by David Haynes
“Thanks for being so helpful,” she said and slammed the phone down. She would ask one of the team to complete the necessary forms and submit them in the morning. There was only one left on the list anyway. If that was another closed door, she could move onto the surveillance paperwork knowing she could do no more for the time being.
The final two rapes had taken place in one district but were several years apart. She dialled the number, bypassing the automated message to speak to an actual person in the control room. She introduced herself and explained what she wanted.
She was prepared for a knock-back but instead heard the operator tapping away on his keyboard.
“Ah yes, I remember these. If they’d been closer together, they would have made the national news.”
“Oh?” Jane asked. She was conscious that she had already obtained more information than in all the other calls put together and didn’t want to push too hard.
“Okay, so the first one is from 1999. I’ve not got the whole file here, you would normally have to request it but I can give you a précis?”
Jane couldn’t believe her luck and opened her book. “Yes please.”
“Victim was a Marie Clulow born March 74. Well-known street worker who is sadly no longer with us. MO states she was grabbed from behind and pushed into the bushes. Then raped.”
She took the details but there was nothing remarkable about it.
“She said the suspect looked like a creepy clown.”
Jane felt the moisture leave her mouth and an icy chill went down her back. It took her a moment to speak. “A clown?”
“That’s right. The other one’s the same, only about four years later.”
The operator gave her the MO which Brady wrote verbatim in her book, but she barely heard him for the noise in her head. They already knew Crawley was a rapist but his MO was new. Had nobody thought to put all this together before? It had happened all over the country but surely someone would have seen the connection?
The image of the scene inside the caravan flashed through her mind. Crawley’s mashed-up face with bits of plastic clown mask embedded deep in his flesh. Was that the mask he wore when he committed the atrocious crimes? Jane found she was clenching and then unclenching her fists, one after the other. It had been the most violent scene by far. Where the other two had been controlled and staged, this had been chaotic and savage.
A revenge killing? It was possible. It was also possible there were multiple suspects out there. One a victim of ‘Bingo’ and the other the victim of a serial rapist. So where did that leave Stu? It left him a murder victim and one without a sordid secret, nothing more.
This gave them a whole new set of enquiries. A nasty set with tentacles that stretched all over the country. She shivered and closed the window behind her. Outside, Derby was winding down for the day. The roads out of the centre were great curving tails of red light, as the drivers battled to get home. And out there somewhere was a lunatic carving people’s faces up with his knife.
She sat back down. Crawley was worse than an animal and the world was better off without him, just like the world was better off without Harvey Newman. The thought of Crawley doing what he did to those women while wearing that mask was utterly repulsive, and she could feel her face muscles twitching with disgust. But that didn’t matter. What mattered was that she was going to catch the clown. That was her job, she wasn’t a judge.
She brought up the forms for surveillance authority, wincing when she saw what was expected. She should probably contact White and tell him what she had found out, but judging by the state of him, he would be at home now. She would tell him later when she took the paperwork to his house.
It still niggled her that getting the information from the other forces had been so difficult. They were all on the same team, weren’t they? Some of it was old information so she could understand...
Her thoughts changed direction with an almost audible click. None of Crawley’s victims lived on her patch, at least none they knew of. Which seemed strange given that they knew his circus had visited Derbyshire on at least five occasions. But what if there were victims, just that they hadn’t got to the stage where DNA had been taken, or they were too old?
Her thoughts went back to the rape allegation she and Stu had got into trouble over. She had been kept out of the interview room while Stu talked to her. He sent her off on some ridiculous goose-chase and spoke to the girl alone. It was never recorded as a crime, and Stu convinced her it hadn’t happened. But what had she said to him? There were probably countless others treated the same way over the years. Thank god policies had changed. Still, there was something about it, about the proximity to the current investigation and the timeliness of it that made her feel uneasy. Where to start though? Where on earth to start?
She went into the crime reporting program and searched through the database using MO keywords, terms including ‘mask’ and ‘clown’. The software was badly out of date but it was capable of completing simple searches like this without a problem.
It threw up a few reports but nothing to match exactly what she was looking for. She drummed her fingers on the desk, staring at the screen. It was something she would have to ask the analysts to do in the morning but they wouldn’t thank her for it.
She closed down the program, and the window containing Stu’s workload popped up. She had gone through his last few tasks this morning to make sure there was nothing they were missing. Then the call had come through about Night’s house so it had been left.
It contained a record of all of his tasks on this enquiry and, as his last supervisor, she had access to his previous investigation history. That included every incident, every crime he had attended. It also contained every report he ever wrote. It was, in essence, his life as a police officer.
She moved the pointer to the scroll bar and stopped. She knew what she was looking for, she knew exactly where it would be, but it didn’t feel right to go through his notes like this. It was as if she were judging him, somehow. Scrutinising how he had worked.
She clicked the button and scrolled the screen. To hell with it. If there was anything on that specific report then it might be crucial. It might be another link to the killer. Finding him was more important than any scruples about examining a dead man’s work.
