by Jane Adams
He tried to get it started again while Sarah scraped around for more kindling and fuel.
‘What time will it get light?’ she asked him.
‘I don’t know. It’s getting light when I get up usually, so I suppose about seven.’
‘Right.’ She fell silent, hugging herself against the cold and staring into the fire as though willing it to burn. She didn’t need to voice what they both were thinking. That was hours away, and it looked as though it was still going to be raining. Then, even when they got to Oaklands, there was no guarantee that the woman Terry wanted to see would be there. She hadn’t been there yesterday morning and they hadn’t dared to go back again twice in one day. Would she be back today? Sarah didn’t feel she could spend much longer cooped up in this freezing cold semi-derelict house. She was hungry and tired and fed up with being damp and cold.
With an effort, she tried to put her doubts aside.
‘My gran had a real fire,’ she said. ‘In her old house, before she moved to the bungalow. We used to make toast on it sometimes, in the winter.’
‘Wish we had some bread, we could give it a try. I’m starved.’
‘Yeah.’
‘There’s that little village not far up the road. The shops’ll be open soon.’
Sarah sighed heavily. It all seemed so unreal; home seemed so far away.
‘We’ve got to call home,’ she said. ‘They’ll be worried sick.’
‘I know.’
They fell silent again, guilt creeping in and preventing words. Then Sarah asked him, ‘Why did you run away? I mean really.’
He didn’t look as though he was ready to answer. She pushed harder.
‘Look, Terry, I’ve stuck by you all through this, I’m not going to run out on you now.’ She paused, listening to the rain outside, waiting. ‘I think I deserve to know, don’t you?’
Terry shook his head. ‘You wouldn’t understand,’ he said.
‘Try me! God’s sake, Terry, I think you owe me that much.’ She paused, reached out and took his hand. ‘Please.’
He looked sideways at her, then moved closer, sitting side by side, staring into the fire as he began. He really liked Sarah, a lot. Wanted her to be his proper girlfriend, and he knew he could only do that if he was honest with her.
But still, it was so hard. The habit of silence so ingrained that it was near impossible to break. Doctor Lucas had been easy to talk to. She’d made it clear from the start that she was used to hearing stuff, all kinds of stuff that might shock other people. And she had never shown anything either in her face or in the tone of her voice that had made him feel that she was judging him, hating him the way he knew so many people would.
He took a deep breath. ‘I had a baby brother,’ he said. ‘He died when he was only two weeks old.’
He pulled away from her, turned so that he could see the expression on her face. ‘They said I killed him, Sarah.’
Chapter Twenty-Five
7.45 a.m.
Price woke up in a strange bed, his usual early morning confusion mitigated by the untuneful shouts coming from the bathroom next door.
For a moment Price thought that Morrow was in pain, then he realized that he was singing in the shower. Splashing energetically and bellowing something unidentifiable at the top of his voice.
Price groaned, dragged himself out of bed, pulled his dressing-gown on and went in search of a cup of coffee. The clock said a quarter to eight but it felt like only five minutes since he had dragged some sheets on to Charlie Morrow’s spare bed and just managed to collapse into it before falling asleep.
He found the kitchen on the second try. The first door had revealed a through lounge with a dining-table at one end and a three-seater sofa with matching chair at the other. There wasn’t a great deal in between and what there was seemed veiled in a layer of long undisturbed dust. There was one clean area in the room, which told him a lot more about Charlie Morrow. The alcove next to the fireplace and opposite the solitary armchair was occupied by some remarkable looking hi-fi, stacked on several levels of custom-built racking. And it was clean, spotlessly clean.
Price found the kitchen at the next try and was relieved that, if not up to the pristine standards of the hi-fi, it was at least less dirt-ridden than the rest of the living-room. There were cups in the drainer and a kettle on the side with a tea caddy and a large blue jar marked ‘Coffee.’ The morning, thought Price, was looking up.
Somehow, he wasn’t surprised to find the sugar bowl crammed with little packs of sugar, or the fridge piled up with tiny cartons of half cream and UHT milk.
