by David Hodges
‘I think sexually inadequate will suffice,’ Ansell said drily, glancing at Kate almost apologetically and receiving a sullen stare in return.
‘Yeah, well, Mottram’s sports car was spotted in the vicinity of two of the crime scenes about the time the girls would have been attacked and fibres found on a Pyracantha bush at one scene matched a torn coat in his wardrobe. I nicked him on sus and he got charged and went to trial–’
‘And?’
Roscoe looked uncomfortable. ‘He had a good QC,’ he retorted defensively. ‘Baffled the jury with science – something to do with the forensic evidence being compromised. Anyway, the case was thrown out – grounds of insufficient evidence – and the bastard just walked.’
‘Straight to Somerset, it would seem?’
‘Yeah, which means he could be our man. Much of the MO in both cases seems to fit.’
Ansell pursed his lips thoughtfully. ‘Bit of a coincidence that he is on our patch, I agree but the connection between the cases is a bit tenuous. If Mottram – or Copely as he is now called – was the perpetrator in the TVP cases, he didn’t actually kill his victims, did he?’
‘Maybe he has graduated to that this time?’
‘Possible but we have no witnesses and nothing to directly link him with either Schofield or Moorcroft. As for forensics, they’ve turned up zilch at the first scene – apart from the doll – and we’re still waiting on their exam of the second.’
‘So we’re not going to pull him in for interview?’ Roscoe growled.
‘On what basis? As far as the judiciary is concerned, he is an innocent man and we have nothing to suggest otherwise. We would be taken to the cleaners if we brought him in solely on the grounds of a past history that had been rubbished in court.’
‘So what do we do?’
‘We watch and we wait.’
‘While he stiffs someone else?’
Ansell closed his eyes for a second. ‘There may not be another incident, Ted,’ he said heavily, ‘and anyway, you’re in danger of allowing your own prejudice towards Copely to cloud your judgement. We don’t know for certain that he is our man; these murders could be the work of someone personally connected with either or both women – revenge, jealousy, family feud, anything.’
‘Maybe one of the teams will come up with a lead at tonight’s briefing?’ Kate put in, reluctantly burying her resentment against Ansell to avoid letting him see he could get under her skin.
Ansell looked sceptical. ‘Always possible but I wouldn’t count on it,’ he replied. ‘No, I think that now the cat is well and truly out of the bag, we should play the news media at their own game and use them to enlist the services of the public. I’ll get hold of HQ Press Office and set up a press conference tomorrow afternoon. Maybe a direct appeal for witnesses will get things moving.’
But it was obvious that he had his doubts.
‘So why the devil did this weirdo choose you?’ Hayden commented, unwittingly echoing Ansell’s earlier comments and easing himself up a little higher in the armchair beside his hospital bed with a worried-looking frown. ‘I don’t like the sound of that at all.’
Well on the mend, although still in a lot of pain, he was desperate to go home but had been told by the hospital that that wouldn’t be until the end of the week and only then if the consultant was satisfied his frustrated patient would get the care and rest he needed. That hadn’t pleased Hayden one little bit and Kate’s bombshell that, while he was incapacitated in hospital, the ruthless killer being hunted by the Major Crime Investigation Unit had left one of his straw dolls outside their home had only served to make him even more agitated.
Kate shrugged. ‘Could be it’s a compliment – he sees me as a worthy adversary.’
Hayden stared at her. ‘Compliment? Are you serious? This fellow is a nutter. You don’t want a repeat performance of what happened to you before, do you?’
She chewed her lip, a flashback to Twister momentarily searing her brain like a blinding whiteout. ‘I can’t do anything about it. I’ll just have to be careful.’
He snorted. ‘Darned right you will!’ He glanced quickly around him and tried to ease up even more in his seat. ‘Right, I’m getting out of here. You need me at home.’
She gave a brittle laugh. ‘To do what exactly, Sir Galahad? You can’t even walk properly. You’d be some kind of bodyguard.’