She moved down to the date and clicked on the incident. When she was interviewed by Professional Standards, they asked her repeatedly what the girl had said and what Stu said in response. They wanted to know what happened in that room but she hadn’t been there, she had been off on an enquiry. When Stu came out, he said the girl had made it up in a heroin-induced haze. She was as high as a kite, Stu had said, and the girl simply looked vacantly at the wall.
“What did she say, Stu?” Jane opened up his report and started reading.
‘The informant is a Tanya Hayes (28/4/70) of 12b Gladstone Street. She reported to police that she had been raped on Shaftesbury Street Park at approximately 3am on Thursday 30th September 2004. Myself and DC Brady have spoken to Hayes and she does not now wish to report a crime. She stated to myself that she made the allegation up as a daydream due to her drug abuse. She is refusing to cooperate with a police investigation and shows no sign of injury. I do not believe this incident has occurred. Hayes has shown signs of drug use during our conversation and she does not appear lucid or in control of her thoughts. She has twice mentioned that there is a clown hiding in the bushes on Shaftesbury Park. Both DC Brady and myself saw no signs of clowns when we were there earlier. We will ensure Hayes is returned to her address but I request that no crime is recorded in light of the information above. DC Kelly.’
Jane saw the word and it jarred her. She would have to double-check the dates on the circus calendar, but she knew the mention of a clown was no coincidence. In all her years, the only time she had seen the word ‘clown’ on a crime report was during the last week. The clown in the bushes at Shaftesbury Park was Jim Crawley.
She printed a co
py of the report and searched for the name Tanya Hayes. Three came up but only one was a match. Tanya Hayes died from an overdose three years ago. There was a connection between what was happening now and what happened then. How was the connection formed though, and what did it mean? It would need a discussion with Hargreaves and White to see where they went with it, if anywhere. White would want to see it before Hargreaves got involved. She owed it to him to show him before the morning briefing.
She checked her watch. It was getting close to ten o’clock already. If she didn’t get her arse in gear and the surveillance paperwork sorted, she wouldn’t get to White until after midnight. She couldn’t imagine he would be too happy about that. Especially in his current condition.
“Need any help?” She was so deep in thought that she hadn’t heard two detectives come into the office.
She looked up and smiled. “No ta, get yourselves home please.”
They both nodded. “See you in the morning.”
She waved and carried on typing.
17
Jane put the car heater on full-blast. It was getting cold and soon she would have to start scraping the frost off the windscreen every morning. She hated doing that, it made her fingers scream.
White had sent her a text message over an hour ago with his address, asking how long she was going to be. She lied and told him ten minutes, but the form had been a bitch and even now she wasn’t totally happy with it. As long as White was happy though, that was all that mattered; as long as the surveillance was granted.
It was half-past midnight now, so by the time she got home it would probably be after three. Three hours sleep and back in the office for seven. How long could she keep this up? How long would the adrenalin keep her body alert and alive? It wasn’t as if she was twenty-one any more, she was forty-six and starting to feel it.
Fortunately, White only lived twenty minutes away from the station so as long as he didn’t tell her to make alterations, this could be a quick visit. She knew he was unlikely to request too much because she knew more about it than him.
She pulled up outside and climbed out. It was like any other middle-class suburban street; all manicured lawns and clipped hedges. It suited her perception of White down to the ground. She checked the house number on her phone and walked up the drive, past White’s Audi. It was a typical 1930s detached property with bay windows on the ground floor and front bedrooms. It looked well cared for. Was he married? Did he have kids? She realised she didn’t know much about him.
The only light on in the house, in the entire street, was what she supposed was the front bedroom. It was a perfectly natural place to be at this time of the night. She pressed the doorbell and heard the metallic ring inside. If he were married and had children, the noise would have woken the whole house. If that were the case then he should have told her to text him when she was outside. There, she knew one more thing about him now. He lived alone, just like her.
She didn’t miss not having anyone to keep the light on for her. Not much anyway. The last guy who had kept the light on only did it so he could question her about where she had been until so late. That was the first and last time he asked her any questions. It was also the last time she saw him. Good riddance.
She wasn’t tall enough to see through the half-moon shaped pane of glass at the top of the door, so she pressed the bell again. Maybe White had fallen asleep waiting for her. She didn’t blame him for that.
“Come on,” she whispered and stared at the door, willing it to open. The longer she waited, the longer it would be before she could climb into bed.
After two more minutes, there was still no answer. White had definitely fallen asleep but she wasn’t prepared to leave it until the morning. Not now she had stayed so late to get it finished. She took her mobile out of her bag and found his number. She hoped he hadn’t got so fed up with waiting that he’d turned his phone to silent.
It rang and rang then went to his answerphone message. She cancelled the call before the message finished. What was she going to do now? She dialled his number again and walked down the drive to look up into the window. There were no signs of life up there, just the dull orange glow of a small lamp.
