by Leona Turner
Standing up, Hannah walked toward Clare and sat down next to her, taking her hand. She looked Clare in the eye.
“No, hon, I don’t think they ever will be for you; you’ve been through too much. But you don’t honestly have any sympathy for him, do you? Clare, he pushed you down those stairs, he aborted your baby—don’t waste your time on him.”
“Hannah, he didn’t push me down the stairs, I told you he didn’t. It was an accident.”
“Yes, an accident that would never have happened if he hadn’t been here in the first place. Look, don’t worry about it, just go back to your work and I’ll call you in a bit, ok?”
Clare nodded and Hannah let herself out.
Glancing back down at her books, feeling more confused than she ever had, she slid back down onto the floor and proceeded to try to understand Freud.
Chapter 36
Holt pulled out the chair for his desk, still reeling. He’d gone to meet his journalist buddy for lunch in the hope that he’d be able to shed some light on the mystery caller who had been leaking sensitive information about the case He never thought for a minute he’d get a name, and he had already decided it must be the killer. Never in his wildest nightmares had he seen it coming.
Henson was the not-so-mysterious mystery caller.
Now he was uncertain of how to deal with the information. He was the senior officer; it was up to him. He wished he had someone to talk to about it. But it was no good—he would have to decide what to do. He absentmindedly checked his watch and rubbed at his brow. Henson would be in any minute now. In any other situation Holt would have been furious, but Henson was the only other person who had any real idea of the pressure of the case, aside from Loretta. He had become used to having him around, as irritating as he was at times. Technically he had every right and every reason to throw him off the case. He’d not only jeopardised the case; he’d jeopardised his own career. And what about the feelings he’d had about the calls? He’d been so sure the killer had been making them. Should he just automatically dismiss those feelings now just because he knew who the caller was?
He still hadn’t decided how to deal with the situation that was rapidly unfurling in front of him when Henson strolled in. Holt watched as Henson went and got himself a coffee from the vending machine, anger bubbling up inside of him.
“Henson, my office now.”
Henson looked up from his coffee, and for a moment there was a look of confusion, then realisation.
Still holding his coffee, Henson walked toward Holt’s office, all the officers had noticed Holts ton and were now watching Henson with interest.
Holt waited for Henson to enter his office and slammed the door. Rounding on him, Holt stared him straight in the eye.
“Anything you’d like to share with me?’
Trying for time, Henson faltered.
“How about the fact that you’ve been tipping off the press as to the whereabouts of the bodies.”
Henson stood agog; he wasn’t sure what to say.
Seeing the confusion on his young colleague’s face, Holt continued,
“It was you tipping off the press. Did you get your nice, tidy little back hander? Exactly how much were they paying you?”
Henson started to answer and Holt cut him off.
“Was it worth it? Your thirty pieces of silver? Honest to God, Henson. You’ve put everything at risk—the case, your career…” Holt paused, to give Henson time to speak.
“I don’t know what to say, sir, I never told them anything confidential.”
“You told them where the bodies were; they virtually followed me down the driveway at Jon Hamilton and Richard Abbott’s crime scene.”
“Sir, you don’t believe I am responsible for these atrocities, do you?”
Holt regarded him for a minute.
“Now why would you say that?”
“Well, you seemed so sure that the person tipping off the press had something to do with the case.”
“Yes, and I was right, wasn’t I? But no, I don’t believe you’re the killer; for a start, you don’t have the bottle. I’ve got to tell you, Henson, I’m at a loss as to what to do about you now.”
“Are you going to inform the rest of the station?”
Holt stared at him.
“No. They’re under enough stress at the minute. Ordinarily I’d take you straight off the case, but that would just arouse suspicion, so I’m going to keep you on. But this isn’t over, Henson, and I need your word that there’ll be no more leaks to the press.”
"Are you sure you want to keep me on the case?”
“Well, no. But given the circumstances, I’m going to take a chance on you. Don’t let me down.” Holt made his way across his office and opened the door.
Henson took his cue and left the office.
Henson left Holt’s office absolutely annihilated; he had felt pushed out ever since Holt had seen fit to bring Loretta in on the case. He had never trusted her. Realistically he knew it was down to his latent insecurities, but he felt now more than ever that she and Holt needed to be brought down a peg or two. And he knew that the best way to do this was to discredit Loretta. How he could do that he wasn’t sure, but in the meantime he was going to try and win Holt’s trust back.
He had met up with Thomas Webber an hour ago, and after a few drinks he had let Henson know about the sordid side line he and the late Adam had had. Henson had been shocked by Tom’s apparent willingness to talk about the website, but he knew that Tom had still been concerned for his own safety. Fear of death always seemed to have a funny way of loosening tongues. Henson had assured Tom that he wouldn’t be charged if he could tell him anything that might be of importance to the case. Tom had told him everything, including the fact that the website had been closed down by a third party. This had sent a shiver of excitement through Henson; it made sense that whoever had closed down the website might also have been responsible for Adam’s demise. The fact that he had gone missing the same day the website was shut down spoke volumes to Henson, and he had excused himself to the toilets to call a contact of his. The person he’d spoken to was a journalist and partly the reason why Henson was in bad odour himself, and if he could use him to vindicate himself then all the better. Half an hour later, Henson had received a text with a name and contact address.
