by Adam Croft
‘Anyone else who’d have access to their medical histories?’
‘Nothing requested by third parties,’ Baxter replied curtly.
‘I had a look through the list of doctors living in Mildenheath,’ Frank Vine said. ‘Mostly British or from the Indian subcontinent. No Polish or Eastern European, which I was looking out for based on what Debbie said about the Polish link in the original Ripper case. I did find something interesting, though. There’s a doctor called Desmond Jordan living locally. Bit of an odd character by all accounts. Originally trained as a surgeon but took a diversion to become a GP. And guess what? He’s American.’
‘You thinking of a link with Tumblety, Frank?’ Debbie asked, her voice betraying a frisson of excitement.
‘It’s possible. Tumblety was an American doctor living in Whitechapel and was heavily linked with the Ripper killings for quite a while.’
‘Seems a bit tenuous to me,’ Wendy said. ‘Anything else to link them?’
‘Not looked into it too far yet, but something did stand out. Tumblety was from Boston, right? Well, get this. Desmond Jordan is originally from Baltimore.’
Culverhouse stood and stared at Frank Vine for a few moments. ‘Frank, I don’t mean to be funny, but you are aware that they’re about four hundred miles apart, aren’t you?’
‘Yeah, obviously, but they both begin with B! Got to be something in it, hasn’t there?’
‘Have we got anything better?’ Culverhouse asked, exasperated.
‘Not at the moment.’
‘Great. Fucking great.’
‘We’re looking into the Polish community as a whole,’ Steve Wing said. ‘I’m in contact with the Polish church and community club down the road. Trying to see if there’s anyone from Poland who trained as a doctor or surgeon before moving here. I’m also looking at the hairdresser route. Mainly because they’re the sorts of people who hear all about people’s lives. That and pub landlords, but we already know two of the women didn’t go to pubs all that often and the other two went to different ones from each other, so I’m going to get onto phoning around all the local hairdressers to see if any of our four victims were on their client list.’
‘Right. Good,’ Culverhouse said. ‘But why hasn’t it been done already?’
‘To be honest, guv, we’ve all been focusing mainly on the medical side of things. Got to jump through hoops with the GMC, then cross-reference it all with census data and council tax records to see who lives locally. Then find their place of birth and run them through the PNC... It all takes time.’
‘Well we don’t have time,’ Culverhouse said. ‘That’s running out fast, so let’s get a move on, alright? The only name we’ve got so far is this Desmond Jordan. Probably best we get a statement and alibi from him for the nights of the murders. We don’t want to spook him too much right now, so we’ll visit a few other doctors as well. Word gets around and we don’t want him to think he’s our only suspect, particularly when we’ve got next to sod all to go on. Knight, could you go down and get a statement?’
‘No problem. I’ll do it later on today.’
‘Right. And I want an update on everything by the end of the day. There’s a lot of chasing and paperwork to do, so we need to get on top of it.’
45
7th October
Desmond Jordan’s house was situated right on the edge of Mildenheath. Wendy noted that it would have been beyond the point at which the temporary roadblock would’ve been situated on the west side of the town. If the roadblocks had been put in place — presuming Jordan was the killer — could they have avoided the last two murders?
Wendy put these thoughts out of her head as she approached Desmond Jordan’s house. The large crescent-moon driveway was damp with brown leaves, with green lichen coating the paved area on which the smart new Jaguar car was parked.
To the left of the house was a wide, white-doored garage and to the right were tall conifers, with a shingled driveway between them and the house. As Wendy got out of her car, she looked up this side driveway and noticed the familiar sight of Luke Baxter’s car parked up the side of the house.
Just as she was comprehending what this meant, the large front door opened and DS Baxter stepped out, turning to shake the hand of a tall, professional looking man who she assumed to be Desmond Jordan. She couldn’t hear what Baxter was saying, but Jordan’s booming American lilt was unmistakeable.
