Deadlock

by Graham Ison

A few moments later, a woman entered the room. Slender, and a couple of inches under six foot tall, she was wearing white jeans, a black T-shirt and stylish trainers, and her blonde hair was fashioned into an immaculate ponytail. Large, round, black-rimmed spectacles finished off the picture of an elegant but informally dressed girl.

  Tom Challis stared at this vision for some seconds before realizing that it was Heather Douglas. ‘Good grief!’ he exclaimed. ‘I didn’t recognize you, Heather. You’ve done a brilliant job of disguise.’

  ‘You can thank Olivia, Tom. She’s very good at this sort of thing.’

  ‘So it seems, but I didn’t realize you wore glasses.’

  ‘I don’t,’ said Heather. ‘They’ve got plain glass in them, but Inspector Ebdon seemed to think it would be a good idea. Pretty cool, eh?’

  ‘And I thought you were going to put your hair up.’

  ‘Olivia and I decided that would be too formal for going to a wine bar with a fellah.’ Heather chuckled, nestled up close to Challis and took his arm. ‘Shall we go out on the town, darling?’

  ‘I think changing your whole appearance has changed your character too.’ Challis had a sudden fear that he’d got a wayward girl on his hands, and that could easily foul up the operation.

  ‘Great, isn’t it? I can do what I like and no one will know it’s me.’

  ‘That’s what’s worrying me,’ said Challis, earnestly hoping that she wouldn’t bring herself to notice in the Talavera by some scatterbrain showing off.

  As Heather Douglas entered the Talavera wine bar, the attention of the clientele was immediately riveted upon her, and Challis wondered whether her striking appearance might prove to be counterproductive. The purpose of her being there was to discreetly identify her attacker, not to make a spectacle of herself.

  However, she later told Challis that there were people there who knew her extremely well, but who hadn’t greeted her in their usual effusive way. ‘And that,’ she said in conclusion, ‘included a guy I had a brief fling with six months ago.’

  Heather was without a current boyfriend and took full advantage of having Tom to take her out, courtesy of the Metropolitan Police. It was a situation that she used to her advantage, becoming coquettish and from time to time leaning across to kiss Tom on the cheek, secure in the knowledge that he couldn’t object without revealing that they weren’t an ‘item’.

  They stayed in the wine bar for a couple of hours, but Heather was unable to spot her attacker. At ten o’clock, Challis escorted her back to her house.

  The second evening of the police operation was blisteringly hot, with temperatures only a degree or so below ninety Fahrenheit. Heather, proclaiming that a woman could not wear the same outfit two nights running, appeared in a pair of denim shorts and a white T-shirt. Challis groaned.

  ‘What’s wrong, Tom? Don’t you like my shorts?’ Heather pushed out a suntanned leg.

  ‘I’ve no objection at all,’ he said, ‘but I don’t want you to be too noticeable. It might blow the whole operation.’

  ‘I think you worry too much, Tom,’ said Heather, seizing his arm and steering him towards the front door.

  The Talavera was not so crowded this evening, many of the habitués having chosen a nearby pub, preferring the cooler air of its beer garden to the stifling atmosphere of the wine bar. Naturally enough, Heather received several admiring glances, but after a glass or two of Chablis, and in Challis’s case just one small glass of Merlot, she told Challis that her attacker was not there.

  Challis gave it a while longer, but at a quarter past ten he decided that their suspect was unlikely to show up. He called DI Naylor on his mobile and told him that he was abandoning the observation for that night. Having escorted Heather back to her house, he received another lingering kiss. This time she invited him in, but Challis wisely refused, suspecting what she might have in mind; mixing duty with pleasure was a sure way to attract the eagle eyes of the Department of Professional Standards. Particularly in a case as important as this one.

  Regrettably, the following night, Thursday, proved to be a washout too, and Challis was beginning to wonder whether Heather Douglas had been mistaken in her conviction that she had seen her attacker in the Talavera.

  On Friday morning, Challis came into my office.

  ‘Have you got a moment, guv?’ he asked.

  ‘Sure. Sit down. What’s on your mind?’

  ‘We don’t seem to be getting anywhere with this obo at the Talavera, guv.’

  ‘It could take time, Tom,’ I said, ‘And given the time of year, the suspect might’ve decided to go on holiday.’

