A Deadly Imperfection: Calladine & Bayliss 3

by HH Durrant

  ‘He recognises his clothing, what’s left of it and the dog certainly knew him. Don’t think I’ve ever seen a dog more distraught.’

  ‘How long ago?’ Calladine asked, turning to Doc. Hoyle who was with the ambulance people.

  ‘Last night, I’d say,’ he confirmed.

  ‘So what links it to the other case?’

  ‘This, Inspector,’ Julian Batho offered, showing him the tarot card found in Albert’s pocket, now secured in an evidence bag. ‘We’ve got an empty fuel can too. I’ll get it back to the lab and see what’s what. I’ll be in touch.’

  Calladine sighed – he didn’t know what to make of this. Apart from the cards there was nothing obvious to link the cases at all. Different method, the men were poles apart socially – so what was it that they had in common?

  The bad feeling was back – the one he got when things were worse than he’d realised and they were up against it. He beckoned Ruth over to join him. She’d been talking to the nephew. She patted his arm comfortingly and passed him over to the ambulance crew who were waiting to take North’s body to the morgue.

  ‘Looks like we’ve got a serial killer, Ruth,’ Calladine told her quietly. ‘We need to do some digging, but I can’t see what could possibly link North to Ahmed,’ he shuddered. ‘I just hope our killer isn’t choosing people at random, that’s all we need,’ he said stamping his feet up and down against the cold.

  ‘Albert lived very quietly according to his nephew.’

  ‘He did recently,’ Calladine scoffed. ‘But not when I knew him. The man was a right villain back in the day.’

  ‘According to his nephew he couldn’t get about much anymore due to a stroke he had a while ago. He wasn’t a well man. He was breathless most of the time and had a failing heart. This wasn’t part of his usual routine – walking his dog on the common, I mean.’

  ‘Perhaps he wasn’t the target then. Who was it usually took the dog out?’

  ‘Jayden, his nephew over there.’

  He didn’t look more than twenty. This must be a nightmare for him, seeing the old man like this. Calladine wondered if he knew about North’s past – about the things he’d done, the trouble and misery he’d caused. ‘We’ll look at him closely too, in that case. But even if the victim’s wrong, I still don’t see where the tie up is.’

  ‘It could be anything, drugs, the hospital or something else. North was a patient and Ahmed a doctor. That could be something, I’ll check that out – see what clinics North attended,’ Ruth decided.

  ‘Looks to me like he was doused in a flammable liquid and set alight. Whatever was in that can most likely,’ Doc. Hoyle offered. ‘Most of the heat seems to have been at the neck area and his head. That was down to the thick scarf he was wearing. Soaked up most of the accelerant then burned good and hot.’

  Calladine winced. The old man hadn’t been able to help himself - it’d have been too quick. ‘Get the body back,’ he told Hoyle. ‘I’ll come and see you later once I’ve briefed the team.’

  ‘I think most of your team are here, aren’t they, Tom. There’s only DC Goode missing.’

  True – a measure of how short handed they were. Calladine looked around – no sign of Thorpe though, he thought thankfully.

  ***

  ‘All we can say for now is that the two men were murdered, but everything about those murders is different. Despite the different methods used we’re still looking for only one killer. The reason - because one of these was left at the scene of both,’ Calladine told the team pointing to the two tarot cards pinned to the Incident Board. ‘I can’t even begin to understand what they mean, but we’ll find someone who does and they may be able to cast some light. That shop in town,’ he put to Ruth. ‘The one you bought the new cards from - perhaps they know who might enlighten us.’

  ‘I’ll go back and ask,’ she nodded, making a note.

  ‘We’ll both go,’ he decided. Suddenly the entire card issue had become important. ‘This isn’t like any other multiple killings we’ve dealt with. For a start we’re used to killers using the same method of despatch. Serial killers have a tried and tested way of operating that they’ve honed over time. What’s baffling about this is the difference.’

  He rubbed the back of his head and stood away from the board. ‘Any ideas?’

  ‘Could we have two killers – each using their own methods but each with a common purpose?’