He decided to follow it up straight away, and within twenty minutes he was sitting outside of a house. Getting out of the car he double checked the address and once satisfied he knocked sharply on the door. After a few moments the door was opened by a slight man in his late fifties.
“Can I help you?”
“Hello, Mr Jenkins?”
“Yes.”
“DC Henson, I was just wondering if I could have a minute of your time?”
“Yes, of course.” Mr Jenkins opened the door to let Henson inside.
As Henson walked in he looked around; papers and books littered the hallway, and as he made his way through to the living room, he wondered when was the last time the carpet had met with a vacuum cleaner.
Mr Jenkins, noticing the look on the young DC’s face, spoke up.
“I live alone—can you tell?”
Henson smiled at him and, moving some books on the sofa managed to make enough room to sit down.
“Would you like a drink at all?”
“No, I’m fine, thank you, sir.”
Sitting down in an armchair, Mr Jenkins made himself comfortable.
“So how can I help?”
“Well, Mr Jenkins, I got your name and address from Jo at the Manning’s Mercury.”
“Ah, Jo, I know Jo. How is he?”
“He’s fine, thank you. He told me you’re an expert with websites and I was wondering if I could pick your brain?”
“I wouldn’t say I’m an expert, but I’ll do my best.”
“A website was closed down a few weeks ago and I was wondering how much expertise would be required to do that.”
“Well, it is
n’t something everyone can do.”
Mr Jenkins got up and moved toward the computer. Switching it on, he waited patiently for it to start up.
Henson had moved to the computer, as well, and had his hand on the back of Mr Jenkins’s chair, peering down at the screen.
“What was the name of the website?”
“Peep Show.”
Mr Jenkins stopped what he was doing and turned to look at him.
“Well, I can tell you now who closed that site down: I did.”
“You did?”
“Yes, I had a call from a friend asking me if I could, so I did.”
“And the name of your friend is?”
“Loretta Armstrong.”
Henson felt his stomach drop.
“Well, thank you for your time, Mr Jenkins.”
Before Mr Jenkins had a chance to respond, Henson had gone.
Holt had just gotten back to the station after a brief conversation with Clare Heathers about Dean and the late Adam Woodacre. Although she clearly wasn’t at all distraught about Adam’s death, Holt didn’t see any reason why she would be. When she’d mentioned the assault, Holt had been shocked, although he could see why she hadn’t reported it in a country where the laws seemed to only protect the perpetrators. He had to be careful in his questioning and had been incredibly relieved when he had rang Henson’s mobile and it had gone to voicemail. Clare had assured Holt that the only people she was aware of who knew about the assault were the people involved. Although she couldn’t be sure be sure of whom Hannah Simpson may have told. Holt had left a voicemail on Miss Simpson’s mobile making a somewhat oblique reference as to what he wished to her speak about.
Going into his office, Holt sat back down at his desk. He sat staring at the incident wall, where all the photos of the victims were posted along with various information about their lives. His eyes kept going back to the first victim; they still didn’t know who he was. Ever since the body had turned up, they had been scouring the missing persons, but the case had been so unrelenting that precious few leads regarding the victim’s identity had come in. Holt was starting to believe that he might be the key to the investigation. The attack had been so meticulously planned and so much more ferocious than the subsequent murders. But somehow Holt felt there was more to these cases than he was seeing. The more Holt thought about it, the surer he became; find the first victim’s identity and that would lead them to the murderer. Holt reasoned that the murderer must have been aware of this, too. Using fire as a method to kill had served two purposes: firstly, it was an agonising way of killing someone; and secondly, it ensured a difficult identification process. All the dentists in the area had been checked and none of them could shed any light on the first victim’s identity. They had managed to get a break with his shoes, though; they had been an expensive limited edition pair, and after a few calls they had located a handful of shops up and down the country that had stocked them. The stores checked how many pairs of size tens they’d sold in the last six months, and then lists of dentists within a ten-mile radius of the shops had been sent copies of the deceased’s dental information. It had been a long shot, but given that they had little other information to go on, it was worth a try.
As Holt sat back in his chair and continued to stare at the mystery victim, his office door slammed open. WPC Wright stood there looking flushed.
“Inspector, we’ve got a positive ID on the first victim. His name was Simon Reeves, fifty-two, lived in South London, went missing three months ago. He had a record Sir, he’d been to prison for-” Holt cut her off
“Murder.”
“Sir—did you know him?”
“I was his arresting officer, first murder case I worked…”
At that moment, his mobile phone, which had temporarily lost reception, beeped into life again, signalling the arrival of a voicemail message. Holt, still reeling from what he had just heard, dialled 1 to retrieve it. A crackled message started to play to him.