  ‘I take your point, guv, but that’s not all,’ continued Challis. ‘Each evening, Heather is wearing an increasingly provocative outfit. In fact, it’s as if, in her mind, the whole thing is some sort of fantasy charade.’

  ‘Never mind what she’s wearing, Tom. Is there any danger of her being recognized by this guy who abducted her?’

  ‘No, sir, none at all.’ And Challis explained about the man with whom Heather had had an affair not recognizing her; this was also the case with several other people who frequented the Talavera who, she said, knew her well.

  ‘If this guy’s going to show at all, Tom, I reckon tonight or tomorrow. Fridays and Saturdays are the days when people unwind. If we draw a blank, come and see me on Monday morning and we’ll have to rethink the plan. I thought it was too good to hope that something like this could solve the case. We’ve got plenty of scientific evidence to convict the murderer. All we’ve got to do is find the bloody man.’

  Challis collected Heather Douglas at five minutes past six on Friday evening. The temperature had cooled slightly, and to Challis’s relief she was more soberly attired in a pair of designer jeans and a Breton sweater.

  ‘How much longer are we going to keep this up, Tom?’ she asked once they were seated with a glass of wine at one of the ‘ledges’ that dominated the large room.

  ‘Mr Brock’s going to review the situation on Monday morning,’ said Tom. ‘If your guy hasn’t turned up by then, we’ll have to come up with a different plan.’

  ‘I don’t think you’ll have to do that, Tom, darling,’ said Heather, laying a hand on Challis’s arm. ‘He’s just come in.’

  Challis shot a quick glance in the direction that Heather was looking. ‘The guy in khaki chinos and a red and white check shirt?’

  ‘That’s him.’

  ‘Are you certain?’

  ‘When you’ve spent nearly an hour in a car with a guy asking you intimate questions about your underwear, and trying to work out how to escape, you remember what he looks like.’

  ‘All right, all right,’ said Challis impatiently. ‘I don’t need a lecture. You’re absolutely certain he’s the guy?’

  ‘I’m absolutely certain he’s the guy,’ repeated Heather slowly.

  ‘Don’t look at him again, Heather. I want you to walk out of here naturally. Just outside there’s a green van. It’s one of our nondescript observation vans. As soon as the guy inside sees you approaching, he’ll open the back door. Get in as quickly as you can. He’ll tell you what to do next.’

  Heather sauntered across the room and paused briefly at the door to wave to Challis. Challis swore under his breath.

  Outside, Dave Poole, who was one of the detectives in the van, almost dragged her inside. ‘This is Detective Inspector Naylor, Heather,’ he said, indicating the other man in the vehicle.

  ‘Hi! I’m Brad Naylor, Heather. I want you to keep a careful watch out of the window of this van. You’ll be able to see him, but he can’t see you. It’s one-way glass.’ The DI told her to pay close attention and didn’t tell her that Challis would call him on his mobile once the suspect started to move.

  Half an hour later, the man in the khaki chinos and the red and white check shirt emerged from the Talavera. Naylor received a call from Challis seconds later.

  Naylor broadcast the man’s description to the detectives positioned in the
street nearby. ‘And don’t bloody well lose him,’ he added.

  ‘We won’t lose him, Brad,’ said Kate Ebdon. ‘I know him.’

  SEVENTEEN

  I received the call from Dave Poole just as the surveillance team began to follow the suspect. I could hardly believe that the man Heather Douglas had identified was the murderer of four women. Nevertheless, I told Dave to arrange for one of Linda Mitchell’s scenes-of-crime officers to join us. If we found the few strands of hair that Heather Douglas claimed to have put down the back of the front passenger seat of her abductor’s car, I didn’t want any foul-ups that might prejudice the trial. And if this guy did turn out to be the killer, everything had to be lawyer-proof from the word go.

  I agreed to meet my team near the suspect’s house and rang for a car to get me to Richmond as quickly as possible. DI Naylor and Dave Poole were waiting at the end of the road when I arrived.

  Just getting out of a van I recognized as an evidence recovery vehicle was a guy I’d seen before. ‘Hello, Mr Brock,’ he said. ‘We met a few years ago.’

  ‘I thought I recognized you,’ I said. ‘Remind me.’

