She drained her glass with an embarrassingly loud slurp of the straw but no one turned to look at her. Not even the girl behind the counter. She thought of Elysha, tried to bring her face to mind, framed by the giant coffee machines at Starbucks. There were three or four girls who had served her on a regular basis over the past six months or so. There was the black student with the Yorkshire accent; a small dark-eyed girl whose English sounded East European. And there were a couple of white girls whose voices blended in with the locals. One quite plump and pretty with a piercing through her eyebrow and the other tall and slim with elfin features and a reluctance to engage in the small talk Megan always tried to make when she went in there. Elysha must be one of these two. But which one?
When she arrived back at the office she searched for Elysha on the university’s intranet system. Her name and email address were there all right. Next she called up the course registers for the Department of International Politics. What Paul Deboney had said was absolutely accurate; she was a first year student and David Dunn was her tutor. But her address was down as Linden House: had Deboney lied about that? Probably not, she thought: it was much more likely to be a case of the system lagging behind the action.
Her train of thought was interrupted by her mobile ringing out. Perhaps that was David Dunn now, picking up the message she’d left this morning. He would be able to tell her a lot more about Dom Wilde’s long-lost daughter. She snatched up the phone. But it was Delva’s voice she heard.
‘Meg, are you okay?’ There was no pause for a reply. ‘I’ve got some news: Tim’s come up with something. He’s found a third man.’
‘What?’ Megan almost dropped the phone.
‘Someone else was convicted with Kelly and Ryan.’
A surge of adrenaline whizzed up the smoothie in her stomach. ‘How the hell did he miss that when he went through the records the first time?’
‘He didn’t miss it. The other guy, Lee Deacon, was dealt with by the Magistrates’ Court because he pleaded guilty. He was only sent to Crown Court for sentencing and he appeared on a different day from the other two. He’s the right age, Meg, forty-one, which makes him easily old enough to have been in on the attack on Moses Smith. Tim’s checked with the Ministry of Justice: he’s in an open prison near Redditch.’
‘Hewell Grange?’
‘Yes, do you know it?’
‘I do.’ Megan pulled open a drawer with her free hand, fishing out a fat black contacts book. ‘I’ll get on to the governor. I just hope to God we’re not too late.’
Chapter 25
A plan formed in Megan’s mind as she dialled the number of the prison. Hewell Grange was only about forty minutes’ drive from Birmingham: she would go and talk to Lee Deacon herself; warn him of the danger and find out exactly what these killings were all about.
It took a while to get through to the governor and as she waited she felt her stress levels rising. What if today was a visiting day? She looked at her watch. Sonia Smith could easily have driven to Redditch in the time that had elapsed since she’d left the house. Deacon could be literally minutes from death. What the hell were the admin people playing at?
‘Good afternoon. Can I help you?’ A female voice cut across the tinny music.
‘I’m trying to get through to the governor.’ Impatience got the better of her, making her voice louder than usual and her tone sharper.
‘Yes, this is the governor.’
‘Oh.’ This took her by surprise. The last time she had visited the jail there had been a man in charge and she wasn’t aware that he had been replaced.
‘Hazel Gorman,’ the voice said. Megan thought she detected a hint of annoyance. Not surprising if the woman realised she’d been taken for one of the switchboard operators.
‘I’m sorry,’ she replied. ‘It’s Dr Megan Rhys – Heartland University. I met your predecessor a year or so ago – I didn’t realise he’d moved on.’ There was silence at the other end of the line. Megan wondered what had happened but now was not the time to ask. She explained the situation as succinctly as she could. ‘So Lee Deacon needs protection,’ she said, pausing for a second to draw breath. ‘His life could be in danger.’
‘But Lee Deacon’s not here.’
‘What? He’s been transferred to another prison?’
‘No. He’s out of the prison today, on an acclimatisation visit to Redditch town centre.’