“Inspector Holt, my name’s Hannah Simpson—you left a message. I’m just calling to let you know that the only people who new about the assault were Clare and myself—oh, and Clare’s counsellor, Loretta Armstrong. I know you are investigating murders, but I can speak for Clare and myself when I say that we’d really appreciate it if the information regarding the assault and our names didn’t make it into the papers. We’ve only just started to get our lives back and could do without a dozen journalists turning up vying for the lurid details. Anyway, if when you get this message you need to know anything else, you know where I am. Thank you.”
Holt felt his stomach drop. His eyes went back to the incident board, his mind whirling.
Matthew Reynolds, the second victim, had been referred to anger management via Loretta Jon Hamilton, the third victim, had a wife who was seeing Loretta for marriage difficulties. Richard Abbott, the fourth victim, he couldn’t be sure about, but he wouldn’t be surprised to find that either he or a close family member had been getting ‘professional’ help. Adam Woodacre had been a date rapist whose victims had included patients of Loretta’s. And now Dean Matthews, someone who had ‘pushed’ his ex down a flight of stairs, had gone missing. An ex who was directly related to Loretta.
The WPC looked concerned; she had known that the revelation of the victim’s name was going to create a reaction, but she wasn’t prepared for the look on the inspector’s face now. She had expected relief or determination, but there was none of that. There wasn’t any expression at all; there didn’t seem to be anything behind his eyes.
“Sir?”
Holt’s mind snapped back and he looked up at the WPC.
“I can’t believe I’ve been so stupid; all the time I’ve been looking for a link between the victims, and I honestly believed there wasn’t one. And all the time the link was sitting there feeding me information.” With that, Holt grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair and charged out of the office. Practically running from the building to his car he jumped in and slammed the door behind him. Sparking the engine into life, the car tyres shrieked as he sped out of the car park.
Holt was furious as he drove. How could he have been so blind? She’d tricked him; she’d led him to believe she was helping with the case when all the time she’d been using him to make sure she’d always be one step ahead. Tears started rolling down his face at the betrayal. He’d started having feelings for her and believed she felt something for him. And what about all the victims, tortured and murdered so callously while he’d enjoyed dinner made by the same hands that had caused all the carnage? He’d almost had one of his own thrown off the force because of this woman
His mind was filled with snippets of past conversations and distracted, he had had to swerve hard to avoid a car pulling out in front of him. He cursed the driver quietly under his breath and then resumed his thoughts. By the time he got to Loretta’s office car park, he was practically foaming at the mouth. He was shocked to see Henson’s car sitting outside the front door. The surprise of seeing it forced him to recompose himself. Leaving the car and straightening his tie and jacket, he strode purposefully through the door. The receptionist was nowhere to be seen and he continued through to Loretta’s office. The door was open as he approached.
Inside at her desk, serene as ever, sat Loretta. In front of her Henson had his hands on the desk, almost shouting a series of questions at her. Loretta, who had been quietly regarding the young DC, looked up slowly, catching Holt’s eye.
“Hello, Inspector.” Her voice sounded different somehow, cold.
As soon as Loretta had spoken, Henson swung around to face Holt.
“Inspector?”
“How did you get here before me?”
“Wright radioed me and told me about the phone call; I figured you’d be coming straight here. Also it turns out that the good doctor here was responsible for the shutdown of Adam Woodacres website.”
As Holt went to query the statement, he faltered. Loretta, who now had Henson�
��s back to her, had picked up the fountain pen she had been using, and in one fell movement plunged it deep into the side of Henson’s neck.. Holt ran forward and held Henson as he slid to the floor, trying to keep the pen steady so as not to make the wound worse. Cradling Henson’s head in his lap, he called for an ambulance and additional support. He looked at Loretta with contempt as she settled back into her chair. As Holt looked up at her, his voice was barely a whisper as he spoke.
“Why?”
“Don’t worry, he won’t die. You have to admit he was irritating, and I don’t appreciate being barked at. This should quiet him down some. Maybe now he’ll have a little more empathy for victims of violent crimes. You know, you should be thanking me; that pen cost a lot less than sensitivity training courses, and the benefits will stay with him for his whole life. Maybe you could put the idea forward at your next annual review.”
Holt knelt, staring at Loretta with incomprehension. Was this really the same woman he had relied upon? She had seemed so understanding and made him feel at home in her apartment. He watched her as she sat calmly regarding him.
“Why aren’t I trying make my escape? Is that what you were about to ask?”
“Yes.”
“Very simple: I don’t want Dean to die.”
“He’s still alive?” Holt was amazed; never would he have believed that that boy wasn’t dead already.
“You’re surprised. You know, I’m not a complete monster, and besides, I want to spend some more time with you before my inevitable carting off to some secure wing.”
“What do you mean spend some more time with me? As soon as this comes to light, I’ll be taken off the case for personal involvement.”
“So you’d agree we’ve become close, Holt? You know, I’m actually quite fond of you.”
“Exactly—they certainly won’t allow you to be interviewed by me.” Holt paused then, looking down once more at the wounded Henson.
“And besides, I don’t ever want to see you again.” Holt’s voice was flat.