  ‘Trevor King. I’m one of Linda Mitchell’s guys. I helped your chaps dig up a garage floor belonging to a man who’d murdered his wife.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I do remember that,’ I said, but it was the nasal intonation that fixed him in my mind. I turned next to Naylor. ‘What’s the SP, Brad?’

  ‘We’ve got the suspect holed up inside, guv,’ said Naylor, looking rather pleased with himself.

  ‘And he’s no idea that he was followed here?’

  ‘No, sir,’ put in Dave Poole, contriving to look hurt at the insinuation that things hadn’t gone according to plan.

  ‘And you’ve got the search warrant?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Dave was calling me ‘sir’ again, as he always does when he thinks I’ve made a stupid comment or asked an unnecessary question, but I had to be sure.

  ‘Where’s Heather Douglas?’

  ‘Tom Challis has taken her home, guv,’ said Naylor.

  ‘Right, then, let’s do it.’ I walked up the path and rang the bell by the front door.

  ‘Yes?’ But before the man could say anything more, Brad Naylor and Dave Poole had pushed past him uninvited, and were now standing behind him ready to seize his arms if he suddenly decided to cut up rough. ‘Heh, what the hell’s going on?’ he demanded, somewhat alarmed at this incursion. He knew by now that we were the police, having recognized Dave from his previous encounter with him and Kate Ebdon at Richmond police station. He was tall and well built, testifying to hours spent in a gym. His muscular physique suggested that he was also sickeningly good at tennis and could handle a cricket bat with panache.

  ‘Max Roper, I have a warrant to search these premises.’

  At that point, a woman appeared behind him. ‘What on earth is happening, darling?’ She turned to Dave Poole. ‘I know you, don’t I?’ she said accusingly.

  ‘Good evening, Miss Preston,’ Dave said. ‘Or is it Mrs Roper now?’

  Sophie Preston ignored him and tossed her head. It was a rather amateurish gesture.

  ‘Where’s your car, Mr Roper?’ I asked.

  ‘In the garage. Isn’t that where you usually keep a car?’ Roper’s reply was almost dripping with sarcasm, but I’d seen this sort of behaviour before, and to me it often indicated guilty knowledge, a cover for nervousness bordering on panic. And he’d have been even more nervous if he’d known what we were looking for.

  ‘Lead the way, then.’ We left Sophie Preston in the living room.

  ‘I really don’t know what you hope to find,’ said Roper, almost sneering. Apparently still confident of the outcome of a search of the garage, he did as he was asked.

  ‘Come with me, Inspector,’ I said to Kate, ‘and bring Trevor.’

  Kate, Trevor and I followed Roper along the hall and through the connecting door to the garage.

  ‘There it is, but I don’t know what you hope to find,’ said Roper yet again, but this time there was a hint of nervousness.

  ‘We’ll let you know when we’ve found it,’ said Kate, and held out a hand. ‘Key, please.’

  It was obvious that Roper was under the impression that we wouldn’t find anything in his car that would connect him to any crime, and he handed over the key to a black BMW without further comment.

  Kate released the locks and turned to the forensic practitioner. ‘See what you can find down the back of the front passenger seat, Trevor.’

  Roper appeared surprised at this request, but Trevor King just nodded; Dave had briefed him beforehand.

  Donning a pair of protective gloves, Trevor pushed his hand down the crack between the cushion and the back of the seat. Seconds later he produced a few strands of long brown hair, placed them carefully in an evidence bag and labelled it.

  ‘Complete with follicles, Mr Brock,’ said Trevor, a triumphantly broad smile on his face. ‘That should be enough.’

  Max Roper’s expression was a mixture of concern and perplexity, but once again he resorted to irony. ‘Is this some sort of conjuring trick?’ he asked. ‘The reverse of planting evidence, which is what you guys usually do.’

  ‘No, Mr Roper,’ said Kate. ‘If the DNA matches, that hair will belong to the young woman who was abducted on the nineteenth of June, a week ago last Wednesday.’

  ‘Balls!’ exclaimed Roper, and gave a nervous laugh. ‘That hair will be Sophie’s.’