‘Is he?’ Megan gave a small sigh of relief. These visits were designed to get prisoners ready for life in the outside world. A prison officer always accompanied the inmate and was not allowed to let him out of sight. So Deacon was safe – for the time being. ‘I need to know who’s been coming to see him,’ Megan said. ‘When’s the next visiting day?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘Can you get me a list of who’s been visiting over the past few weeks? Especially if there’s anyone young and female with a Birmingham address.’
‘Hang on a second.’ Megan heard the tap of a computer keyboard. ‘The last one was a Louise Deacon, of 298 Curzon Street, Bordesley Green. She came a week ago.’
‘Would that be his wife?’ It hadn’t occurred to her that there might be a wife on the scene. That would surely scupper the killer’s lonely-hearts strategy.
‘Er…’ She heard a couple more clicks. ‘No, it’s his mother.’
‘Okay,’ Megan said, ‘What about tomorrow? Is there a visiting order for anyone else?’
‘I’m just checking,’ the governor replied. ‘Yes, there is. It’s for a Ruby Owens, Flat 4, Grendon Gardens, Balsall Gate. It’s her third visit and she started coming in February.’
‘Balsall Gate?’ Megan’s fingers tightened their grip on the receiver. ‘Does it give a date of birth? Phone number? Any other details?’
‘Date of birth is 26.11.86. No phone number. Just “friend” in the description box.’
‘That fits the age of the suspect visitors at the other two prisons. I need to talk to Lee Deacon. What time’s he due back?’
‘Not till about six o’clock tonight.’
‘Can I come then?’ In a few more minutes it was all arranged. The woman’s initial frostiness had given way to concerned interest. Megan got the impression she wasn’t convinced by the threat to Deacon but didn’t want to be seen to be taking any chances. Governors of open prisons were always coming in for stick from the media. Hazel Gorman was apparently making sure she wasn’t going to be their next scapegoat. ‘We can discuss what to do about Ruby Owens when I’ve spoken to Lee Deacon,’ Megan went on. ‘I don’t want anyone alerting her in any way, so he mustn’t know we suspect her. If she turns up tomorrow we’ll have to come up with some way of holding on to her without letting her get anywhere near Deacon. She’ll probably have to be strip-searched as soon as she arrives.’
‘We don’t generally do strip searches.’
‘Well, I’m afraid you’re going to have to make an exception in this case, unless you want a death on your hands.’
There was a momentary pause. ‘I presume there’ll be a police presence?’
‘Of course.’ Megan said it with an air of conviction. Willis was going have to play ball on this one. But she wasn’t going to call him until she’d sussed Deacon out. She didn’t want him screwing things up at this critical stage.
Replacing the receiver she checked her watch again. Another three hours before she could go to Hewell Grange. She decided to phone Balsall Gate prison and leave a message for Dominic. It was annoying, not being able to phone him direct. She couldn’t bear to think of him sitting in his cell, waiting until this evening to phone her, not knowing what was going on. Of course, she couldn’t tell him everything. Until she had a clearer idea of what was going on there was no way she was going to burden him with the suspicion that his daughter could be mixed up in the murders. But she could let him know that she was doing a degree at Heartland; that although she was no longer living at the address he had she was traceable through her job at Starbucks. None
of this could be conveyed via the admin people at the prison: all she could do was ask them to ask him to phone her. She dug her nails into her palms as she ended the call. She was willing it to be Sonia; praying for her to be the one who had murdered Kelly and Ryan. But she couldn’t deny the evidence: Elysha had been living at Linden House. It was looking much more likely that both mother and daughter were involved. How the hell was Dom going to cope with news like that?
She scanned the notes she had scribbled while talking to the governor of Hewell Grange. The address of the suspect visitor was puzzling: 14 Grendon Gardens, Balsall Gate. Why a different address this time? Why not Linden House? Had someone – possibly Elysha – seen her going to the hall of residence and decided it was no longer safe to use as an address? Paul Deboney had said she moved out a week or so ago but perhaps it was more recent than that? She thought about it for a moment. Visiting orders couldn’t be obtained as quickly as that: it was only three days since she had been to Linden House and her visit had been on a Saturday night. No, she thought, it wouldn’t be possible to turn things round in that time. So could her hunch about this girl be wrong?