Curious, he opened a cupboard door. Plastic packs of ketchup and mayonnaise, tartare sauce and French mustard showered down on him.
‘Shit!’ Price muttered, picking stuff up and pushing it safely back behind the cupboard door just as the man himself walked in.
‘Find everything?’ Morrow said, grinning broadly.
‘Is there anything you don’t pinch?’ Price asked him irritably.
Morrow’s smile broadened. ‘Believe me, Sergeant, my criminal tendencies are very specialized. Sleep well?’
‘Not bad.’
‘Right, how about breakfast?’
Price eyed him cautiously. ‘You mean you actually have food in this kitchen?’
Morrow looked offended. ‘Don’t be silly,’ he said. ‘We’ll head over to Mickey’s place. What I’ve got in store for you this morning, Sergeant, you’ll need a good breakfast inside you.’
Price took his coffee and went off to get dressed. He wasn’t quite sure he wanted to know what Charlie Morrow had planned.
7.45 a.m.
Max was watching the video again. The one he’d first seen all those months ago.
‘Marianne’, as she was billed simply in the credits, had been the most beautiful thing he’d laid eyes on. That thick golden hair and pale skin and the way she’d reddened her mouth so much her lips seemed coated with fresh blood.
She was dressed in black. A tight gown that clung to every curve. The two men with her, undressing her, seemed to peel the dress from her body as though she was shedding a second skin. He watched as she lifted her arms above her head, turning towards the camera, rejoicing in the way the camera adored her body.
He imagined he held the camera in his hands now, reviewing every frame as though through an imaginary lens. Panning shots, close-ups, focusing on his favourite poses as Marion moved across the room, the two men with her caressing her body, stroking down the length of it, guiding her towards the king-sized bed.
Then, abruptly, he switched off the video. He was growing bored with these pictures of Marion, tired of the same old image.
He picked up the remote and flicked through the channels, trying to find some local news. Would they have found the body yet? Not likely, he supposed, that would be to expect efficiency from the police and he’d seen no evidence of that so far.
He switched back to the video, letting the film run while he showered and dressed. He liked this, playing after-dark film like this in broad daylight, even if he did still have his curtains closed. Enjoyed the secrecy of it. That feeling that he could go where others would not go. Do what others dare not do. Think about his next move in his game even while he went about the day-today, the ordinary. The mundane.
7.50 a.m.
Mike had spent the night at Maria’s. He was woken by the insistent ringing of the telephone; the collator back at divisional HQ was phoning to tell him that yet another force had called in about the sex attacker and possible links.
Mike listened. ‘Manchester area, about five years ago. They’re faxing the stuff down to us.’
‘Right,’ Mike said. Then after a pause he voiced what had been on his mind for some time now. ‘Why hasn’t this been cross-referenced before?’
‘We did make a start after the third attack,’ he was told, ‘but Superintendent Flint was convinced this was a localized event. Didn’t want to start a panic. Anyway, this new stuff’s
five years old. You know how it is, takes a lot to jog memories when you’ve already got a backed-up case load. If a perp goes quiet for a while we all breathe a sigh of relief and don’t ask too many whys. It’s only when stuff gets national coverage like this that the little grey cells start nagging. Looks as though our man has history anyway.’
Mike thanked him and was about to ring off when a thought struck him. It was pure impulse, but he said, ‘Pull anything we’ve got on Phillip Myers, will you, Bill. It’s probably nothing, but his alibi for the last attack was what you might call flimsy. He claims he was just driving around after another row with the wife. He says that she was the one who scratched his face as well. But you never know. And run a previous address check on both him and David Martin going back the last five years. Get someone to track down their work records too, see if either had a job that let them be where we need them to be at the relevant time.’
‘OK. Will do. Anything else?’