He slumped back in his seat and winced. ‘So what are Ansell and Roscoe doing to ensure your safety then?’
She raised her gaze to the ceiling with a snort of irritation. ‘What can they do, Hayd?’ she exclaimed. ‘I’m a bloody police officer, for goodness’ sake. This goes with the territory. Anyway, I don’t think our man sees me as a future target – the whole thing is like some sort of a challenge.’
He looked even more worried now. ‘Now that is creepy. It means he must have developed some sort of fixation about you. You could be in real danger.’
‘I am every time I go out on duty. What do you expect me to do – become a nun?’
For the first time since she had arrived he grinned. ‘Well, there’s a thought. Those sexy black and white habit things are a real turn-on.’
She treated him to a scathing glance as she got up to leave. ‘Is that so, Hayd?’ she said. ‘Remind me when you’re discharged and I’ll go out and get one for you!’
CHAPTER 12
Kate couldn’t sleep. She had been tossing and turning in the big double bed for at least three hours before she finally gave up. Switching on the bedside light, she slipped from under the sheets and headed for the shower, pausing briefly on the way to peer out of the landing window.
Mist once more choked the Levels, blotting out even the road outside the house, and she wondered whether Strawfoot was out and about at that moment, groping his way through the gloom, looking for another victim.
For some inexplicable reason her disordered brain centred on Mary Shelley, the famous author, who reputedly came up with the idea for her novel, The Modern Prometheus – or Frankenstein – the night she dreamed of a grotesque face peering at her through the bedroom window of her Lake Geneva hotel. Staring out of her own window now, inevitably Kate found herself half expecting to see a nightmare straw face of her own imagination staring back at her from the mist.
Then, abruptly, she tore her gaze away from the window and continued across the hallway to the bathroom, angry with herself and ashamed of her stupidity for even allowing such thoughts to enter her head. She was actually starting to think of the ruthless killer in terms of some legendary spectre instead of the cold, flesh-and-blood psychopath he really was. She was even thinking of him as Strawfoot!
‘Get a grip, girl,’ she muttered, ‘or it’s the funny farm for you, and that’s a fact!’
Under the hot jets of the power shower, she soon felt the tension in her muscles begin to fall away as her whole body gradually relaxed and it was with great reluctance that she finally turned the shower off and climbed out of the cubicle, wet and dripping, on to the cold tiled floor. She cleared the steam from the wall mirror and studied her face for a few moments as she dried herself off. She looked tired and drawn, with crow’s feet around her heavy-lidded eyes and an anaemic pallor to her complexion, despite the heat she had enjoyed in the shower. Even her auburn hair looked dry and listless when she removed the shower cap.
Her mouth tightened. Surely this damned murder case was not going to make her relapse after so long? The last thing she needed was to end up back on the psychiatrist’s couch with a similar lengthy period of intense therapy to that which she had had to endure after the Twister episode. It would finish her career for good. If only good old Hayden was there. His cheerful down-to-earth attitude always did the trick. He was her rock and without him she felt lost and vulnerable.
Finally slipping on a towelling bathrobe, she stomped downstairs in her bare feet and made for the kitchen and the wine rack. The dusty bottle of Australian Shiraz seemed to shout ‘pick me’ and she smiled wry
ly as she uncorked it and half filled a large burgundy glass, slopping some of the wine on to the hem of her robe in the process.
Damn it, she was trembling! Taking a very unladylike gulp, she wandered into the living room and dropped on to the settee beside the long-extinct open fire, listening to the familiar creaks and groans of the ancient cottage.
She leaned her head back against the cushion and half closed her eyes in thought, trying to concentrate on what Hayden had said about her vulnerability. What really concerned her was that the killer must have somehow managed to find out where she lived. She never gave out her home address to anyone except personal friends and, as it was ex-directory and also excluded from the public version of the electoral role, the most likely explanation was that he must have followed her home, which meant she could expect to receive a repeat visit from him at any time – a real sobering thought!
