by Helen Phifer
‘Why did you go see him?’
‘He’s a psychotherapist. I told Amy I wasn’t sleeping and she recommended him.’
‘Was that your appointment?’
She nodded.
‘Did he say anything else?’
‘Nothing confidential; he just said he was upset because he’d seen her around the college where he lectures a couple of times a week and she was such a lovely girl.’
‘He knew her? That’s interesting. Maybe we should speak to him officially about it. At this point, I’ll take any leads we can get.’
‘What about Amy?’
‘Leave her to me. I’ll discuss it with her. Hey, do you want to go get some stuff from your apartment so it’s in the car for when we knock off?’
‘Yes, I can do.’ She also thought she could pay Stan a quick visit on her way there.
Her shoulders heavy and her brain aching, she left Ben to it.
TWENTY-TWO
Ben was about to call Amy when his desk phone began to ring.
‘Good afternoon, is this Detective Sergeant Ben Matthews?’
He recognised the soft Irish lilt in the voice and smiled.
‘It is, Doctor, why so formal?’
‘I’m trying to show my assistant the proper way to address someone on the phone. I overheard her earlier answering my desk phone with a very distinct “Yeah”. No good morning or anything, it was horrifying.’
Ben laughed.
‘I bet you don’t get that with your protégé, Morgan, do you?’
He rubbed a hand over his chin. Despite shaving this morning it felt rough already.
‘No, her phone manners are impeccable. However her ability to attract disaster is on another level. But you didn’t phone to discuss our colleagues.’
‘You, my friend, are very perceptive: no, I did not. I phoned because I fast-tracked the swabs and hair samples for you. There were two possible matches: one of them is being retested because it’s a mistake.’
Ben sucked in his breath; this was too good to be true. ‘How is it a mistake?’
‘Well one is a close match to Morgan’s.’
‘Christ, how has that happened? I told her to be careful. What about the other?’
‘Well this is where it gets a little complicated because hers is also similar to the other. To be fair, I don’t know what’s going on with that one. I understand the basics, but I’m no DNA expert.’
‘How?’
‘Do you remember that terrible case from back in the nineties? The rapist who attacked women out alone walking or jogging.’
‘Vaguely, the press called him the Riverside Rapist because all his attacks happened along the banks of the river.’
‘Well the other is almost identical to his. There are a couple of slight differences, but it’s good enough and things have improved a lot since his initial sample will have been taken when he was arrested.’
‘What the hell? He’s in prison, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, I googled him. Unless he gets out on day release for good behaviour. It happens. He would probably be nearly at the end of his sentence, wouldn’t he?’
‘Well, at least we have a starting point. Thanks, Declan, I appreciate it.’
‘You’re very welcome. Don’t be too harsh on Morgan.’ He hung up.
Ben logged on to his computer and began to research the Riverside Rapist. Photographs of a smiling man, dressed in a grey two-piece prison jogging suit, filled the screen. He was waving – his arms and legs in shackles – as he was put into the back of a van. He had raped three women along the bank of the River Rothay then murdered his wife. The arrogance radiated from him. Ben could tell by looking at him that Gary Marks thought he was God. He needed to speak to him and find out what was going on, and he would have to take Morgan with him because he didn’t want to leave her alone at the moment. He paused, should he have let her go off on her own now to collect her things? Probably not. He searched for the phone number for HMP Manchester. He needed to pay a visit to Gary Marks as soon as he could.
TWENTY-THREE
Morgan didn’t bother knocking or ringing the broken bell that was smashed to pieces; instead, she pushed the front door to the block of bedsits where Stan was living. It opened, and she tutted under her breath. This was the third time she’d visited, and each time the door was open for anyone to walk inside. As she stepped into the dark, gloomy narrow hall which smelt of cooking oil and sweat, she began to breathe through her mouth. It smelt awful. There was a stack of crumpled letters on the bottom stair. The filthy, threadbare carpet looked as if it hadn’t seen a hoover in ten years. Stan lived on the top floor. Tucking her hands in her pockets so she didn’t touch the banister or walls, she ran up the three flights of stairs to his door. It smelt much better up here, and he’d hoovered the stairs which led to his front door. She knocked on the plywood door and heard footsteps inside. It opened, and he smiled to see her.