  Calladine nodded – Imogen might have a point but he didn’t think that was it.

  ‘If it is one killer then perhaps they’re just starting out,’ Rocco suggested. ‘Perhaps they haven’t found their particular method yet.’

  ‘It doesn’t work like that, Rocco,’ Calladine told him. ‘No – I’m certain we’re looking for one person who knew them both.’

  ‘But the doctor and North lived in entirely different social circumstances. So who’d know them both?’ Rocco put to him.

  ‘Albert North and Doctor Ahmed can’t possibly be linked,’ Imogen argued. ‘I doubt they have anyone or anything in common. North was from the Hobfield and the Doctor from the posh part of Leesworth. North was retired and the doctor at the hospital all day, every day.’

  ‘The link is the killer, he or she could be a tradesman, someone delivering groceries, the list is endless once you think about it,’ Calladine pointed out. ‘We’re going to have to dig because link is there; somewhere and we’ve got to find it because there’s no guarantee that this is the end.’

  ‘You’re expecting more?’ Imogen asked.

  ‘We’ve no way of knowing, but it looks like someone’s on a mission to me.’

  Brad Long entered the Incident Room, he nodded to the team then handed Calladine a wodge of papers.

  ‘Julian sent these up. He reckons you need to look at the summary of his findings right away.’

  ‘How’s Thorpe doing with the missing child case?’

  ‘He’s following a lead but it’s a wild goose chase if you ask me. The child could be anywhere – it’s been days.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we be doing more?’

  ‘With what, with who,’ he said puffing out his fat cheeks. ‘We’re all stretched as it is. Anyway I’ve given Oldston the heads up, asked them to look at it in tandem with their Cassidy case. That new guy they’ve got, DI Greco, is looking at it now.’

  ‘The Prideau girl disappeared on our patch - it should be down to us to find her.’

  ‘We can’t afford to be that idealistic, Tom, wish we could, but we just don’t have the resources.’

  Calladine sighed with discontent and looked at what the Doc had sent him. Hoyle had taken North’s body to the morgue so Julian will have started his analysis of any findings. Calladine scanned the single sheet of A4 stamped ‘Urgent’ in red ink.

  ‘This backs up my theory that we’re looking for one killer,’ he told the team.

  ‘So it has to be someone who knew both Albert North and Doctor Ahmed,’ Rocco reiterated.

  ‘Tariq Ahmed was a Doctor – they see allsorts at the hospital,’ Imogen reasoned. ‘So our killer could be from the Hobfield, and have had some beef with the Doctor.’

  ‘But why now? What is it that’s prompted these killings?’ It was a puzzler and Calladine’s brain was out of practise. He’d just have to work on it.

  ‘Julian has sent his preliminary report through,’ he told the team. ‘Hairs were found on both Doctor Ahmed’s and Albert North’s clothing – synthetic hairs, like you get in a cheap wig. So if there were any doubts before, I think this sorts them. We’re definitely looking for one killer,’ he emphasised.

  ‘What colour?’ Ruth asked.

  ‘Grey and curly.’

  ‘Like an elderly woman’s hair, Guv - the sort of style that still requires rollers and a hairdryer at the salon.’

  ‘If you say so, Sergeant.’

  But she was right, when he thought back to when his mother was in the home he could recall all the old dears having more or less the same style, an
d that just about summed it up – grey and curly.

  ‘Then this could be someone in disguise, pretending to be elderly.’

  ‘Pretending to be an elderly woman, Guv,’ Ruth corrected him. ‘But why, what would that achieve?’

  ‘Trust perhaps,’ he replied. ‘Who would think an elderly woman dangerous?’

  Doc. Hoyle had said the killer was small – so was their killer, in fact, a woman.

  ‘Rocco, did you get that CCTV from the neighbour’s houses?’

  ‘Yes, Guv – I’ve got it setup ready to go. It’s from a house three doors down from the Doctor’s. They have two cameras and one faces the drive and catches the footpath. It’ll only be a snippet, if that, but given what we know about the hair now, it’s worth a shot.’

