by David Carter
‘It’s coming to crunch time,’ she said.
He knew full well what that meant, but she explained it in more detail anyway.
‘Inevitably, the Met will be brought in. We’ll lose control of the case. Lapdogs, that’s what we’ll become, lapdogs to the mountain lion, do you really want that?’
There had once been a day, long ago now, when he had been the mountain lion, as she as so graphically described it. He’d enjoyed it too, being parachuted in, taking charge of complicated murder cases from Cornwall to Norfolk, from Northumbria to the south coast, annoying the local plod, as he dismissively referred to them back then, detecting their errors, pointing out their provincial mistakes, getting up everyone’s nose, as he must have done, but eventually he would produce a result, by finding the killer, making an arrest, prosecuting the bastard, securing a conviction, witnessing the satisfying moment of sentence, and seeing the devil being taken down.
So why couldn’t he do that now?
Where was the fulfilling moment?
‘It will be a huge stain on my curriculum vitae...’ she said pointedly, and she pronounced it quite precisely as in curry-queue-lum veet-hay! Vite! Vite! He wanted to shout out, as John finally finished her sentence.... ‘And yours too!’
He knew that well enough, about his record being stained. He was too old to worry much about failure. It wasn’t the stain on his record that concerned him; it was the failure to bring the culprit to justice. That was what irked him. He had never failed to track down and prosecute a serial killer before, and he didn’t intend starting now.
‘Let’s get Karen and Cresta in and go over everything again,’ she said, grumpily, and that was how the review meeting had begun.
‘We are missing something here,’ said John. ‘Missing something!’
Of course we are missing something. Six bloody deaths and we still don’t have a prime suspect. Of course we are missing something, thought Walter, but what, though he didn’t say. Instead he questioned when Karen and Cresta joined them, ‘How is the car search business going?’ though he was still thinking of something else.
‘Almost finished,’ said Karen, ‘only about twenty to do.’
‘Maybe that will turn something up,’ mumbled Walter.
‘Let’s hope so,’ said Mrs West, becoming more impatient.
It wouldn’t turn anything up because it couldn’t, because unbeknown to them all, the killer had already been checked and passed and eliminated from their enquiries. It had happened the previous Saturday afternoon. Two rookie policemen had called at Iona House, as Samantha was preparing to go out.
‘Sorry to bother you, ma’am,’ said the first, as the second checked out the slender and classy woman. ‘Just routine enquiries, but may we check over your car?’
‘Sure,’ she said, in that gentle way of hers, producing the keys from her designer bag, and leading them across the small car park to her gleaming Cayton Cerisa. She didn’t need to go anywhere near the car, she could have stood on the doorstep and pointed and fired, but that somehow seemed bad manners, so she followed them toward it before opening up.
‘Is it OK to go inside?’ said the handsome younger bloke.
‘Course,’ she said nodding her head, her blonde bob cut shivering as she did so.
He opened the boot.
Empty, nothing there at all, pristinely clean, a little like the lady herself, you could always tell, not a hair out of place, perfect make-up, everything immaculately tidy.
He opened the doors and climbed inside. Glanced in the glove compartment, under the seats, in the side panels, in the cash box nestling beneath the handbrake, in the CD holder cleverly secreted up toward the roof so that potential car thieves couldn’t see them there without getting down on the pavement first, nothing on the parcel shelf, nothing in the pouches on the back of the front seats, nothing but an old and outdated UK road atlas, the kind of thing one used to see in every car up and down the country, though no longer. No craft knives, no rolls of brown tape, no railway timetables with details of services along the North Wales coast, no hose-piping to introduce gas, no lingering smell or sign of gas either, no bumps or scratches on the front of the vehicle, no syringes, or signs of drugs of any kind, not even a blessed aspirin. Clean as a fresh penny whistle.
They tried to engage her in casual conversation. Samantha was well aware of that, perhaps they were hoping she would invite them into the flat. There was no chance of that, hell would freeze over first. Perhaps they were hoping for a relaxing coffee and a sit down on her leather chesterfield, maybe even a free sandwich, no, she wasn’t having any of that either, it wasn’t going to happen.
‘Will you be much longer?’ she asked, demurely. ‘It’s just that I have a date and William goes absolutely crazy if am late.’
The two guys shared a look. Lucky William.
‘No, miss, I think we are finished here now.’
‘Excellent,’ she said, locking the back door and getting into the car as if making ready to drive away.
They both smiled at her one last time and she smiled back.
They would never forget that smile.
Jumped in the police car and drove away.
Before they had gone twenty yards one of them said, ‘Before you say anything, I most definitely would.’
‘Me too, no doubt about that.’
‘You’re married.’
‘Don’t care.’
‘It couldn’t have been her anyway,’ said cop number two. ‘The killer has green eyes, so that Cresta Raddish said. Did you see her blue eyes?’
‘Of course I did. You couldn’t miss ’em.’
‘Don’t think I’ve ever seen such blue eyes.’
‘William goes absolutely crazy,’ cop number one mimicked her words.
‘I’ll bet he does,’ said the other.
‘He probably gives her a right thrashing.’
