by Mel Sherratt
‘How is he doing?’ Sam asked as they went downstairs.
‘He’s undergone several hours of surgery but he’s stable.’ Allie held the door open for her to walk through. ‘We can’t talk to him as he’s still sedated, but his wife is there. She was with him when it happened.’
‘Oh, God.’
‘She didn’t see the attack, I don’t think. Not that it’s any consolation for her.’
At the Royal Stoke University Hospital, they walked along the main corridor towards the emergency admissions wards.
‘We have to contain this, don’t we?’ said Sam.
‘I think it’s gone beyond that now,’ Allie replied. ‘Even if we kept the magnetic letters to ourselves, the bloody killer isn’t giving us time to think. We’ll never join the pieces together at this rate.’
‘I know. There’s not enough time to check everything for one victim before he’s off taking out another one.’
‘It’s preposterous. Callous too.’ Allie moved aside as a man in crutches hobbled past them. ‘And even though we think he might be spelling the word revenge, it’s beginning to feel like Alphabet Spaghetti pouring out over a plate.’
‘And it’s not an acronym, as far as I’m aware. E, V, E, N, Y, N and now G – I’ve Googled it but come up with nothing.’
‘It’s bloody frustrating,’ said Allie.
They walked the final corridor and turned right onto the ward. All around them was a smell of disinfectant, a sharp smell of ammonia, a hint of lemon. A woman shouted out sporadically, followed by the voice of a man trying to soothe her.
The ward sister whom Allie had spoken to earlier was still on duty.
‘You can speak to his wife but, like I mentioned to you on the phone, for now Mr Whittaker is still recovering from surgery. He’s heavily sedated.’ The woman pointed to a side room. ‘Ten minutes, Sergeant,’ she said.
Allie pushed on the door handle and was met by the sight of a young woman with the tiniest of babies curled up asleep on her chest. Puffy-eyed, she sat in a big comfy chair by the side of the hospital bed, her eyes moving from her husband’s face for only a second as they entered before they were back to him again.
Nathan Whittaker lay on his back. His eyes were closed, his face flushed. For such a big man, he seemed helpless wired up to so many machines. Images crept into her head of Karen taking her last breaths, and she immediately pushed them away.
‘Mrs Whittaker?’ Allie stood at the end of the bed. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Shenton and this is my colleague, Detective Constable Markham. May we speak with you, please?’
‘Aye.’ Mia pushed herself to the edge of the seat, cupped the sleeping baby’s head and stood up.
‘She’s so tiny,’ Allie said, hoping that the pink baby suit was the right colour. ‘What’s her name?’
‘Casey. She was two weeks old yesterday.’
‘Beautiful.’
Mia squatted and laid the baby gently back in her car seat. ‘She is when she’s asleep. I hope she stays that way for a while.’ She stood up again and looked at them. ‘I only have that seat and I didn’t want to leave to fetch the travel cot. My parents are travelling down from Scotland at the moment.’ She started to cry.
Allie put a hand on her elbow and guided her back to her seat. She pulled out two chairs from a stack of four in the corner and she and Sam sat down too.
‘He’s doing well, I hear,’ said Allie.
‘I just want him to wake up.’ Mia looked at them through swollen eyes. ‘Just to know that it’s him lying in that bed and not some . . . some replica that I’m left with.’
‘Were there any other injuries apart from the stab wounds?’
‘A bump to the head. The surgeon said he’s going to be fine but I can’t see that yet.’
Allie gave a half-smile. ‘I know it’s tough but I need to run through what happened with you again.’
‘I could hardly speak last night.’ Mia rubbed her hands together. ‘And Casey began screaming when I started screaming. In the end, one of the nurses came in and took her to the maternity block where they watched her for a couple of hours. I’m not even sure they’re supposed to do that. Wasn’t that kind?’
Allie nodded.