Grabbing her bag and jacket, she made for the door. She had to go there. Watch the place and see who went in and out. Find out if this Ruby Owens was yet another alias for Elysha or for Sonia and whether anyone else was involved.
As she headed for the car park she called up Delva’s number. She would want to know what the governor had said about Lee Deacon. She decided not to tell her about Dom’s daughter, though. It would just complicate things. Better to wait until she’d seen the girl for herself and weighed her up. So she stuck to the facts, telling Delva about the visitor Deacon was due to see tomorrow and her plan to check her out.
‘You’re going to this person’s house? Are you mad?’
‘Don’t worry, I’m just going to hang around outside and see who comes and goes.’
‘Can’t you wait until later? I could come with you; I finish at six-thirty.’
‘I’m sorry, I can’t. I’ve got to be at Hewell Grange for six to catch Lee Deacon when he gets back from Redditch.’
‘What about the police? Does Willis know about this?’
‘Not yet, no. I don’t want him wading in before I get the chance to talk to Deacon.’
Delva went silent. ‘You’ll keep your phone on, won’t you?’ she said, as if it was an errant child she was talking to.
‘Of course I will. I’ll be fine, honest.’ Megan knew exactly what Delva was thinking: that she’d been anything but fine last night after finding that doll under the wheel of her car. It had shaken her up, it was true. But this was something different. It was a bit of straightforward detective work; that was all. Nothing to get worked up about.
She parked well away from Grendon Gardens in a multistorey built for Balsall’s Gate’s once-thriving market square. The market was long gone and these days the car park was used by commuters who refused to pay the sky-high rates charged in the city centre. Megan was confident that no one would spot her car there. Now she could find a suitable spot to watch the flat without alerting anyone to her presence.
Grendon Gardens was a cluster of 1970s council flats built around a children’s play area. The slide was a twisted wreck of rusting metal and there was nothing left of the swings apart from the frame and a few lengths of broken chain. The only item of play equipment still intact was a graffiti-covered concrete tunnel. The area was roped off but as she walked past Megan could see that people had been getting in. The usual detritus was clearly visible: empty cans, crisp packets and sweet wrappers lay alongside cannabis roaches and the shrivelled remains of condoms.
She paused as she reached the steps that led up to the first set of flats. They were low-rise; only three storeys high and from the numbering system there appeared to be twelve flats per block. She began to walk slowly along the weed-strewn gravel path that encircled Grendon Gardens. It looked as though many of the flats were empty. They had that hollow, uncurtained look and despite the warm weather, none of the windows were open. Number fourteen was on the ground floor of the second block. There were yellowing net curtains at the windows, one set of which were billowing out like sails. As Megan got closer she could see that a pane of glass was missing. It didn’t look as if it had been smashed in an act of vandalism: there were no shards sticking out round the edges. It looked as if the pane had been deliberately removed. She wondered why. Perhaps it had been smashed and the glass had been cleared away prior to a new pane being installed. But if that was the case, surely it would have been temporarily boarded up? Left like that, it was an open invitation for a break-in. Was number fourteen just another empty flat, then? A convenient address used for the purposes of getting a visiting order to Hewell Grange?
There was only one way to find out. Squatting down, Megan positioned herself so that her eyes were level with the window sill. As the net curtains billowed out with the breeze she got a glimpse of the room inside. It was a mess. She could see envelopes scattered across the floor, cigarette butts on the mantle piece and balls of scorched paper on the tiled hearth beneath the gas heater, as if someone had tried to make a fire and given up. Megan wondered whether to climb through the window. Even if the flat was empty, it might offer some clues to the identity of the woman who was due to visit Lee Deacon tomorrow. She straightened up and glanced around. There was no one about. Better to ring the bell first, though, she thought, just in case she was wrong about it being empty. If she heard someone coming to answer it she could dodge out of sight down the alley that ran between the neighbouring blocks.