‘I’d give her a good thrashing if I ever had the chance,’ said the other, and as they were thinking about that, perhaps driving concentration had waned. Neither was the young woman concentrating as she stepped out into the road, pushing a buggy containing two gurgling toddlers.
The cop braked at the last moment, throwing up smoke, depositing rubber on the tired tarmac; blowing a loud squeal into the air. Stopped in time, no sweat, only just though, as the dizzy young thing grinned into the car and mouthed: Sorry, as if it had all been her fault.
After that, the policemen forgot all about the fragrant woman, they were already thinking of their next five appointments, all in Handbridge, they were nearly finished, and because flashy Japanese hatchback owners were likely to be owned by young and attractive career girls, with any luck, they just might find the lady of their dreams. There was more chance of that than finding the killer.
Cresta Raddish was now saying something about a female serial killer in Arkansas she had studied who had cut off her victims’ fingers and had fed them to her dog. It didn’t seem to be going anywhere, and Walter wondered if it was simply to fill in time, or perhaps to demonstrate just how well qualified and experienced in her field she really was.
A sharp rap came to the door.
John harrumphed.
She had given strict orders they were not to be disturbed.
‘Get that, Karen,’ she snapped.
Karen opened the door.
It was Jenny Thompson, a satisfied smirk on her face; none of them could miss.
‘Sorry to interrupt, ma’am, but Walter’s had another letter, I mean Inspector Darriteau,’ and she produced another skinny manila envelope. ‘Same wacky print,’ she said, holding it up for all to see.
Walter leapt from his chair, surprising everyone including himself at how quickly he had moved. Carefully took the envelope between finger and thumbnails like some old-fashioned fairground machine trying to grasp a prize.
‘Thanks, Jen,’ he muttered.
Karen nodded at the WPC and gently closed the door in her face.
He
set the envelope on the desk before them.
Mrs West handed him a metal letter opener and a pair of tweezers, then retrieved a clear plastic sleeve from her drawer.
Walter drew out the sheet of paper and set it down on the desk.
All three women were now standing behind him, staring down at communiqué number three.
Well Wally,
You need help man.
You’ll never catch us at this rate.
Lady’s Day. We’ll see you there.
We have so much to talk about.
Can’t weight.
Can you?
The Chester Mollesters.
PS: Make sure your life insurance is paid up.
The same font, same inkjet production, same obvious bad spelling, same weird use of the plural, as in we’ll, not I’ll, when everyone was convinced they were looking for one person, one man, one woman, perhaps that is where the we came into it, the he-she thing was so confused it genuinely believed it was two people, split personality gone crazy. We are murdering. We are a murderer. We can’t be caught. We are laughing.
‘What does he mean there?’ said Cresta, revealing that even she thought it could be a man, ‘When he says Lady’s Day.’
‘Chester races,’ said Karen.
‘Biggest day of the year,’ said Walter, recalling several happy days spent on the tiny but cute track, admiring the tiny but cute visitors, and especially on Ladies’ day, as it should have been spelt.
‘When is it?’ asked Cresta.
‘Day after tomorrow,’ said Mrs West.
‘It doesn’t give us much time,’ said Karen.
‘Time enough,’ said Walter.
‘I don’t think you should go anywhere near the track,’ said Mrs West, now back in her chair and glancing pointedly at Walter.
‘I’m going, ma’am. I have to.’
‘Am I missing something here, or has the killer not made a direct threat against you? Make sure your life insurance is paid up.’
‘Maybe, ma’am,’ said Karen, ‘but if he doesn’t go, the killer may simply walk away. Walter will have to be there, and be high profile too, so the killer can see him there; and when and if the he-she thing makes its move, we strike.’
‘I agree with that,’ said Cresta, somewhat surprisingly. ‘Hundred percent. I mean what’s the he-she thing going to do, gun him down in broad daylight before thousands of witnesses? Unlikely, don’t you think?’
‘Hope not,’ muttered Walter.
It may have been unlikely, but the image of it was all too powerful.
‘We’ll flood the place, thirty, forty, fifty, how many officers do you think you’ll need?’ Mrs West asked Walter.
‘Thirty is more than enough. We don’t want the killer frightened off by hundreds of suspicious looking policemen lumping around. clearly not interested in racing.’
‘They’ll all have to look their best,’ said Karen. ‘They’ll stick out like sore thumbs otherwise. Best party wedding day frocks, jackets, pressed trousers, ties, neat shirts and buttonholes for the boys.’
Great! Thought Walter, but when it came to it he could dress up too, when the occasion demanded, and this time it did.
Mrs West asked Karen, ‘Have you renewed your firearms licence?’
‘Yes ma’am, recently done.’
‘Good. Go fully armed; and you too, Walter.’
Walter nodded curtly; he always intended to do that.
‘You don’t think this could all be a bluff, do you?’ said Karen.
‘How do you mean?’ asked Mrs West.
‘A diversionary tactic? While we are concentrating on the racecourse the killer strikes somewhere else.’
‘The world is a big place,’ said Walter. ‘We can’t be in hundreds of locations at the same time. If it’s a diversion then so be it, but I don’t think it is.’