‘Morgan, how are you, love? Come in.’
He stepped to one side and she went inside. His flat smelt of bleach and lemon – a much better combination than further down. Bless him, he was really trying to impress her.
‘I’m good. Busy, but you know how it is.’
‘Sit down. I’ll put the kettle on.’
‘I can’t stop long, sorry. I’ve just called for a quick visit. How are you?’
‘I’m good.’
She looked around the compact bedsit. There were no telltale empty cans of alcohol or whisky bottles; it was clean, and he’d even scrubbed the grime off the windows.
‘You’ve done a good job with the place.’
He laughed. ‘I’ve done what I could with it. I know it’s a shithole, love. But it’s better than a park bench and it’s warm. Thank God I’m up here so I can’t hear what the idiots downstairs get up to. I think the woman in the bottom flat is dealing, but you never heard that from me. It doesn’t bother me, except when people are shouting, banging and throwing things at the windows in the early hours.’
She nodded, acknowledging his comments, but not making a big fuss of them because he’d more than likely clam up and not tell her anything else. He still disliked the police, although with not quite as much passion as he used to.
‘I’m tired, really tired. I wake up at the same time in the early hours every morning. It started after Mum died. I have bad dreams too, but I can never remember what they are. I know they’re not about Mum; sometimes I get a tiny sliver of it come back to me and a few times I’ve seen a red-haired woman. She’s tiny, with green eyes a bit like mine. But that’s it. I never remember anything else, just her face. Things have got so bad I decided to see a psychotherapist and he thinks they might be repressed memories from some kind of childhood trauma.
‘I don’t remember anything like that happening apart from Mum dying. But I was fifteen, not a kid. I was wondering if you knew about something that had happened when I was little that, for some reason, I might have blocked from my mind?’
She looked at his face; the colour had drained from it and he looked stunned.
‘I, I don’t know, love. There’s nothing that I know about. As far as I know, you had a great childhood. We protected you the best we could from everything. Well, I’m not saying you didn’t fall over and scrape your knees or crash that little pink bike you had when you were trying to learn to ride it, because you did, quite a lot, but no matter how bad it hurt you always got back up and tried again.’
‘Oh God. I didn’t mean it like that. I’m not accusing you of anything, Stan. I know you and Mum did your very best. I was wondering if I’d been in some kind of accident or saw something terrible happen to someone else.’
He shook his head. ‘No, we looked after you from day one the best that we could. I’m not saying we were perfect parents; I don’t think anyone ever is and I know I made mistakes after Sylvia passed. All you can do is try your best and hope that you’re doing it right.’
She sighed. ‘Thanks. I wonder what th
e hell these bad dreams are then.’
‘If you’re seeing a shrink, they’ll be able to work it out. You’ll be paying them enough for the pleasure.’
Morgan didn’t correct him that it wasn’t a shrink, realising she was too tired for anything. ‘I have to go, but thanks. Sorry if I upset you.’
She stood up, taking the few steps from the sofa to reach the door.
‘Be careful, love, you work far too hard and after last time…’ He didn’t finish his sentence. He didn’t need to: both of them had paid a price that had almost cost them their lives.
‘I will, thank you. See you later, Stan.’
She shut the door behind her and trudged down the stairs, relieved to be back outside in the fresh air. She was proud of him; he was trying really hard. Next time she’d tell him this, maybe even ask him around for tea on her days off. This thought made her feel much better; they’d had some ups and downs but they were sorting it out and she owed him. Who was she to judge anyone’s parenting? She’d never had kids and didn’t think she’d ever want them. It was too hard bringing them into a world where evil stalked innocent people and killed them for pleasure.