The bell didn’t look as if it had worked in a long time. There was a wire protruding from it which had rusted at the end. She lifted her hand to knock instead, but as her knuckles made contact with the wood the door moved. It wasn’t locked. Not surprising, really, she thought as she stepped gingerly over the threshold. Whoever had been using it as a squat had probably ripped off the latch to save them the trouble of coming and going by the window each time.
The hall was strewn with an assortment of the same items she had seen in the playground. There was a scorched ironing board propped against the wall and she dragged it over to the door, wedging it under the handle to deter anyone who might wander in while she was carrying out her search. There wasn’t a lot she could if they were determined enough to get through the window, though: she would just have to be as quick as she could.
The hall carpet had the sort of floral design beloved by elderly ladies, its pinks and greens spattered with various shades of brown. There was a smell of foetid rubbish about the place and as she picked her way through the debris she spotted a black bin bag through the open door of the kitchen. It was leaning against the wall, its contents bulging, and on the top was an aluminium takeaway container with what looked like the remains of a chicken korma inside it. So someone had been here fairly recently. She tiptoed further along the hall, almost tripping over something that was propped against a coat stand. It was a child’s buggy, folded up, with a clear plastic rain cover over it. The green metallic paint on its handles was flaking and the cover was ripped on one side. It looked old and battered. Megan wondered if someone had dumped it here. She hoped so: this was no place for a baby to be living.
Further along the hall was a tiny bathroom. Its pink suite appeared to be stained with every kind of substance that could possibly emanate from a human being. She struggled not to retch as she backed away from it.
There was a bedroom at the end of the hallway. She could see an old-fashioned kidney-shaped dressing table with each of its three mirrors shattered. Bottles of talc and scent lay on their sides across the surface, their contents mingling in a sticky white mulch. A dark wood wardrobe stood in the corner, its door wide open to reveal nothing but half a dozen wire hangers. And in the centre of the room was a single bed with a faded pink dralon headboard and a bare, desecrated mattress.
Turning back along the hallway, Megan found herself in the lounge. From
the viewpoint of the door she spotted something she hadn’t been able to see through the window. There was a sleeping bag on the sofa. It was navy blue and new-looking. Someone was living here, then. That would explain the half-eaten curry in the kitchen. This room was the least offensive in the flat in terms of the amount of litter and the smell; perhaps that was why whoever it was had chosen to sleep in here instead of the bedroom. And the fact that they had apparently left their own rubbish in the kitchen instead of chucking it on the lounge carpet suggested that this squatter was not some spaced-out druggie or alcoholic tramp.
Something lying on the floor caught her eye. It was a card with a bouquet of yellow roses on it. It wasn’t the picture that had drawn her attention but the number embossed in gold foil in the top right hand corner. It was the number eighty. She bent down and flipped it open. In spidery copperplate script she read the words: “To Ruby, wishing you many happy returns, love from Flo.”
Beside the card an envelope lay face down. She turned it over. There was the name in full: Ruby Owens, Flat 14, Grendon Gardens, Balsall Gate. She nodded slowly. Another identity theft: not of a student this time but of an old woman who was either dead or in a nursing home, with no relatives to care what happened to her few possessions. Evidently the checks done on potential visitors to Hewell Grange were not particularly rigorous: the date of birth would have given the imposter away if only it had been checked out. But with the prison service as overloaded as it was, such oversights were hardly surprising. Whoever was doing this, they were exploiting the flaws in the system to full advantage.
As Megan stood up she noticed a black cardboard box on the coffee table. On closer inspection it turned out to be a shoebox. A Nike shoebox. The mummified baby leapt into her mind’s eye and icy fingers clawed her belly. With shaking hands she lifted the lid. It was pure relief to see nothing but a jumble of paper. Then she noticed the scrawled note at the top of the pile. In pencil, on a scrap of lined, hole-punched paper, was her car registration number.
The Killer Inside Page 20