‘Neither do I,’ said Cresta in a rush.
‘Get on to the racecourse right now,’ said Mrs West to Karen. ‘We want thirty of the most expensive tickets, access all areas, we don’t want police staff flicking ID’s every five minutes, and we are not paying either, and it’s to remain most secret, and don’t take no for an answer. I don’t care if they have been sold out for months. No, on second thoughts, we can do better than that. It’s only just across the road, go down there right now, see them in person, throw your weight around a bit if you have to, and take that Gibbons bloke with you for added muscle, he always seems to have time on his hands.’
Karen grinned and glanced at Walter.
He nodded the briefest of nods.
She frowned, then flicked a smile and headed for the door.
Cresta was already thinking of what to wear. She had bought a beautiful tight fitting purple frock in New York the last time she was there for the international profiler’s conference. That should do nicely.
‘You better call everyone together,’ said Mrs West to Walter. ‘Explain exactly what we want. Everyone is to look as if they are attending their favourite brother’s wedding. I’ll organise the buttonholes. If anyone lets me down, they will have me to answer to, oh, and remind the girls they will need to wear a hat, if they don’t have anything suitable, come and see me; I have a cupboard full of fancy items. I’ll want everyone dressed and ready and on parade by nine o’clock Thursday for final briefing, remind everyone there are big prizes to be won for the best turned out people.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Walter standing and ambling outside.
They shouldn’t be thinking of winning bloody prizes.
He might forget to mention that little incentive.
They should be thinking of arresting a serial killer, someone who had murdered six people to date, and was still running amok; someone who had the impudence to suggest that he update his life insurance.
There was no point in doing that. He didn’t have any.
What was the need?
After he’d gone Cresta asked: ‘So what do you think the he-she thing is going to do now?’
‘I have no idea,’ said Mrs West. ‘You?’
Cresta pursed her lips and pulled a face and shook her head, and regretted asking the question.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Armitage celebrated his eighteenth birthday sitting alone in the Dublin Packet public house set on the square in Chester city centre opposite the picture house. He was staring at a barely touched pint of lager, a folded newspaper, the Liverpool Echo, on the table, a brown paper parcel at his side. He was looking for a new job, but there was nothing suitable in the paper.
Saint Edmonds had fixed him up with a job selling shoes in a branch of a multiple in Frodsham Street. To say he detested it was an understatement. He had been amazed at the number of people who shamelessly came in with stinking sweaty feet and ragged socks. Armitage paid attention to his appearance, both what you could see, and what you couldn’t, and was surprised to discover that so many people did not.
Many of the lads from Saint Edmonds had found jobs as waiters or barmen where the punters regularly tipped. Some of the young guys made more money on tips than they did on wages, and Armitage liked the sound of that. When did you last hear of anyone tipping a shoe salesman, he would occasionally mutter to Dennis.
Answer, no one, and never!
He was waiting for Dennis who had recently left the halfway house, Bellingfield, where Armitage now lived. Bellingfield was the Ritz hotel in comparison to Saint Edmonds. A maximum of two boys per room, unlimited showers, and usually they were hot, plus decent food and no lack of it. It was the closest thing Armitage had experienced to a real home for longer than he cared to remember.
Dennis had done well at the soup factory. He was coming up twenty and had already been promoted twice. Seven trainees now worked for him, at his beck and call, and at least three of them had arrived from Saint Edmonds, so he knew what they would be like.
Dennis worked hard, saved a little money, and had put it down as a deposit on a small third floor flat in Hoole. In truth t
he flat had been cobbled together in the eaves, but he didn’t care about that, too busy was he in revelling in having his own home. A place where on his days off he could get up whenever he chose, where he could bathe in hot water any time of the day or night, where he could eat what he wanted, and when he wanted, drink whatever he liked, though strangely that freedom had turned him away from binge drinking, a place where he could watch television whenever he chose, and the channel he preferred, every time, and there was never anyone to tell him different. Dennis was like a pig in muck. He had never been so happy.
His happiness was made complete when in a greasy spoon café he met the mousy Jillian. She followed him everywhere and linked his arm at every opportunity, as if she were frightened that someone might steal him from her. Dennis came into the Packet with Jillian, bought two halves of lager, and joined Army at the table.
‘How are you doing?’ asked Dennis.
‘Fine. You?’
‘Yeah, great,’ he said, ‘never been better,’ smiling at Jillian, who blushed.
Armitage glanced across at her. They were the perfect match. Dennis looked more like a rodent with each passing month, his long pointed nose and narrow face, truly rat-like, thought Armitage, while Jillian boasted mousy hair, and a mouse like appearance bordering on the cute animals you could see in any American cartoon in the local picture house.
Sitting together on that bench seat she linked Dennis’s arm, pulled herself closer, and squeaked, ‘Are we going to the pics, or what?’
‘Yeah, when I’ve finished my drink. Bought you this,’ Dennis said, sliding a wrapped present across the table.
‘Ta,’ said an embarrassed Armitage.
It would be the only birthday present he would receive.