‘That’s absolutely fine. I quite understand. If you need anything else, you know where to find me.’
With that, the door was closed and Wendy found herself facing Luke Baxter, who was looking partly very proud of himself and partly like a rabbit caught in the headlights.
‘Luke, what are you doing here?’
‘Interviewing Desmond Jordan. What does it look like?’ he replied, walking past Wendy and heading to his car.
‘That was my job! I was coming up here now to do that!’
‘Well I’ve done it now, so you don’t need to.’
Wendy got in between Baxter and his car, stopping him from opening the driver’s side door.
‘What’s this all about, Luke? This isn’t the first time you’ve got in the way and tried to make me look like some sort of incompetent idiot. Do you really think this is the sort of thing Culverhouse is impressed by? Because I can tell you now it isn’t.’ Deep down, Wendy wasn’t even sure she believed her own words. ‘Why couldn’t you just leave it to me to speak to Jordan later on, like I said I would?’
‘I was trying to save you time.’
‘If that was the case, why didn’t you ask me? Offer to help? Tell me you were doing it? But no, you went behind my back to make me look like a fucking idiot.’
‘Wendy, you’re taking this a bit far, don’t you think? Desmond Jordan is—’ He stopped and turned to look behind him, before continuing in a far quieter voice. ‘Desmond Jordan is a person of interest. It’s not the sort of thing we can afford to waste time on.’
‘We’ve got over a month left before the next date, Luke. You know that. It could have waited another hour. There’s procedure to be followed, you know? Certain ways things have to be done. You can’t just ride roughshod over procedure because you think you can do things better.’
‘What, like your darling Culverhouse?’ Baxter replied, smirking.
‘And what’s that meant to mean?’
‘Nothing, nothing at all,’ he said, reaching for his door handle. Wendy batted his hand away.
‘You just don’t get it, do you? This is the police force, Luke. We are in charge of catching dangerous criminals. Possibly the most dangerous criminal in this particular case, and you’re treating it as some sort of game. Some sort of power play. You need to grow up, and grow up fast.’
‘Power play? Is that what you think it is?’ Baxter laughed out loud. ‘The only person who seems to have a problem with power is you. You’ve had a bug up your arse ever since I made DS. Listen, I’m sorry you’ve not had your efforts recognised but what can I say? Just keep trying, yeah?’
Wendy was too shocked to stop Luke from ushering her out of the way and getting into his car. She watched as he drove away, leaves and shingle kicked up by his tyres before she trundled over to her own car, got in and closed the door. She sat in silence for a few moments before turning the key in the ignition and driving away.
46
10th October
Desmond Jordan had been stewing ever since the police officer had visited a couple of days earlier. He wasn’t used to having his integrity called into question. He’d always been a proud man; proud of his profession, proud of his work, proud of the way he conducted his life. He’d come a long way from humble beginnings, and he wasn’t going to forget that.
Besides which, that fucking tart from over the road will have seen what was going on. He might well have come in an unmarked car and parked it up the side of the house, but that bitch never missed a trick. And hell, you could spot a copper a mile off around these parts, plain
clothes or not. She was one of those women who needed to know everything that was going on. He knew she would’ve been straight on the phone to her crusty old friends from the WI within minutes. You know that doctor who lives near me? The American one. Well it seems I was right all along. He’s only got plain clothes detectives knocking on his door!
It was purely routine, he’d said. They were trying to eliminate possible persons of interest, he said. But Desmond had seen enough police shows on the TV to know the routine.
They’d asked him for an alibi, for starters. How the hell was he meant to explain that? He’d had to settle for saying he’d been at home every night on his own. He’d just have to hope that the old bitch across the road didn’t get a visit from PC Plod, else that might be blown out the water. She’d surely have seen him coming and going.
In his opinion, the Grouse and Partridge wasn’t the best pub in town, but it was the closest, and right now he needed to get out of the house and have a drink. It was still the best part of a mile from his house on the edge of town, but the walk would probably do him good anyway.
