit in with anybody’s opinion of the accused. By all reports Lockwood was a degenerate gambler. Okay, so that did fit with being a repeat risk taker, but it was at odds with him being organized and methodical. And Lockwood worked for some sort of speculative bank. The day job actually paid him to take wild risks.
The profiler carried on down his tick list.
Leatherjacket qualified as “serial” because he had now killed more than three victims over a period of more than a month. There was commonality in victim type (even if it was unusual to target on down-and-out men) and there was evidence of scientific or forensic knowledge in that he never left as much as one hint of a clue: even the single spent bullet casing was print-free, presumable pre-wiped and loaded by a gloved hand.
That led on to the sexual element of the case. It simply was not possible to believe the killer didn’t get gratification from the kill. He hadn’t sexually interfered with any of the victims to date, or left any traces on or around them, so the assumption was that he contained any spilled bodily fluids about his person.
Lockwood hadn’t had anything obvious in his possession, not even as much as a Kleenex.
In fact there hadn’t been anything genuinely incriminating anywhere to be found. The police had been minutely through Lockwood’s clothes, his car, his home and his office and found nothing helpful at all. No hidden trophies. No hammer and stakes. No newspaper cuttings. No library packed with histories of such dubious heroes as Bundy, Nilsen and the rest.
Okay, so he could be secretly organized. The gambling might be a front. Lockwood could be privately laughing at them blundering around . . .
But the profiler couldn’t buy into that. He had the serial killer down as well above average intelligence and didn’t disqualify Lockwood on that score at all. He might take wild risks but he was a graduate who’d been holding down a reasonably well-paid, challenging job for almost twenty years. There was clever and clever, though.
Being picked up by Carson and Zalinski was hardly an act of genius, by any stretch of imagination.
No, Lockwood was an out-of-control chancer. Getting lifted for kerb-crawling was symptomatic of the disorganized way he ran his unravelling life.
A lot of the other expected traits were generic and noticeable by their absence. Leatherjacket should have some of them if not necessarily all . . .
A background of poverty and child abuse: Lockwood’s parents lived in Ben Rhydding, the posh bit of well-to-do Ilkley. Their house had to be worth a couple of million and was stuffed with photos of both their offspring’s cosseted childhoods. You couldn’t have faked all the instamatic smiles.
A history of bullying or being bullied: Lockwood had boxed for his university. Not fantastically well, but quite usefully. At school he had captained the soccer team. Everyone they asked about him being bullied had laughed.
A history of arson: Make that a no.
Bed-wetting: Not according to his prim, proper and very polite, very anxious mum.
Cruelty to animals: His home in Eldwick was shared by two cats and a dog, all chipped and obviously only in danger of being loved to death.
An atypical serial killer could be expected to be something of a control freak, perhaps enough so to take control to the lengths of domination . . . and domination to torture, mutilation and ultimately murder. This could arise from or be driven by a sense of inadequacy or worthlessne
ss, maybe a desire to strike out in blind vengeance. And it could be quite feasible that such a man felt no emotional bounds in that sort of behaviour. As if the victims were not human or somehow didn’t count . . .
It was still early to judge Lockwood, although he appeared to be an emotional mess. And right now he clearly felt worthless . . . but not in a controlled, driving sort of a way.
Carlisle came into the office, glancing at his watch.
‘Don’t tell me,’ the profiler said. ‘Time for Act Six, Scene Two.’
‘They’re getting him from his cell,’ the detective grunted. ‘Wilfred’s kicking off again in ten.’
‘You should both get some sleep; you and Wilfred. You can’t go on forever.’
‘Neither can Lockwood. And he’s going to go first. I can feel it in my water.’
‘He can’t confess if he hasn’t done anything.’
‘Is that what you think?’ Carlisle pulled out a chair and looked at it. Then, possibly deciding he would struggle to get up again if he let himself sit, leant on the back instead.
‘I think he’s guilty of something,’ the profiler said carefully.
‘But not guilty of the murders?’
‘I’m, sorry but no. Not the murders.’
‘The gun doesn’t rule him out, you know. It might be clean, but it fits the pattern. And our man used a different gun on Johnson to the one he used on the others. See? That’s a pattern in itself, isn’t it?’
‘Same with the leather jacket then?’
Carlisle scowled. It turned out that Lockwood’s jacket had been bought new in 2005, so it could not possibly be the one worn during Micky Johnson’s killing.
‘We’ll break him,’ he said, ‘this time or next. You mark my words.’
*****
A second visitor had joined Jamie, carrying two of the bog standard blue plastic chairs. Heather looked at him idly then froze. He was quite simply the man of her dreams.
Like wow!
Just being in the same room took her breath away. Okay, so she'd fallen instantly in lust many times before. And she’d seen Ingrid struck by several thunderbolts, including one that was the real deal. It had never been like this, though. Besides this, the strongest pull she'd ever felt to a man seemed like nothing at all. This even rivalled the feelings she'd had on first seeing Vic.
Well, it nearly rivalled them.
‘So,’ her dad said. ‘Are you anywhere nearer making me a grandpa?’