She would probably have pondered the issue a lot longer had not extreme tiredness, combined with the effects of the red wine, persuaded her otherwise. As her eyelids started to droop and the wine glass slipped sideways in her grasp, she quickly roused herself, dumped the empty glass on the coffee table and made for the stairs again. It was already after three, according to the clock on the mantelshelf, and it wouldn’t be worth going back to bed at all if she didn’t make the effort soon.
She heard the crunch of feet on the gravel path outside her front door just as she stepped on to the first riser. She stopped short, staring over her shoulder in the direction of the sound. Silence. Then a faint scuffling noise. She turned slowly to face the door, her heart making familiar squishing noises as the adrenalin began to pump through her veins in a painful head-swimming surge. Someone was creeping about outside the house and it was a damn sight too early for the postman!
Backing across the room to the fireplace, she bent down and picked up the poker. Her bare feet made no sound on the carpeted floor as she approached the front door and peered through the side window. She could just make out the edge of the porch pillar and, despite the mist, it was apparent to her that there was no one there.
Quietly unlocking the front door, she took hold of the handle and paused for a moment, plucking up courage. Then, taking a deep breath, she jerked it open and scanned the doorstep and front garden. Deserted – but there was another small parcel lying on the step up against the other pillar. She was about to bend down to pick it up when she heard more sounds in the mist beyond the faint outline of the garden fence.
‘Who’s there?’ she shouted and, in the heat of the moment, forgetting she was still barefoot, she sprang through the door on to the path, the poker held up in one hand ready to strike. In the gloom to her right, she glimpsed an indistinct silhouette moving away from her at speed. It looked vaguely like a tall man wearing some kind of ragged coat and floppy hat and she froze into immobility as she remembered Roscoe’s description of the man Daphne Herbert claimed to have seen. Shit! The old doll had been telling the truth – he was dressed like a bloody scarecrow! Before she could recover, however, the ‘apparition’ was gone and she was left swearing angrily and hopping from one leg to the other as the sharp gravel bit cruelly into the soles of her bare feet.
Forced to retreat to the doorstep again, she threw another desperate glance into the mist as she leaned against the door frame, sweeping the gravel from the sole of each foot in turn with her hand but there was nothing to see – her intruder had completely disappeared.
Still shaking, she picked up the parcel and went back into the living room, slamming and locking the front door behind her and placing the parcel carefully on the coffee table.
Despite her burning curiosity, she left it there for a moment and crossed to the phone. Business first. Quickly ringing the control room, she called for all available local units to carry out an immediate sweep of the area. Deep down, she was quite sure this would turn out to be futile. Her intruder would be long gone before anyone managed to get there and in the thick mist it was unlikely he would be spotted anyway. But she had to go through the motions or risk criticism later.
Finally turning her attention to the parcel, she studied it for a moment. The thing was about the same size as the little box she had previously received but she made no immediate attempt to open it. By rights, knowing what had happened before, she was duty bound to leave it intact and take it straight to the scenes of crime department in the morning for forensic examination. But at the same time, she was anxious to see what was inside. Another straw doll? Probably but she was desperate to find out for herself.
Chewing her lip, she retrieved the bottle of red wine and, propping herself on the arm of the settee, poured herself another glass, sipping it slowly and studying the parcel through narrowed eyes, as if she expected to hear it suddenly rip itself open like a hatching egg. She was still sitting there, thinking about what to do next, when a car screeched to a halt outside, bringing with it the metallic chatter of a police radio and a powerful flashing light, which sent pulses of blue, like visual heartbeats, across the walls and ceiling of the living room.
There were two of them – a uniformed male sergeant, built like a brick shed, and a thin wiry colleague carrying the ‘SC’ shoulder insignia of a special constable.
She recognized the skipper as soon as she opened the front door – he was one of the Highbridge team – and she felt his eyes virtually devouring her as she stood there framed by the living-room lights. With a sense of embarrassment, she realized she was unintentionally flashing quite a lot of bare thigh through a gap in her robe and she quickly covered herself.