  ‘The lab will soon tell us,’ said Trevor King mildly, his nasal delivery making him sound for all the world like a downtrodden Dickensian clerk. ‘I’ll need to take a DNA sample from this gentleman’s fiancée for elimination purposes, Mr Brock.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said.

  ‘And then there are these,’ said Kate, emerging from the car. In her gloved hand she held a number of bras.

  ‘Now that’s what I call interesting,’ I said lightly, in a desperate attempt to keep my voice level and not to display any jubilation. ‘How many have you got, Kate?’

  ‘Four, sir.’

  ‘Bag each one separately, please, Miss Ebdon,’ said Trevor King, ‘although they may have been cross-contaminated already.’

  ‘What on earth is a collection of bras doing in your glove compartment, Mr Roper?’ I enquired, and chuckled, as though sharing a man’s joke with him.

  ‘It was back when we were driving through Spain this year, Chief Inspector.’ Roper laughed too. ‘When Sophie got too hot, her bra always finished up in the glove compartment.’

  A likely story, I thought. From what I recall of the four dead women, the bras were likely to be different sizes anyway, and Kate Ebdon confirmed it.

  ‘I checked the sizes as I bagged them,’ she said. ‘They were thirty-four B, thirty-four C, thirty-six B and thirty-two D.’

  We all returned to the sitting room.

  ‘We found this in a sort of storeroom, guv’nor,’ said Brad Naylor, holding up a sports bag. ‘It has a label bearing the name of Heather Douglas and the young lady’s address. Inside is a good quality Speedo swimsuit and a pair of Ted Baker trainers that must be worth at least a hundred notes.’

  This damning evidence, coupled with the fact that we’d found the lengths of hair in exactly the place where Heather Douglas said she’d put them, was good enough for me to detain Roper, at least for the abduction. Murder charges would have to await the results of scientific examination and comparison.

  ‘Max Roper,’ I said, ‘I am arresting you on suspicion of kidnapping Heather Douglas on or about Wednesday the nineteenth of June this year. You are not obliged to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention now something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say will be given in evidence.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of anyone called Heather Douglas,’ said Roper airily. ‘I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.’

  Dave slowly repeated what Roper had said and wrote it in his pocketbook.

&n
bsp; ‘I suppose she was going to be another of your trophies, was she, Max?’ said Sophie Preston mildly.

  ‘Oh, shut up, you stupid cow,’ snapped Roper, now clearly worried.

  Sophie Preston leaped from her chair like an avenging tigress, her face distorted with anger, and for a moment I thought she was going to strike her fiancé. ‘I’ve forgiven you once too often, Max,’ she said, standing very close to him. ‘From now on you’re on your own. What’s more, I’m not coming back, and this time I mean it.’ Once again, she tore off her engagement ring and threw it at Roper. ‘I’m going upstairs to pack.’

  ‘Not yet, Miss Preston. Inspector Ebdon has a question to ask you.’

  Kate held up the four transparent bags containing the bras that she had found in the glove compartment of Sophie’s fiancé’s car. ‘Mr Roper stated that when you and he were motoring through Spain earlier this year, Miss Preston, you sometimes got so hot that you’d take off your bra and leave it in the glove compartment. Do you agree with that?’

  ‘No, I don’t. And we’ve not been to Spain. At least I haven’t. Ever!’ Sophie Preston burst out laughing. ‘Apart from which, I don’t wear a bra,’ she said. ‘I don’t have to.’ And then she added the final condemnation. ‘Anyway, I prefer to use my own car. I’ve never been in Max’s car because he’s such a bloody awful driver.’

  ‘Miss Preston, would you make a statement to the effect that you’ve not been to Spain in Mr Roper’s car and, furthermore, that you have never travelled in it at any time?’ I asked. ‘And that therefore you have never left a bra in the glove compartment?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘It won’t be of any use,’ snarled Roper. ‘She’s my fiancée and she can’t give evidence against me. It’s the law.’

  Oh, I do love amateur lawyers. ‘Only if you were married, Mr Roper, and not always then,’ I said. ‘But certainly not if you’re only engaged.’

  ‘Supposing we were to get married before the trial?’ enquired Roper hopefully and glanced at Sophie. But his sudden self-serving volte-face left his erstwhile fiancée unimpressed.

  ‘Huh!’ snorted Sophie. ‘In your dreams, Max.’