TWENTY-FOUR
He’d searched the college website for the class timetable, then he’d searched through the department pages until he’d found a picture of her. She was stunning, even more so on the headshot she’d used. Obviously a professional one, not a selfie from a drunken night out. He also had a name: Emily Wearing, and thanks to Facebook he knew that she was twenty-five in three weeks, single, lived alone and loved her pet sausage dog more than anything else. He’d studied her photographs closely. He knew she liked to drink rosé wine, enjoyed the cinema and Italian food. Thanks to Instagram, he knew her hobbies included running, fell walking and reading, especially thrillers. She baked lots of cakes; she also burnt a lot too as she posted pictures of the disasters as well as the edible ones. The only thing he didn’t know was her bank account number, but given a little more time, he was sure he could find it out. All this had taken him less than thirty minutes. It was unbelievable, really, and stupid, so very stupid. How many people posted their most private information onto the Internet for the whole world to see? More did than didn’t, except for him. He had a Facebook page, but it was set to private. The only people he had as friends were actual friends; he didn’t accept every idiot who sent a friend request. He only posted generic pictures, nothing personal. Why would he? His life was very private. He didn’t want anyone knowing anything about him that he wouldn’t tell them in person.
It hadn’t been hard to figure out where she was from either. Although the college was in Kendal, she spent a lot of time around the Rydal Falls area. He recognised the places her photographs were taken, and she always added the location on her Instagram posts. He knew all her personal information. If he got the chance, he’d follow her home tonight to see exactly where her house was. If he couldn’t, there was tomorrow. Although it had been almost a week since he’d strangled G, he was itching to do it again. He’d fantasised for so long about it; he hadn’t realised exactly how delicious it would be to be in such control of another person. He didn’t think she would be as much fun as his first. He knew that the first was supposed to be the best, like the first of everything, first love, first kiss… first kill had been far too superior to either of those. He wanted to at least try and recreate it though. If anything he was a trier; his mother had always told him that. And didn’t her precious God love a trier too? Yes, He did.
He waited in the car by the side of the road, a book propped against his steering wheel. He looked as if he was cramming for college or getting ready to teach. No one bothered with him, which was fine, he liked it that way. Invisibility was a great ability to possess when you needed to be discreet and when hunting for your next kill. Discretion was invaluable. There weren’t as many cars parked out the front of the college as the last time he was here; he’d stand out if he was still parked there when she came out. He looked up; people were filtering out of the doors. It was almost seven; she was either going to leave soon or be here until the bitter end. The words on the page in front of him were a blur. Inside his mind, he was already getting to know E a little better than he already did. What was her bed like, was it big, did she make it every morning when she got up or did she leave it a mess? G had been messy; he’d had to make the bed for her and he doubted she’d even appreciated his efforts.
His patience was finally rewarded when he saw E’s blue Mini appear at the junction of the exit; but she wasn’t alone. He was a little disappointed with this. In the passenger seat was a much older male and he wondered who this could be. Friend, colleague? He would follow her. Hopefully, she would only be offering this man a lift somewhere and not taking him back to her address. He’d got himself worked up about the fun he was going to have with her and didn’t want it to be spoilt before he’d begun.
Placing the book on the seat next to him, he indicated and pulled out behind her, slowly and keeping a safe distance. He didn’t want her to see him just yet. He preferred the element of surprise. It made the whole thing so much sweeter, especially when the fear in their eyes turned to recognition and disbelief.
TWENTY-FIVE
Amy walked into the office with Detective Constable Des Black, who had thankfully come back to work after his recent hernia operation. They needed every hand they could get.
‘Anything?’ Ben asked.
‘Nothing decent, lots of gossip about how Charlotte is a bit of a diva and gives Harry the runaround. Apart from that, they’re a happy family, married for twenty-five years and like their city breaks.’
‘Can I have a word, in my office?’ He walked towards it; she put the clipboards down and followed him.