She tore her eyes away from Geoff's visitor. This was a bit of a surprise; the grandparent topic usually only came up once a year, over Christmas. Normally she hedged, not wanting to confess she had a target age of forty, maybe forty-five.
(In her secret heart of hearts, that might really be a hundred and three!)
‘I'm seeing a new guy,’ she admitted, ‘if that's what you mean.’
‘Do you mean instead of Graham?’
‘
No, Dad, I mean as well as Graham.’
‘He's not special, then?’
She shook her head. ‘No, he's not going to be the one.’
‘What about you and Vic then? Are you any closer to settling down?’
Heather smiled. She’d always been close to her dad and told him things she’d never dream of telling her mum. Not that she told him anywhere near everything.
‘I'm afraid not,’ she said. ‘Mamma wants her to have lots and lots of bambinos, but she's not so keen herself. And neither am I, before you ask. I'm just not ready yet.’
‘But you will be someday?’
‘Yes Dad. I'm sure I will be, someday.’
She patted his hand and he lay back, closing his eyes. Heather chanced another look at Mr Perfect. Yes, the pull was still there. In fact it was getting stronger.
Uncle Rick, she thought, suddenly spotting the family resemblance. He must be here to make up for missing the funeral.
‘I don't mean to press you when I ask,’ her dad said drowsily. ‘Susan keeps asking me, you see. She doesn't like to ask you herself.’
‘That's okay,’ Heather said. Then, on impulse: ‘Dad . . . what would you say if I bought back Hunters Farm?’
His eyes flew open. ‘You can't. It's covered in houses.’
‘No it's not. I drive past it a lot. They've covered the top meadow and that's all. Most of the land hasn't been touched yet. They haven’t even made it as far as Brutus’s field. And the farmhouse is still standing. I bet they'd sell, what with house building as it is.’
‘We haven't the money. A lot of what we got went on the debts and Kettlewell.’
‘I don't intend to use that. I've other things in mind as regards finance.’ She laughed, carried away on a wave of enthusiasm. ‘Right now could be the best-ever time to buy. Land prices at the bottom. Builders wanting rid. And finance cheap if you can get it, which I most certainly can. What would you say if I did go and buy it back?’
‘They'd never let us farm it. All those cows shitting near them fancy houses. And who'd run it if I'm not allowed to work?’
‘We could get people in. You could order them about until I produce you three strong grandsons.’
‘Is that the bargain,’ he chuckled, ‘no grandsons unless we get the farm back?’
‘Not the way I see it. The grandsons would be a bonus. The bargain is getting most of the farm back for virtually nothing.’
‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘Farming's had it. We'd be mad to try again. Your best bet would be to just buy the farmhouse and a patch of land. Renovate it and turn it into one of those ten bob wonders. Surround it with trees. Get it conserved and you can’t lose. Then you can live in it until you’re ready to sell up for lots more millions. Else leave it for my grandsons.’
‘Wouldn’t you want to live there?’
‘No. I cut Hunters Farm out of my heart before we left. I couldn’t go back. But don’t let that stop you. You don’t have to farm a place to belong there.’
‘I told Vic you wouldn’t want it back.’ She patted his hand again. ‘I told her years ago. I never thought about just buying the farmhouse though. That could be a brilliant idea. You really are just about ready for home, aren't you?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But keep it quiet. Like I said, another month would see me right.’
At the next bed Uncle Rick seemed to be getting a large helping of cold shoulder. Geoff wasn't exactly ignoring him, but he was giving him that awkward treatment invalids can produce out of utterly nowhere.
Oops, she thought.
While her dad started to fall asleep Heather watched the show, sensing no thaw. Before too long the not-so-welcome visitor stood, muttered something about getting a coffee, and left Jamie and Geoff alone together.
She gave it a minute then kissed her dad on the forehead.
‘I'm nipping off now. I'll be back the same time tomorrow.’
‘I love you, Heather,’ he said gently. ‘I do look forward to seeing you.’
‘I love you too, Dad. I'll be back. And don't worry. I won't say anything to Mum or any of the nurses.’
Jamie waved to her as she rose from her seat. She pretended to be stern and tapped her watch with her most unforgiving frown. He gave her another please-shag-me lopsided grin.
*****
DeeDee reread the scanned image a second time. It was utterly perfect. Gavin hadn’t added or amended anything. He’d simply signed the original and, according to his email message, posted it back by recorded delivery this morning.
One down, fifty to go.
DeeDee sighed as she got up from her desk and strolled over to the window. Her office was up on the eighteenth storey and the view of the Leeds skyline was excellent . . . for anyone prepared to appreciate a view of skylines; meaning probably anyone on the planet apart from her.
Her next sigh was even deeper. And why shouldn’t it be? That impossible dream or hers was edging nearer whilst remaining tantalizingly out of reach. Gavin’s proposal had been a break, and a very big one at that, but it w
asn’t enough.
Neither was Pat’s support and Sean’s supposed readiness to help.
She drifted back to her desk: shoes off, feet up while she drank another coffee. It was after six thirty, past witching hour by most working standards. Just about everyone else had gone home for the day, so why not?