Mike asked briefly about David Martin and was told that he was on the roster for the duty solicitor to see him first thing. Mike had left him in the cells to think things over for the night, but knew that he either had to charge him with something definite soon or let him go. Frankly, he didn’t think he had a hope in hell of getting anything to stick as far as Theo’s death was concerned. The timing was all wrong. David Martin had been at work until a half-hour before discovering Theo’s body, and it would have taken close on that time to get home even at the tail end of the rush-hour. So unless he had slipped away from work, committed the crime and then gone back and finished his afternoon, Mike had to admit that he was off the hook.
He’d held him overnight, questioned him until late, then left the statement-taking to the night shift. His alibis for the nights the women had been attacked had been shaky, but, Mike had to admit, if he’d been asked to account for his actions on five separate occasions over a twelve-month period he’d have needed help piecing it together.
David Martin had been willing to have a blood sample taken and that could be compared to what they already had. And they could run a match on the DNA, though that would take time. It could be said that his willingness to give blood was a point in David Martin’s favour, but he wouldn’t be the first criminal to think himself too clever for the police no matter how much help he gave them. In the meantime, all Mike could do was accept that Martin would be released that morning and have him watched.
If Flint would assign him the manpower.
If David Martin didn’t skip out on them before that could be arranged.
Irritated, he shook his head, wondering if he was barking up the wrong tree anyway.
‘Penny for them,’ Maria said.
‘Not worth that much.’ The phone was by the bed and she was still stretched out beside him. For a moment he was tempted to say sod the day and stay with her. Forget the problems and the responsibilities for a little while. Then he sighed, swung his legs out of bed.
‘Got to go.’
‘You’re headed for London?’
‘That’s right. Magazine publishers. I’m having a last word with David Martin first, in case he’s thought of anything else, then to the publishers. See if they featured Marion O’Donnel in anything else. And, for that matter, if David Martin sold them anything else.’
‘He says not, presumably?’
Mike nodded. ‘According to him, he took the pictures, kept some she didn’t want as souvenirs and off she went. He claims that was more than a year ago, before he even knew Theo Howard.’
‘Do you believe him?’ Maria asked.
Mike hesitated for a moment, then nodded. ‘As a matter of fact I do,’ he said. ‘I also believe, for what it’s worth, that he loved Theo. And I’m being forced to the conclusion that he probably didn’t kill her.’
* * *
‘You’ve got something for me?’ Mike said as he arrived at the police station.
The collator nodded. ‘It’s about our other runaway and his mother. The Ryans,’ he said. ‘Took a bit of rooting, I’m afraid, but this is what I’ve come up with.’ He handed the printouts to Mike, who leant comfortably against the wall and began to read.
‘As you’ll see, Mrs Ryan was arrested almost three years back for being drunk in charge. In fact she’s only just got her licence back. She had a drink problem but she’d been on the wagon for a good eighteen months, only fell off again when she was refused custody of her son, Terry. He’d been living with his grandparents, been in care before that, going back to when he was six years old.’
Glancing through the printout, Mike could visualize the circuitous route his colleague must have taken to put all this together. Communication between different departments was not what you might call good at the best of times.
‘The grandparents didn’t oppose their daughter’s claim on her son but the courts did, the first time she applied, anyway. It must have been one hell of a disappointment. She was absolutely soused when they picked her up. Amazing she was still conscious, never mind able to get the key in the ignition and the car started.’
‘What about the father?’ Mike scanned but found no trace of him. ‘She said he’d left them when Terry was about six . . . What’s this?’
‘I thought you’d be impressed. The inquest ruled an open verdict on the child’s death. There was just the possibility that the padding round the cot wasn’t tied properly and simply fell down, but there were doubts. I’ve included the summary. You want the court records it’ll have to be tomorrow morning.’
Mike nodded. ‘There was talk that Terry did it,’ he said.
The collator shrugged. ‘The kid was six. Just six, it was his birthday. And if the mother was drunk then, who the hell knows what went on? Still, makes you think, don’t it?’
Mike nodded. ‘Thanks. And let me know if you find out anything about Myers,’ he said.
He closed the file. The teenager seen running away from the murder scene. Was that Terry?
9 a.m.