Moving to the UK had been Bess’s idea. She’d been fascinated by the country ever since she was a kid, and Desmond had to admit he was pretty happy to escape the US and start a new life over here, especially after what happened. It had been a less than conventional move, but then again his life had always been less than conventional.
He pulled himself up onto a stool at the bar and selected one of the six real ales on offer. He’d not been particularly keen on the British style of ‘warm piss’ beer, as he’d put it when he first came here, but he’d gradually got used to it and then came to actually quite like it.
His life was one huge tangle of knots. The lack of simplicity and normality rankled within him, giving him this almost interminable rage which kept bubbling under the surface, always threatening to break through, but which mercifully did so only rarely. He knew he wouldn’t need much agitation today, though, and tried to keep himself to himself.
That was easier said than done. He’d barely been in the pub twenty minutes, his first pint finished, after which he’d waited patiently to be served. A rough, loud woman who he’d heard talking from the other side of the pub had sidled up to the bar and shouted her order across at the young bar manager who was doing his best to keep up.
‘Wait just a sec, love. I’ll do yours next,’ the barman replied, pacifying the woman.
‘Actually, I think you’ll find I was next,’ Desmond said, his voice sure and certain. If there was one thing he hated, it was people pushing into a line or having some sort of warped sense of entitlement.
‘Don’t think so, mate. Never seen you in here before so you can wait your turn, yeah?’ the woman replied, jabbing her finger in Desmond’s direction. He could smell the fug of booze and fags wafting in his direction.
‘So what if you’ve never seen me before? That gives you no right to push in. I waited my turn and it is my turn, so why don’t you fuck off back under the rock you crawled out from?’
‘You fucking what?’ the woman yelled, not even noticing that the nervous young barman had already served her vodka and tonic and plonked it on the bar in front of her. ‘Who the fuck do you think you are? In your posh suit and shoes. Think you’re the fucking Big I Am, do you?’
‘Don’t try to make yourself look stupid, sweetheart. You manage it easily enough as it is,’ Desmond replied, turning away from her.
‘That’s three-twenty, Lisa,’ the barman said, trying to diffuse the atmosphere in the only way he knew how.
‘Get me another one,’ the woman said to the barman as she picked up the glass and tossed its contents over the back of Desmond’s head.
He had been trying so hard. So hard. Containing his rage had taken the ultimate effort from every fibre of his being, but that had pushed him over the edge. Without saying a word, he turned round, looked the woman in the eye and pummelled his fist into her eye socket.
47
10th October
Wendy had allowed herself a little smirk when she’d been called down to interview Desmond Jordan that evening. The arresting officers had seen that CID had him marked as a person of interest and were taking first dibs on interviews with him. Even more satisfying for Wendy was that she’d managed to get to him before Luke Baxter had.
Desmond Jordan’s eyes looked dark and sullen as she and Culverhouse sat down opposite him at the desk and she took a few moments to look into his eyes.
‘A respected family doctor walks into a local pub and punches a woman in the face, three days after being spoken to by the police about a spate of violent attacks on women. Not looking good, is it?’ Wendy said, being uncharacteristically barbed. Her hatred for men who hit women was something she couldn’t hide, no matter how much she tried.
Jordan had chosen not to have a solicitor present, presumably because he’d fallen under the common misapprehension that requesting a solicitor would somehow be an unspoken admission of guilt.
‘Do you want to say anything about that?’ Wendy asked.
‘Yes, it was a stupid thing to do but I was provoked. I’ve been under a lot of stress recently, what with your colleague turning up at my house the other day.’
‘Oh, so we’ll just let you go and leave you alone, shall we? Wouldn’t want you to be stressed, after all,’ Culverhouse replied icily. ‘I’m sure the families of the four murdered women won’t mind.’
‘I had nothing to do with that,’ Jordan said, without a hint of emotion in his voice.
