by Ed O'Connor
‘I suppose I’d call a cab,’ she replied. Her mobile phone suddenly rang loudly. She scrambled to turn it off.
Dexter fired a withering look at Jensen. An idea struck her. ‘There was a breakdown-recovery company sticker in her car.’
‘Check it out,’ said Underwood, his concentration failing him. ‘Go on, Doctor.’
‘Death was caused by repeated blows to the back of the skull. I would guess with the same instrument that was used to kill Lucy Harrington.’
‘I saw two hammers on the bed before the guy hit me,’ said Dexter. ‘One was a claw hammer, the other one looked heavier – maybe a masonry hammer.’
‘If he’s a mason, we’ll never catch him,’ said Harrison. There was some laughter.
Dexter continued after a second. ‘There was a case on the bed, too. A rectangular leather case: black. About so big.’ She made the shape with her hands.
‘That’s interesting,’ said Leach. ‘Tell me, did it have any writing on it? A crest, maybe?’
‘What are you thinking, Doctor?’ asked Underwood.
‘He needs to keep his knives somewhere. There were tiny indentations in the woman’s head – four marks around her left eyebrow. I would guess that the killer used clamps to hold her eye open, to pull the eyelid back from the eye and hold it open. It looks to me as though your killer has got himself a proper set of surgical instruments from somewhere.’
‘Where would he get them, Doctor?’ The same idea had occurred to Dexter the previous day. She kicked herself for not following it up.
‘There are specialist suppliers in London. It would be risky buying from them, though, since you would need a medical ID and they would keep a record of all sales.’ Leach thought for a second. ‘Did the case look old-fashioned to you?’ he asked Dexter.
‘I suppose so. I didn’t see it that clearly. What are you saying?’
‘I was just thinking,’ Leach said. ‘Modern skin clamps wouldn’t have pierced the surface of the skin like these did. Your man likes history. Maybe he’s been antique shopping.’
Dexter nodded and made a note. She would check it out this time.
‘Anything else? Did he leave any trace evidence we could get a DNA match from?’ Underwood seemed restless.
Leach paused before he spoke. He wasn’t quite sure how to put this. ‘There’s good news, bad news and potentially very bad news. The good news is that Drury fought with him: there are small samples of skin under her fingernails. The bathwater didn’t wash it all away. There’s enough to give us a match if we catch the bloke. Whether it would stand up in court I don’t know: the defence could conceivably argue that the water and Drury’s blood corrupted the DNA, but let’s cross that bridge when we come to it. The bad news is that there are no fingerprints anywhere – other than Drury’s and Sergeant Dexter’s, of course. He wore gloves all the time.’
Underwood thought for a second. ‘And the very bad news?’
‘Elizabeth Drury’s blood is group A. Sergeant Dexter’s is O-positive. There are small samples of two other blood groups at the crime scene: AB-negative and O-negative. There are traces on Drury’s neck and on the bathroom floor.’
‘Fuck.’ Harrison got the point. ‘Two other people.’
‘At a guess, I would say there were traces of blood on his gloves. We know he grabbed Drury by the neck at some point as there is some minor bruising on either side of her windpipe. Not enough to strangle her, mind,’ said Leach.
‘And the bathroom floor?’ Dexter asked.
‘Perhaps he changed gloves before the operation on her eye,’ Leach volunteered. ‘If he was waiting outside he probably wore thick gloves. Once he went to work on the poor woman’s eye he would need to be more dexterous. I guess he changed to surgical gloves or maybe rubber washing-up gloves. Again, the presence of multiple blood samples at the scene might undermine the credibility of any DNA evidence we were to submit at a trial.’
‘I’m more concerned that there might be two other corpses with their eyes ripped out lying around somewhere,’ said Underwood. ‘Have we had anyone reported missing in the last two days?’
‘Not that I can remember, sir,’ said Harrison. ‘We’ll check.’
‘He’s taking more risks,’ said Underwood. ‘Why? He’s killed two, possibly four people, in three days. That’s a very close grouping. He took pains to ensure that the crime scene at Lucy Harrington’s was a forensic nightmare. He stakes her place out, kills her in the middle of the night, escapes through woodland: no one hears or sees a fucking thing. Virtually no risk.