Mike arrived at Judith’s flat just as the rain had begun to fall again. He parked the car and ran inside, closing the door on the downpour. Judith was in. She came to the flat door with a half-anxious, half-expectant look on her pale face. Mike introduced himself.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘You’re that other one’s boss. Does this mean you’ve heard from Terry?’
‘No, I’m sorry. May I come in?’
She stood aside, directing him through into the living-room with a gesture of her hand.
‘Please sit down. Can I make you any coffee? Tea?’ Mike shook his head. ‘Terry hasn’t called?’
‘No . . .’ The question hung in the air. ‘Have Sarah’s parents . . . ?’
‘She called them, yes, I heard just before I came over. She didn’t say much, apparently, just that she was sorry and that she had something important to do. They think it was something to do with Terry.’
‘With Terry? What could Terry possibly have to do?’
‘A bus driver thinks he saw Sarah, and that Terry was with her,’ Mike said. ‘Saturday night about ten o’clock. He’s sure he dropped them off just outside Hoton. Can you think of any reason he might be going there?’
Judith shook her head. ‘Hoton?’ she said. ‘I’m not even certain where that is.’ She hesitated. ‘Isn’t Oaklands out that way?’
‘Oaklands?’ Mike questioned.
Judith nodded slowly. ‘Terry’s had a few problems. He goes out there to see a counsellor. A woman called Dr Lucas.’ She hesitated, then went on. ‘He’s a good boy,’ she said. ‘I don’t know why they think he needs to see her. He’s fine, no problems now. Just gets on with his life.’
She met his eyes deliberately, her expression implying that she thought that Mike should let him do the same. Mike’s brain was working overtime. Terry went out to see Maria?
‘Would you like to talk about it, Mrs Ryan? If I understood why Terry needed therapy, I might have more idea of why he ran away.’
Judith shook her head.
‘It’s nothing to do with him running away,’ she said. ‘Nothing at all.’
‘If Terry had problems . . .’ Mike began again, but Judith was on her feet now, clearly ready for him to go.
‘Look,’ she said. ‘He did have some problems, but we’ve sorted them out and he’s just fine now. Ask that psychiatrist woman, she’ll tell you just the same. Terry deserves to be left alone. Allowed to get on with his life and not be hassled by every official Tom, Dick or Harry who has nothing better to do. Now. You’ve told me all there is to tell me and I’d rather you went.’
Mike rose to go. ‘If that’s the way you want it, Mrs Ryan,’ he said, surprised at the anger he seemed to have provoked. ‘We’ve only Terry’s interests at heart though. All of us.’
Judith said nothing, she had turned away from him, blanked him out as though he was no longer there.
‘I’ll let you know if I hear anything,’ Mike said quietly and left.
9.15 a.m.
Maria had just reached her office when Mike got through to her on his mobile and told her what Judith Ryan had said.
‘Actually,’ he said, ‘she told me that Terry was fine, didn’t need the likes of you and me nosing around and practically threw me out on my ear.’
‘Wise woman. Bloody policemen.’
Mike could hear the smile in her voice as she said it, imagine the dark eyes laughing. He sighed.
‘Have you spoken with Judith Ryan? I assume you have.’
‘Once. At Terry’s initial assessment. Terry’s not one of my usuals, you know.’
‘Really.’ Mike thought of the mix of schizophrenics and bipolar depressives that made up the bulk of Maria’s case load. Oaklands had three in-patient wards and a small secure unit. But these were separate from the old building in which Maria lived and which housed offices and out-patient clinics as well as flats for the on-site staff and rooms for those on call.
Maria rarely dealt with juveniles.
‘So, how did you come by Terry?’
‘He’s just turned sixteen; in legal terms he’s not yet an adult, but in terms of funding he’s come to the end of the line as a juvenile. It took a bit of fiddling, but his social worker, Mina Williams, she was convinced Terry would benefit from further intervention. The kid had just come to live with his mother, and the pair of them were doing their best to come to terms with all the changes. To abandon him, take away all support systems now seemed, well, stupid.’