  Calladine was hoping that even a stray shot of their killer would solve the gender question. ‘Will you get that sorted, Rocco? Get stills of everyone who passed that driveway after nine o’ clock Monday night.’

  ‘Imogen – dig around a bit, will you? Dig around in Doctor Ahmed’s past and see what you can find. We’ll leave his patients until later – we’ll look at personal stuff first.’

  This wasn’t going to be easy – they were a man down and Thorpe was useless.

  ‘Ruth, we’d better go see the fortune teller now,’ he rolled his eyes.

  ‘You shouldn’t scoff,’ she warned.

  ‘I’m not scoffing just dubious,’ he corrected her. ‘First the shop and then we need to do something about the Doctors patients. We’re going to have to go through them all.’

  ‘The hospital won’t like it, Guv. We’ll need special documents, the lot.’

  ‘We’ll get a warrant, whatever it takes but we’ll leave it until it becomes vital,’ he decided.

  Chapter 5

  As Harriet Finch opened her eyes the full horror of what she’d done hit like a thunderclap. The old Harriet was back – the one who knew full well that her recent actions were horribly wrong. The one with the conscience was on her case, urging her to stop before things got out of hand.

  Too late for that - she’d killed two men in as many days. What in hell’s name had possessed her?

  Stupid question – she knew very well. A woman she barely recognised was responsible, a version of Harriet Finch who was eventually going to take over her mind completely. This new version was hell bent on revenge - she was a woman on a mission. But what was worse - she was pressed for time.

  She lay in bed and stared at her bedroom ceiling - she was a devil, a murderer. Could she be stopped? No, not now, it was far too late.

  The panic struck her stomach like a blow from a heavy fist. She coughed violently, made a dash to bathroom and threw up down the toilet.

  Calm down, you’re safe – the new Harriet reassured. But was she? Harriet was living in a sort of bubble, but a bubble that could burst at any time. When it did, she’d be carted off to prison. The ignominy, the shame – what was left of her family would never cope with it.

  She crawled back to her bed and sat on the edge, exhausted, her body shaking. You have to finish this, the cold, hard voice told her. You promised and you owe it to those you love.

  ‘Loved,’ Harriet corrected out loud. ‘They’re nearly all gone, and that’s the whole point,’ she sighed wearily. ‘That’s what you want, isn’t it - revenge, chaos and more misery?’

  There was laughter in her head - the voice was taunting her. This wasn’t who she was. Harriet Finch wasn’t a killer – not the old Harriet Finch anyway. It was the cancer that had changed her. The cancer had taken on a personality, a personality with raw intent. It demanded and it pushed, and Harriet could refuse it nothing. She was powerless against its energy, its will.

  The voice was insidious, it warned that she had to act now – she must be quick and avenge those she’d loved. So she was compelled, haunted by the faces of those long dead. They cried out to her in her dreams, in her head when she was awake, as they joined the voice. They wanted vengeance too, and like it or not, they’d made her their vehicle.

  She had to take control if she was to see this through to the end. And control started now, today. Harriet, the new Harriet, had to get on with it. She might feel like crap, but there were still things to do. Like the voice kept telling her, time was running out. Any day now she could become bed bound and her task would end frayed and unfinished. So if she was going to complete this then she had to get on with things.

  Gordon Lessing – he’s the next one, the voice whispered contentedly. You know how evil he is, you know the truth about him. He finished your poor sister, Sybil. But it wasn’t just Sybil was it? The children Harriet, you know, you’ve suspected all along, and still you’re silent. Your silence is deafening! You know what he’s done and you know too that he won’t stop. So why in all these years have you never spoken out? That’s bad Harriet, very bad. Think of the misery he’s given all those families, think of the children…. But you can put that right now, can’t you?

  Yes she could, and Sybil would want that. Suddenly she understood. She knew what to do, but she’d have to plan carefully. It had to be an end befitting the cruel bastard. It had to be something satisfying to watch after what he’d done to those children and to Sybil.