‘What’s up, Ben?’
‘Morgan went to see your cousin, the psychotherapist. He mentioned knowing Gabby.’
‘I know, I suggested it. And he’s my cousin’s boyfriend, but I don’t hold that against him. He teaches at the sixth form, so yeah I would imagine he did.’
‘Do you think he’d be able to help us with the investigation? Maybe come up with an idea of who we might be looking for? I know it’s a long shot, but Morgan’s ideas about serial killers have got me wondering.’
‘I can ask. I think he’d be able to help, or at least advise us. Let me phone him.’
Amy rang and waited for him to answer, putting the call on speaker. ‘Hello, it’s me.’
‘Hello you.’
‘Isaac, my boss was wondering if you might be able to give us a hand with something?’
‘Like what, are you short-staffed? I don’t think I’d be any good at enquiries or scene guard.’
‘Not that kind of hand. He wants some advice but isn’t sure if this is anything you would be able to help with.’
‘Go on. If I can, I will.’
‘You know about the murder? We’re trying to get an idea what this suspect could be like and wondered if you might have any insight into the kind of person we should be looking for?’
‘What, like an offender profile, that kind of thing?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ah. You know I would love to be big-headed and say yes, but unfortunately I can’t. It’s not something I’d be comfortable doing really. You need a forensic psychologist for that.’
‘Oh, right. Yeah, I suppose we do. We can ask for one maybe. God knows how long it would take though. Thanks, Isaac, it was worth a shot. We’re looking for any kind of lead we can get right now. What he did to that poor girl was horrific. She didn’t deserve that.’
‘No, she didn’t, and neither will the next girl.’
‘What do you mean “the next girl”?’
‘Are you not assuming he’ll strike again? This kind of thing, if you’re telling me it was horrific and you have no obvious leads or any suspects with connections to her, then he might be a stranger and he’ll probably do it again.’
Ben buried his head into his hands. He was the second
person who thought this was what was happening. Amy knocked the speaker off and finished her conversation. He didn’t listen to the rest of it because he was trying to figure out what to do next, how likely this killer was to strike again and if he already had another victim in his sights, and then it hit him. Morgan. He’d contacted her. Somehow he’d got hold of her personal number and had been texting her. He was bold, he wanted attention, was looking for it. If this was a one-off he’d have tried to make himself invisible. He wouldn’t be blatantly rubbing it in all of their faces.
He rang her number and breathed a sigh of relief when she answered.
‘Hi.’
‘Hi.’
‘What?’
He realised he felt a bit awkward, then pushed that thought to one side.
‘Where are you, what are you doing?’
‘Do you also want to know what colour underwear I’m wearing?’
‘Good God, no, I do not.’
He heard her laughter and felt better. ‘Your sarcasm gives me heartburn. Don’t be so mean to me.’
‘Not on purpose, sorry. I’m just leaving my apartment. I’ve packed some things ready for my big adventure. Do I need to go shopping for some food? I don’t want to take all of yours.’
‘It’s up to you. I think I have enough stuff in for tonight.’
‘I’m bringing what fresh stuff there was in my fridge; no point letting it go off. What time are you finishing work?’
There was a slight pause as he tried to figure it out and then she whispered: ‘Oh God, I didn’t mean that how it sounded. I meant should I come back to work or go straight to yours?’
‘I don’t know, I’m tired. Maybe we could meet at mine, have something to eat and figure out whether to come back or not.’
‘Sounds like a plan to me, boss.’
‘Oh and, Morgan, I’ll give you a spare key. No breaking any windows to get inside.’
He began to laugh and then hung up the phone. Grabbing his jacket, he told Amy he was nipping home. She waved a hand at him. Her head bent, she was reading her notes off a clipboard, and Des was concentrating as he typed what she was telling him onto the computer. They might only be a small team, but they were bloody good at their jobs and dedicated. He couldn’t ask for anything more.