‘I never said you did. But I don’t think the families would be happy if we didn’t do our job and investigate properly, which, as you were told by DS Baxter, involves speaking to a large list of people of certain professions. I know that if I were in your shoes, I’d want the killer caught.’
Desmond Jordan said nothing.
‘This isn’t going to do your career much good, is it?’ Wendy said. ‘Conviction for violent assault on a woman? I’m pretty sure that would result in being struck off.’
‘Not necessarily, no. I’d have to go before a GMC panel who’d decide if I was fit to practise. If I was convicted, that is. As you well know, you’ve only arrested me. The police don’t convict; the courts do.’
Wendy smiled. ‘And you think we’re going to have any trouble getting a conviction? After you punched a woman in the middle of a pub full of people?’
‘I’d like to ask you a little more about your whereabouts in the early hours of the thirty-first of August, seventh of September and twenty-ninth of September,’ Culverhouse said. ‘You told Detective Sergeant Baxter that you were at home on your own on those nights.’
‘Yes, I stay at home on my own every night. When I get home from work, I like to wind down at home.’
‘And your wife and kids are away for a while, is that right?’
‘Yes, they’ve gone back to Baltimore for eight weeks. To visit family.’
‘That’s a long time to be away, isn’t it? Was that your idea?’ Wendy asked, firing her questions at Jordan.
‘I don’t know who first suggested it. We both go back occasionally, but Bess can get more time away, obviously. As they’re staying with family it’s only really the flights that cost money. It costs them next to nothing while they’re out there, so they make the most of it.’
‘Your wife works as your practice manager, doesn’t she? How can she have that much time away? And what about your kids?’
‘They’re homeschooled. And we get a temp in while Bess is away. As much as I love my wife, it’s not a particularly difficult job. We use an agency who supply experienced people. It’s not a problem.’
Culverhouse shuffled in his seat. ‘Must be nice for them to be out of your hair for a few weeks. Gives you free reign to be the man you want to be.’
‘I can see you’ve been married, Inspector,’ Jordan said, smiling. ‘It has its advantages, but mostly I just get on with my work.’
‘And your nice relaxing even
ings,’ Wendy added. ‘During which you never leave the house, is that right?’
‘On the whole, yes. I mean, I might occasionally pop out to the shop or something but generally speaking, yes.’
‘Which is interesting, because one of your neighbours said she sees you leave the house quite a bit in the evenings. She couldn’t give us any specific dates, but she reckoned it must easily be more than half of the nights.’ As Wendy spoke, she could see Jordan’s jaw clenching, his nostrils flaring. ‘Is that when you pop to the shop? Because I don’t know about you, but personally I’d get all the stuff in one go. Quite a pain to have to go out on more than half of your evenings.’
‘If you’re talking about the woman I presume you’re talking about, you’ll know that she’s nuts,’ Jordan said quietly. ‘Quite frankly, she’s a sensationalist.’
Culverhouse changed tack quickly, trying to throw Jordan off balance. He removed four photographs from the brown folder in front of him and placed them in front of Jordan. ‘Keira Quinn, Lindsay Stott, Emma Roche and Marla Collingwood. Do you recognise any of them?’
‘No, should I?’ Jordan replied.
‘I should imagine so. We know they weren’t patients of yours, but at least two of these photos have been on the news and in the papers recently,’ Wendy said.
‘I don’t watch the news or read the papers. Most of it’s horse shit.’
‘That’s one thing we can agree on,’ Culverhouse said, removing a further five photographs from the folder. This time, they were close-up photos of the victims taken at the crime scene. ‘Perhaps this might help. This is how they were found, after they’d been killed.’
Desmond Jordan spent a few seconds looking at each of the photographs before he looked up at Culverhouse.
‘I must say, you don’t seem to surprised or disgusted. Most people have some sort of visible reaction when they see a murder victim,’ Wendy said.