‘Then there’s the names. We would never have understood the significance of the names without Dr Stussman – and the killer told her to contact us, to explain it all to us. He must have known that Dr Stussman would have understood the link between the poem found at Lucy Harrington’s house and her name. Presumably, he must also have known that Dr Stussman would give us a list of similar names. He took a big risk and the upshot was that Dexter walked right in on him.
‘He kills Drury first thing in the morning. She’s supposed to be at the office: they’re bound to wonder where she is. Risk. There’s more traffic in the morning, even out in Afton: more chance of being seen. Risk. Maybe he poses as a taxi driver or a repairman to get in to the house. Risk. He felt he had to kill Drury today.’
Dexter followed the logic. ‘Then there’s the blood. At Harrington’s there’s no DNA evidence at all. At Drury’s there’s loads – from at least three unidentified sources. Why did he let that happen? He is risking us making connections. The more connections we make, the more vulnerable he is: the more likely that someone sees something, or remembers something.’
‘He put Drury in the bath, though, didn’t he?’ said Harrison. ‘He still made some effort to corrupt physical evidence. Dr Leach said the fingernail samples might not be credible in court. That mean’s he’s achieved the same effect as he did at Lucy Harrington’s.’
‘For in a common bath of teares it bled.’ Stussman’s American accent sounded incongruous. ‘At both murders he left behind text that referred to water. Draw not up seas to drowne me in thy spheare was the other one. I think that the bodies in the bath are more about the consistency of poetic imagery than about messing up DNA evidence.’
‘Consistency of poetic imagery?’ Harrison’s thick eyebrows had climbed to the top of his forehead. ‘Do me a favour!’
‘Sure. He takes the girls’ eyes, right? Eyes produce tears. Both examples talk about being swamped by tears; overcome with pain. A conceit is supposed to seem absurd at first but gradually persuade us of its brilliance, make us realize the direction of his logic. Isn’t that what we’re doing now? Aren’t we starting to piece together what he’s doing, why he’s doing it? Maybe he’s taking more risks to ensure we understand what he’s saying.’
The room was quiet as everyone tried to absorb the significance of what she had said. Underwood got it first. ‘He’s running out of time.’
42
The meeting broke up. Underwood disappeared back to his office. Dexter waylaid Harrison and Jensen.
‘By the way, how’s that list of local B-and-E arrests coming along?’ she asked.
‘We’ve worked it down to eighteen possibles, based on age, ethnic background and nature of offence.’ Harrison showed her a list of names and addresses.
‘Who are these guys down at the bottom?’ There was a cluster of five surnames without addresses below the main list.
‘They fit the age and ethnic type and they’re more or less local but they’re all very minor offences; they all got warnings from the magistrates but weren’t even served with sentences,’ Jensen said.
‘Vandalism, creating a public nuisance, nicking cars – that sort of thing. None of them actually broke into any houses,’ Harrison added. ‘We were going to drop them off the list at its next iteration.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Dexter. ‘I’m beginning to think this housebreaker thing is a waste of time anyway. This guy soun
ds like a one-off head case to me. I doubt he’s got any previous, There’s no point creating extra work.’
‘Once we’ve got a final list, we’ll go round each of them and check out alibis for the ninth and this morning. Don’t hold your breath, though,’ Harrison said.
Dexter nodded and went off to find Underwood. Stussman had been loitering uncomfortably in the background and quickly followed in Dexter’s wake. Jensen returned to her computer and called up the list of names she had worked up with Harrison. She scrolled to the bottom and, as requested, deleted the names of Darren Burgess, Andrew Hills, Shane Briers, Martin McMahon and Crowan Frayne.
Underwood didn’t have time to get the bottle back in its drawer before Stussman and Dexter appeared.
‘John. Oh, I’m sorry,’ said Stussman. ‘I should have knocked.’ She looked embarrassed. Underwood cursed his stupidity, his clumsiness.
‘Don’t be silly. I have toothache. Whisky’s the only thing that helps.’ It was a transparently poor excuse.