She looked back at her car. She should just go home and brief him about Stu and Crawley in the morning. She cancelled the call before it reached the answerphone and walked toward her car. She should be asleep just like everyone else on the...
There were no other cars parked on the road except hers and another one a little farther down the street. It looked out of place in an area like this. It had the blocky design of her first ever car, like a car made in the Eighties, and the front bumper hung down slightly at one corner. A bad feeling nibbled at the base of her skull and she turned back toward White’s house. Was that movement in the bedroom? She was sure a shadow had just passed across the ceiling.
She dialled his number again, walking back up the drive. The nibble had turned into a bite. This time she left a message.
“Boss, it’s Jane Brady, I’m outside your house now. Can you come down and let me in please?”
She kept her eyes on the bedroom and ended the call. There it was again, and this time there was no mistaking it. Someone was moving about up there. She rang the bell and then banged on the door. She started to think about finding Stu and felt sick. Almost immediately she gave herself a silent telling-off. There was no reason to think there was any connection with what had happened to Stu.
But if he was in there, why wasn’t he answering? And that car, so badly out of place on a middle-class street like this. It was just the type of car the clown would go for. If she ran a check on it, she had a strong feeling it would come back as stolen. She didn’t have time though, she needed to do something more decisive. She closed her eyes, wished she were at home in bed and asleep. But when she opened them again, she was still in the same place.
Jane looked around the side of the house. There was a six-foot high wooden gate blocking her view into the back garden. She doubted whether the street lights would be strong enough to illuminate much farther anyway. She didn’t want to go round there, not one bit, but instinct told her she had to.
She walked to the gate and pushed it. Part of her hoped it wouldn’t open and she would have no choice but to call it a day or phone for backup. But the gate creaked open. She stepped into the shadows beyond.
Her eyes adjusted quickly, it wasn’t quite as dark as she first feared. Street lights from the avenues to the rear cast a weak glow into the garden. She activated the torch app on her phone too. It was far from ideal but better than nothing.
There was a large conservatory jutting out from the back of the house. She found the double doors and put her hand out to open it.
“Please, let it be locked,” she whispered, pushing down on the handle. It opened easily and it was then she saw that the lock had been pushed through. Not just pushed through, obliterated. The door swung inward and scraped the destroyed lock against the laminate floor.
She reached into her harness and grabbed the radio. She had switched it off hours ago. The constant chatter did nothing for her concentration when she was trying to fill in the surveillance forms. She pressed the button to switch it back on.
“NA from DS Brady.”
The answer came back immediately. “Go ahead.”
“Can I have all available units to 55 Watson Avenue, please? I’ve got a break in progress.”
“DS Brady, all local units are committed at the public order incident. I’ll see if I can send officers from another division. Stand by.”
Jane held the radio to her lips and considered her options. Someone from another division meant they were at least ten minutes away, possibly more. She could go in alone, CS gas at the ready. It was stupid thing to do but there was something wrong here, very wrong, and she didn’t want to risk White’s safety or losing the suspect.
“DS Brady, I’ve got a dog unit en route to the public order. He’s diverting to you. He’
s fifteen minutes away. Can you contain the break?”
Of course she couldn’t contain it. “I’ll do my best.”
She withdrew her gas, flipped the lid and stepped inside.
The conservatory led directly into the kitchen-diner. She stepped slowly through both rooms until she reached the hallway. The stairs led upwards on her right and another room was off to her left. An orange glow filtered through the window on the front door, shining onto the wooden floor. She walked toward the inner door and paused to listen. It was silent; everywhere was silent.
Jane pushed the front room door gently with her foot. It opened without a sound and she took a step inside. The room was lit by the same street light coming through the front door. There was a television in the corner, two sofas and a bookcase. Nothing more.
She turned out and stood at the foot of the stairs. Her heart was booming in her ears, made louder by the silence of the house. It was deathly. She had been as quiet as she could so it was still possible that whoever was in the house was unaware of her being inside. It was better that way. She had the element of surprise, she hoped.
The stairs were covered in carpet. She tested the bottom step. It creaked but it was soft, at least beside the crash of her heart. Jane put her bag down at the foot of the stairs and slipped her phone into her pocket. She took the rest of the stairs as quickly and quietly as she could, holding her little gas can out in front of her like a gun. The mellow light from the lamp in the front bedroom showed her the way.
She reached the landing and got her bearings. All the doors were closed except for the front bedroom but from where she was standing, she couldn’t see inside. Each breath seemed to echo off the walls, giving notice of her presence.
Slowly, she worked her way toward the bedroom. Two metres away, she stopped and cocked her head. There was a low-pitched hum coming from the bedroom. A low-pitched tune. She recognised it in an instant. Carnival music, the type they play at a circus when the clowns come rolling into the arena. Someone was humming it. Her stomach cartwheeled as the picture of Stu Kelly’s butchered face flashed across her mind.