‘It was about half past six. Casey had been niggling for most of the day so we’d both fallen asleep on the settee. We went for our usual takeaway: we have one most Wednesdays. The ridiculous thing was that for some reason I wanted to go with Nathan. Casey was snuffling again and I suppose I didn’t want to be on my own, despite it taking forever to get her ready to leave the house. They cause so much work, don’t they?’
‘They do,’ Sam empathised. ‘My little girl is five – not as messy but still a lot of work.’
‘We rang the order through and went to collect it. He sent me a silly text, which I replied to. Then a few minutes later, I was listening to the radio in the car, looking out for him, and decided to send him one too.’ Mia paused to catch her breath. ‘I looked up and there he was walking towards me. Except he was staggering, as if he was drunk, and clutching hold of his stomach. I raced over to him. He put out his hand for me to steady him and I felt it all slippery. It was covered in blood.’
As she gasped, Sam leaned over to squeeze her hand.
‘He – he dropped to his knees,’ she continued, ‘so I sat down beside him. I tried to cover the wound, pressed on it, you know, like you see people do on the television. But he kept on groaning. Then he kept saying my name over and over and then he said “Casey.” And then nothing.’ She looked at them then, wide-eyed. ‘I thought I’d lost him. I was still screaming, looking around to see if anyone was near. And then I saw him.’
Allie frowned. ‘You saw him?’
‘I think so. He was across on the walkway. I shouted to him to help but he just stood there. I grabbed my phone and called for an ambulance. A few minutes later, a man and a woman came back to their car. They stayed with us until the ambulance arrived.’
‘Can you recall what he looked like?’ Allie probed, glancing at Sam. This was the closest they had come to their killer so far. ‘Often in times of trauma, our minds pick up on all sorts of details,’ she added. ‘It really helps to go over everything again.’
‘He was white, thin, medium build and height. He was dressed in dark clothes, a black jacket, and he wore a dark woollen kind of hat.’ Mia paused for a moment before shaking her head in dismay. ‘It could have been a teenager, I suppose.’
‘Mia,’ asked Allie. ‘Did Nathan go to Reginald High School?’
Mia frowned. ‘Yes, he told me the other day when he realised the people in the newspaper . . .’ She stopped. ‘You don’t think that was the killer, do you? Is it something to do with that coloured letter Nathan had in his pocket? Because that wasn’t there before he was attacked.’
‘It’s possible there is a connection. We’re looking into it now. Has anyone fallen out with Nathan recently? At work, or a friend or neighbour? Anything you can thing of – no matter how tiny?’
Mia shook her head. ‘He’s such a great guy. Really – he is. People genuinely like him when he’s around them. He’s a bit of a joker so he’s always getting people laughing. I – I hope he doesn’t lose that now.’
Allie looked at the man lying on the bed in front of them, praying that he would make a quick recovery so that he could go back to his family. She hoped he’d survive the attack as unscathed as possible, even if he did have the trauma to deal with afterwards. She knew from bitter experience how hard it was to live through.
Mia sensed the conversation had come to a close and reached over for Nathan’s hand. She moved her chair in closer. ‘I hope he comes back to me soon,’ she whispered. ‘I told him to wear his bloody big coat too; at least he might have buttoned that up. But he said he’d be warm enough in his thin jacket.’
Allie blinked away tea
rs as she stood up. She left with Sam, their two sets of shoulders sagging.
‘Wow, so sad,’ said Sam.
‘Indeed. If this is our man, then Nathan Whittaker is one lucky bastard if he survives.’
A further press conference was held that afternoon to ask anyone who had left Reginald High School in 1989 to contact the station. It brought in another deluge of calls. Allie went out this time with Perry to check up on a few things of interest, but nothing useful came out of it. It was after eight p.m. when they stopped in the car and grabbed something to eat.
Perry ate a few mouthfuls of his burger before throwing it back in the plastic carton.
Allie was just about to take another bite of hers. ‘It’s not like you to be off your food,’ she joked.
‘It’s all this stuff with Foster and his son,’ he told her. ‘And Charlie Lewis, and then that lad, Danny Peterson. All kids. It’s doing my head in.’