‘A dentist might be kinder on your liver.’ Stussman smiled gently. She fancied a drink, too. Those pictures had upset her: she wasn’t looking forward to turning out the lights later.
‘Guv.’ Dexter rode roughshod over his embarrassment, like a tank in a field of strawberries. ‘Dr Stussman’s car is outside.’
‘Do you need me any more, John?’ Stussman asked.
Underwood came around the front of his desk and shook her hand. ‘No. Thank you, Heather, thanks for coming down. Your comments were very helpful. Call us if you have any concerns or if he contacts you again.’
‘Will do.’
‘We’re getting closer, Dr Stussman,’ said Dexter.
‘Or he’s getting closer to us.’ Stussman seemed worried.
‘Either way, we’ll nail him.’ Underwood’s words didn’t sound very reassuring. Stussman nodded and left the office. Dexter stayed. ‘What did you make of all that, Dex? You think he’s getting sloppy?’
‘Maybe. I feel like you do: the Drury thing may have been a rush job.’
‘But why? What’s his hurry? When we found the Harrington girl, I thought it would be weeks until he struck again. He was so careful. But here we are, three days later and we’ve got two, maybe four bodies. Not to mention poetry coming out of our fucking ears.’
‘Perhaps we are getting close to him, sir. Maybe he’s getting freaked out. What should we do about the other two possibles?’
‘Nothing we can do, really. Unless someone’s reported missing, that is. We shouldn’t assume he’s killed anyone else yet. He might have been in a fight or something.’ There was a pain in Underwood’s chest: he shifted uncomfortably. Mad images flickered in his mind like some terrible bonfire. He was finding it harder to push them aside.
Dexter waited for a second. She had to say something. She pushed the door shut behind her. ‘Sir, about what you told me earlier. Outside the Drury woman’s house. About your wife.’
Underwood retreated back under his shell like a frightened turtle. ‘What about it?’
‘I know it’s not my business but is there anything I can do, sir? I couldn’t help noticing the bottle.’
‘There’s nothing to say, Dex. It’s not your concern.’
‘With respect, sir, it is.’ She was quietly insistent. ‘If it’s affecting your work it is my concern.’
‘What are you going to do? Report me for being separated?’ His tone was desolate, despairing. The light in his eyes had been switched off.
‘Drinking won’t help, sir. It won’t help toothache and it certainly won’t help this. I needed to speak to you last night and your mobile was switched off. I understand that Harrison couldn’t get you this morning.’
‘Your point, sergeant?’
‘My point is that I’m overstretched. Things are getting missed. We can’t afford to balls this up now.’ Her gaze scanned his face for some expression, some flicker of recognition. Nothing. ‘And on a personal level, sir, I am always available if you need a sounding board. I’ve knocked around a bit myself. I’ve been shat on so often I sometimes think I should have WC stamped on my forehead.’
Underwood nodded. ‘Point taken. Thank you Alison.’ He felt ashamed. Again. That bitch Julia. How could she have driven me to this? I’ll make her understand, her and her musical ponce wife-fucker boyfriend.
Dexter was talking. He tried to tune in.
‘… Of housebreakers. The list is down to eighteen. Harrison and Jensen are going to start looking them up. I’m going to check up on antique shops and other places that might sell old medical junk. The more I think about it, that case did look old-fashioned …’
Little Julia Cooper with her spoddy haircut and brace … goody-goody Julia Cooper and her angel voice … Julia Cooper, make-up smudged with tears when he’d proposed, laughing through the tears, holding his face… Julia Underwood big-eyed in her cream-white wedding dress … Mr and Mrs Underwood cutting the fucking cake, taking the first dance – Unchained fucking Melody … Julia Underwood hugging her lover in the shadows of a lamp lit doorway … Julia Underwood writhing with pleasure under another man, grunting like an animal … Julia Heyer hosting a dinner party for the fucker’s friends… expensive haircut over expensive earrings … sing us a song, Jules… sing us a fucking song …
‘… More about Drury. What’s she’s done, where she’s been. He must have found her somehow. I’m sure he’s using public information, we just have to figure out how …’ Dexter continued. Underwood drifted out again.