  Sybil – her poor dead sister, she sobbed and dabbed her eyes. She never used to cry like this but these days, she couldn’t help it. Everything seemed so sad, so pointless. Sybil had never been able to stand up for herself, so she never had a chance against that pig of man. Lessing was a bully, a controlling, wicked bully. To everyone who knew them as a couple he gave the impression of being a caring, good provider. But that was a sham. He pretended to be the successful business man, always boasting about his haulage company and how it gave his family a very good living. But Harriet couldn’t see it – he only had two wagons and they were run into the ground. No – she knew how he earned his money alright – he didn’t fool her, and it wasn’t by transporting goods across Europe. It was about the children. He was involved in people trafficking – a trade so wicked, he deserved all he was going to get.

  But getting Lessing would mean going out into the world again, during the daytime. He did most of his driving at night so she had no choice. So far Harriet had managed everything during the hours of darkness. Daylight was not flattering. She looked ill, like death itself, in fact.

  However one way or another Harriet would have to conceal the ravages of her illness, cover them up behind makeup and a wig. Chemotherapy had robbed her of both her looks and her hair. She’d wear the titian one - it was nearest to what her old hair colour had been.

  The voice purred quietly at last, happy with the plan. He has a cellar, Harriet, everything you need is there.

  Was it? Why there, she couldn’t think, was she missing something?

  Harriet looked at her reflection – the makeup helped, but not much. The wig looked garish against her sick pallor. She screamed in frustration and threw the thing across the bedroom floor.

  That’s it girl, the voice encouraged. She was hardly a girl, she sniffed - she was fifty five and terminal. Her illness had stolen her energy and her looks. All she had left, all that was keeping her going, was the voice with its burning, all consuming need for revenge.

  If she didn’t get caught this time then it was back to the treatment. Harriet couldn’t understand why she was still free. She was no expert, and she’d killed two people with no repercussions – not even a visit from the police, well not yet anyway. But it had made her nervous, every phone call, and every knock on the door made her sick with worry.

  ***

  ‘Long didn’t hang around, did he?’

  ‘You don’t really want that man nosing into everything we do, do you Sergeant?’

  ‘That’s not the point. He knows we’re short on the team. He could have offered to help. I’ve no idea what he finds to do in that office of his all day.’

  ‘He’ll have some time wasting occupation to fill the hours, Ruth – believe me. Who was
he on about – who is DI Greco?’

  ‘Some hotshot detective new to the area and stirring things up at Oldston nick from all accounts. He sounds okay.’

  ‘Imogen should contact him – tell him her theories, it all sounded very plausible to me.’

  ‘There’ll be a free parking space by the Library, the shop is just around the corner,’ Ruth advised.

  ‘Is she scary?’

  ‘Don’t be daft, Guv. She runs a shop not a coven and she’s nice. I’m sure she’ll help, if she can.’

  The shop was called ‘Moonbeams’. It was small, packed with all sorts of weird stuff Calladine didn’t recognise but it smelled divine.

  ‘The smell is jasmine – from the incense.’ The female owner said as she watched the detective inhale deeply. She laughed in a gentle, melodic way, ‘relaxing, isn’t it. You should try some at home, Inspector,’ she suggested, her bright blue eyes twinkling with amusement.

  Calladine had just been about to proffer his badge but instead retracted his hand from his pocket, puzzled. ‘How do you know I’m police,’ he asked.

  ‘Because I live locally, and I’ve seen you about,’ she told him. ‘It’s not magic, it’s just community knowledge.’ There was more twinkling of those incredible eyes.

  So she’d noticed him – Calladine wasn’t sure if he should be flattered or not. She was an attractive woman, mid forties, tall with a full, voluptuous figure, long sable coloured hair and the bluest eyes he’d ever seen. Calladine stood stock still and did nothing but stare at her for a good few seconds. There was something mesmerising about the woman – not just the looks, the whole package. Her mode of dress was what he’d describe as bohemian, or was it simply aging hippy? He shook himself – what on earth was going on? He only just clapped eyes on the woman and he was transfixed. He had Lydia at home, and although he’d never put it to the test – he had her down as the jealous type.

  ‘Amaris Dean,’ she smiled a dazzling smile, and offered him her hand.