Allie put down her food, her appetite suddenly dwindling too. For the first time, she noticed how weary Perry looked. Dark rings under his eyes, hair a mess, shoulders sagging. She didn’t think it was just the usual tiredness they were all feeling.
‘You want to talk?’
‘I can’t stop thinking of the connections to our school, either.’ Perry sighed. ‘Especially after Whitty was attacked.’
‘Who?’
‘Nathan Whittaker – we used to call him Whitty.’
‘Oh – did you have a nickname?’
‘Lefty,’ Perry sniggered. ‘I reckon everyone with the surname of Wright would be called that.’
Allie smiled back at him. ‘So, this Whitty. What was he like?’
‘A good laugh, from what I remember. We caught up at a stag do a few years ago. It was Lisa’s sister’s fella who was getting married. I wasn’t looking forward to going as I didn’t know anyone but I had a really good night because he was there. He seemed as well liked then as he was at school, too.’
‘Nigel Foster didn’t go to Reginald High,’ Allie pointed out. ‘And Danny Peterson wasn’t even born.’
‘No, but he was being groomed, wasn’t he?’
‘I would have to say yes if I was guessing.’
Perry shook his head. ‘The more this case goes on and the more I think of the people involved, the more I wonder if it is someone I went to school with.’
‘Is there anyone who stands out to you?’
‘No. How about you?’
Allie shrugged. ‘I’m not sure I’ll remember anyone you know, unless they used to hang around with Karen. And even then I’d only know of them vaguely. Being twelve when you were sixteen, I’d hardly take any notice of you, would I?’
‘What do you mean?’ Perry looked confused.
‘Well, at that age, weren’t we only interested in the kids in our own year? I might remember a few names, I suppose, if I had a crush on an older boy every now and again, but he would most probably be in a year above me, maybe two. But definitely not four years. And it’s so annoying that there are no registers now that the school is closed.’
Perry opened a can of Coke and took a big gulp. ‘We do have lists of exam results to go through, though.’
‘Great,’ mocked Allie. ‘Let’s hope the killer was clever enough to sit any.’
Perry sighed and shook his head.
‘Would it help if we made a list of people who you got on with and ones you didn’t?’ Allie suggested.
‘I’ve been trying to do that since Frank Dwyer’s murder. And the more I think about it, the more I know that anyone in our year could be in danger.’
‘Don’t even go there.’ Allie put a hand up to stop him, although she knew they were all thinking along those lines since the team brief. ‘I’m just glad I’m that little bit younger, so I wasn’t in your class,’ she joked afterwards.
‘Yes, a psycho after Allie Shenton,’ Perry teased. ‘Now that would be unheard of, right? After all, you haven’t upset anyone in Stoke over the past few years.’
‘Only by doing my job!’ Allie protested. ‘If people break the law, we have to go after them.’
‘It really could be personal to anyone in my year, though,’ Perry said again. ‘I could be next for all we know.’
‘It won’t be you.’ Allie shook her head.
‘How do you know?’
‘For starters, didn’t you say that you used to get on well with everyone at school?’
‘Well, I thought so. I did get whacked a few times for not joining in with Mickey’s gang, though. I hate bullies. But then again, who knows if I went over the top with someone and they thought I was a bully too. It was such a long time ago – surely that wouldn’t lead to someone committing murder?’
‘It could have contributed to it.’ Allie shrugged. ‘Who knows what state of mind a killer could be in, what makes them do what they do?’
‘But why now? It’s twenty-six years since we left school.’
‘What if he thinks he was being bullied but you don’t, so you don’t remember him?’
‘I’m not with you.’
‘People have different ways of reacting to things, different trigger points and thresholds. I’m just clutching at straws.’ Allie wiped her hands on a paper napkin. ‘I don’t know about you but I’m ready to call it a night and get home to Mark before he forgets he has a wife again. How’s Lisa, by the way?’
‘She’s good, thanks.’ Perry sat forward and put his rubbish into the bag at his feet.