Julia Heyer drives her children to school … older than the other mothers but just as pretty … she drives a big, flash Mummy-Jeep… she waves at the other mothers … her children have beautiful voices and big green eyes like their mother, their singing whore mother…
‘… If that’s all right with you, sir?’ Dexter had stopped. He saw her suddenly, focused, watching him intently. He coughed.
‘That sounds good, Dex. You run with it,’ he improvised.
‘Thanks, sir. How about you?’
‘Me?’ He thought for a second and an idea flared at him out of the bonfire. ‘I’m going to follow up on that Heyer bloke. Remember the guy Harrison and I had in for an interview?’
‘I thought he was a non-starter.’
‘Probably. But it’s probably worth checking where he was last night. His alibi for the eighth was a bit wobbly.’ Underwood stood up and tried to look businesslike, reaching for his coat. He knew that his every movement shouted ‘Liar!’
‘Fair enough. Have you got your mobile, sir?’
‘Right here.’ He tapped his coat pocket and hurried out.
Dexter waited for a moment, until she was sure he had gone, then edged around his desk and withdrew the whisky from the drawer. She unscrewed it and poured a double measure into a plastic cup. It tasted fantastic: bad for toothache, bad for broken marriages, but good for concussion and the shakes.
43
Suzie Hunt got home just after four that afternoon. She had gone beyond tiredness and was operating on automatic pilot: turn key, take off coat, kettle on, biscuit from barrel. There was no sign of Katie anywhere in the house. Suzie flopped into her favourite armchair and dialled Katie’s mobile for the tenth time in six hours. No reply. She was beginning to feel a pang of anxiety. Still, she reasoned, Katie was a big girl now, she’d stayed out nights before. You had to give youngsters freedom these days or they just took it for themselves and resented you for ever. She didn’t want Katie to be her enemy. She didn’t have that many friends. The kettle clicked off. Suzie squeezed the life from a tired-looking tea bag and collapsed back in her armchair. Her phone was ringing. She smirked: here come the excuses. Suzie had heard them all before: mainly from herself.
‘Hello.’
‘Is that Katie’s mum?’ A woman’s voice, aggressive. Suzie felt a flash of uncertainty.
‘It is.’
‘I’m June Riley, Steve’s mum. Is he there?’
‘Here? No. I haven’t seen
him or Katie since they went out last night. I assumed they had stayed at yours.’
‘Wait till I get hold of that dirty little bastard. He was supposed to call me.’
Suzie sat up in her armchair. ‘Hang on a minute – do you think they’re all right?’
Ten miles away, as the sky began to darken and birds aligned themselves blackly on telephone wires, Jimmy Jarrett drove his flat-backed van along Blindman’s Lane out of Afton. He was in a bad mood: up at five in the morning, he should have finished an hour ago. He had got delayed at a farm near Evesbury, mending a cow gate. Replacing the hinge had been straightforward but the wood of the gatepost had been rotten and it had crumbled when he’d screwed the new hinges in. That had meant a new post and a fifteen-mile drive to the timber mill on the outskirts of New Bolden.
One job left before Jimmy could put his feet up. It looked pretty easy, though: a quick waterproof-paint job on a rusting gate between two fields. He found the entrance to the meadow quickly and away in the distance he could see the gate connecting with the next field. He knew he shouldn’t drive down there really but there were no animals about and the ground looked pretty firm. He drove down the slope and parked up near the gate. A quick inspection, and then Jimmy retrieved his paint-brushes from inside the van. A brook babbled happily in the background as Jimmy got to work, slapping the waterproof paint over the rustiest patches of metal. His mobile phone started ringing.
‘Wouldn’t you bleedin’ know it?’ he muttered as he trudged back and rooted around in his pockets for the phone. Eventually, he found it. It was turned off. Something else was ringing, though. He looked around, confused. Was someone hiding in the trees? He made his way in the direction of the noise: it drew him towards the trees, towards the brook. There were tyre tracks on the ground. Jimmy quickened his step, jogged to the edge of the brook and looked down the bank. He caught his breath.
Steve Riley’s Fiesta lay against the bank of the gully, its nose in the water and its back end in the air. Jimmy couldn’t see anyone inside. Katie Hunt’s mobile stopped ringing.