He grinned. ‘No sign of anyone on the road, Kate,’ he said. ‘Had a good look around the village but you can hardly see a thing in this mist.’
She nodded. ‘Thanks, anyway. He probably made off across the fields.’
The uniformed man’s eyes sparkled. ‘Dressed like a scarecrow, I hear?’
Another nod. ‘That’s what he looked like – probably a trick of the mist.’
He chuckled. ‘Bit early for Guy Fawkes, though, isn’t it?’ he commented. ‘Maybe one of the entries for that scarecrow festival decided to go walkabout?’
She didn’t laugh in response and he coughed and shuffled his feet uncomfortably, his grin dying at the same time.
‘Want us to – er – come in and take a look around?’
She was conscious of his eyes appraising her again and she shook her head coldly. ‘That won’t be necessary, thank you.’
He got the message and turned back to the car, almost pushing his gaping colleague out of the way in the process. ‘Don’t forget to lock your door again, though, will you?’
CHAPTER 13
Kate was at work by nine in the morning, despite lack of sleep, and she attracted several second looks from early-turn colleagues when she passed them in the corridor leading to the scenes of crime office. She had resisted the temptation to open the parcel that had been left on her doorstep and it was still intact when she booked it in with the dour SOCO manager, Samantha Lindslade.
‘You look awful,’ Lindslade commented, glancing at the parcel on her desk, then studying Kate’s pale drawn face with a concerned frown.
‘Thanks,’ Kate responded. ‘But hopefully I’ll feel a lot better after you’ve had a chance of examining that.’
Roscoe was once more in the incident room ahead of her when she pushed through the double doors and he threw her an enquiring look as she walked straight past him into the SIO’s office and slumped into a chair.
‘Just going to ring you,’ he growled, when he joined her a few minutes later with two mugs of coffee.
‘You’ve heard then?’ she said, taking one from him with a smile of thanks.
He took a gulp from his mug and studied her over the rim. ‘Brief entry in the control room log,’ he replied. ‘You’ve had another parcel, it seems?’
She nodded. ‘Just booked it in with SOCO – unopened this time, though.’
He grunted and, crossing to the window, peered d
own into the yard. ‘How soon before we get to see what’s inside?’
She shrugged. ‘As soon as they’ve finished with it, Samantha Lindslade politely informed me.’
He took another gulp of coffee, then set the mug on the window sill. ‘That tells us a lot,’ he retorted, then added, ‘Guv’nor’s on his way to the big house. Briefing with the ACC. Didn’t sound too happy when he rang me, so no need to bother him with this just yet.’
‘I suspect he’ll be a lot less happy once the contents of the parcel are revealed.’
Roscoe faced her, slipping a roll of chewing gum into his mouth and shaking a cigarette out of a packet. ‘Yeah,’ he agreed, lighting up and tossing the packet on to the desk, ‘and he’s got a press conference here at 2.30 this afternoon, which isn’t likely to improve his mood either.’
He studied her through a cloud of smoke. ‘Didn’t get much of a look at your late-night visitor, I suppose?’
She shook her head. ‘Just a shadow really,’ she replied. ‘Long tattered coat and some sort of floppy hat, nothing more.’
He started, as if he had been tasered, the cigarette frozen in his mouth. ‘You taking the piss?’ he gasped.
‘No joke, Guv,’ she said grimly. ‘He was dressed exactly as your Miss Herbert claimed, though I didn’t notice much else. The point is, how do we play things now? We can hardly put out a press release to say we’re looking for a scarecrow.’
He snatched the cigarette from his mouth and followed the trails of exhaled smoke to the ceiling through half-closed eyes. ‘Damned right we can’t,’ he said savagely, ‘and the boss is as likely to put that out at his bloody press conference as he is trying for a spot as a comedian at the Apollo!’
‘So we sit tight and say nothing?’
‘Unless you have any other bright ideas?’