Allie caught the grin on his face as the harsh light of the streetlamp coming in through the side window lit it up.
‘That’s a big smile,’ she told him.
‘It is.’ Perry laughed. ‘But I’m sworn to secrecy.’
‘About what?’ Allie stared at him. ‘Perry, you can’t tell me half a story! And after the week we’re having, if it’s good news, then I want to know.’
‘You promise not to say anything to Lisa?’
‘I promise!’ Allie almost shouted. ‘Wait, she’s not . . .’ She looked at him and his grin widened. ‘She is, isn’t she? She’s pregnant?’
‘Yep, I’m going to be a dad.’
‘Ah, that’s great news! Come here.’ Allie gave him a hug across the seats.
‘She’s not too far along, though. That’s why I can’t tell anyone, just in case anything goes wrong.’ Perry grinned again. ‘But I’ve been bursting since we found out at the weekend.’
‘Well, congratulations, Daddy.’ Allie smiled. ‘Now, let’s go home.’
Both of them kept their thoughts to themselves about how close Nathan Whittaker’s daughter had come to losing her father.
Patrick sat up quickly, jolted from a fitful sleep. He’d woken several times that night, real fear from his dreams keeping him on constant alert. Any minute now, the front door would be kicked in and he’d be dragged from his bed, handcuffed and arrested for murder. He couldn’t get away with killing all these people, could he? But he must – he must stay away from the police for as long as he could.
He lay back in his bed, drenched in sweat, breathing rapidly and waiting for the swell of his chest to slow. The panic that took over him after dreams, memories shooting to the forefront of his mind – was it any wonder he was dreaming of everything? He shook the negative thoughts aside. It wouldn’t go wrong. He was too far into the game. He had planned this meticulously since Ray had gone to prison.
But it had gone wrong, hadn’t it? Because Whitty had survived. Simon Cole had reported it on the front page of The Sentinel and it had been all over the news. He was serious but stable, but Patrick wasn’t really bothered about that. He was more concerned that he hadn’t done what he’d set out to do. He’d thought three stabs would be enough, got cocky and let him walk away. He thought Whitty would die before he got help.
He hadn’t killed him.
It made him look weak.
An image of himself cowering under his bed came to his mind. He used to hide anywhere he could – different places so that Ray would give up looking for him. But he’d always find him, pull him out by a leg, an arm, an elbow – often by the hair. If he was lucky, he’d drag him into the middle of the room, administer a beating there. If he was unlucky, Ray would drag him down the stairs and into the living room, his back taking the brunt of bare runners on the stairs as they descended.
He pushed aside more memories of his childhood, threatening to send him off the rails. Ray didn’t control him anymore.
Once his breathing had returned to normal, he got up, showered and made his way downstairs. As he walked into the living room, he took another look at the map on the wall. All yesterday he’d made sure his planning was in place for today. He’d gone over and over his schedule, ticking it all off, ensuring everything was good to go.
Lying flat on the sideboard was the framed photograph he’d brought back from Suzi Porter’s house. He picked it up – couldn’t understand how she hadn’t known which one was him. It was easy to point him out. He was the one who made himself look small, whose smile didn’t reach his eyes, whose trousers were too short and jacket too tight. The goofy one – the waif. The one who took the brunt of all their jokes. He screamed out, threw the frame against the wall, enjoying the sound of shattering glass as it fell to the floor at his feet.
Well, who’s having the last laugh now, hmm?
He was. And he would be laughing all the more soon.
Just one more day and two more nights until 10.53 a.m., Friday 16 January.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
At half past nine, Rhian tiptoed downstairs and into the kitchen. Ignoring the empty wine bottle on the side, she filled a glass with water, took two headache tablets and swallowed them greedily. She shuddered as the cold water hit her stomach.
In the living room, she searched out her phone and flopped down onto the settee. Three text messages from Joe, the last one worrying about her lack of response. She’d refused to answer his call yesterday, plus several texts he’d sent because of it.
