by M A Comley
“Excellent, Pete.” Roberts patted him on the back when he joined them in the observation room.
“It’s gotta be him. He knew all the victims. Knew where they lived and if they had family living with them or not,” Pete stated, a smug grin across his pudgy chops.
“If I might offer a word of caution to the proceedings. Don’t forget I’ve actually spoken with the killer. I’d have no problem recognising his voice again, and he definitely didn’t sound like Wacko.” Both men looked at her, astonished.
“Be fair, boss. His voice was muffled. You can’t be sure what his real voice sounds like.”
“Agreed. Where does he live?” Lorne asked, her mind racing.
“In a block of flats in Hillty. Why?”
“What’s all this about, Inspector?” Roberts arched an eyebrow.
“We’ve already established the killer lives in one of two roads, roads that specifically back onto the railway line. Correct me if I’m wrong, but as far as I know, Hillty is nowhere near a railway line.”
“Damn, I forgot about that.” Pete appeared to be crushed by Lorne’s observation.
“I’m not interested in that. I want this man charged with all four murders. Pete, get in there and arrest him. I’ll get onto CPS. Let’s get this case wrapped up now,” Roberts said, anger stinging his voice.
Lorne grabbed Roberts’ arm as he turned to leave the room. “Chief, you’re making a big mistake. He’s not the guy. If you arrest him, his solicitors would be rubbing their hands together, waiting for compo.”
He glared at her hand, and she let go of his arm.
“Are we back to your women’s intuition again, Inspector?”
“No, instinct. Plus a fair amount of fact, sir,” she said, her tone full of sarcasm.
“Arrest him, Pete,” Roberts ordered, dismissing Lorne’s reasoning out of hand.
A red mist shrouded Lorne as she watched Pete make a fool of himself, arresting the man she was sure was innocent. When Pete told Wacko he was being arrested for the murders of four women, the poor man was rendered speechless, and while some people would take that as being a sign of guilt, Lorne’s thoughts were to the contrary. She kicked the chair leg and cursed Sean Roberts for being the most stubborn man she’d ever met.
Lorne was still fuming when Pete marched triumphantly into her office an hour later.
“A job well done, I’d say,” he said, throwing himself into the chair.
“We’ll see when the forensics come back. I can’t say I’ve ever arrested someone without having at least some form of evidence against them. Still, if that’s the way Roberts wants it, let him dig his own grave. The rate he’s going, it’ll be twenty feet deep in no time at all.”
Lorne picked up her phone and dialled. “Hi, Jacques. It’s me. Look we’ve just arrested someone for the murders—against my better judgement, I hasten to add. If I send over a copy of his prints, can you see if they match those found at Doreen’s and in the shed?”
“Wait a minute. Slow down. I am confused. Why arrest someone you’re not convinced has committed the crimes?”
“It’s a long story. Basically, the new chief went over my head and ordered Pete to arrest him. When can we expect the results?”
“If you bring them over yourself now, we can compare them right away.”
“We’re on our way.” She hung up, and adrenaline coursed through her veins.
“I’m going with you, I take it?” Pete said.
“Of course you are. After we prove the prints aren’t Wacko’s, we’ll get back on the trail of the drivers.”
Pete whistled, then said, “The chief ain’t gonna like this.”
Fuck the chief, she felt like saying but decided against it. Instead she said, “Let’s get out of here.”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
“There it is in black and white. Conclusive proof that the man you have in custody is not the killer who carried out these barbaric crimes,” Jacques Arnaud declared, not long after Lorne and Pete arrived at the mortuary.
Lorne gave him a satisfied smile. “On one hand that’s great news, but on the other, our workload has just doubled.” She stared down at the two sets of prints that couldn’t be more of a contrast.
“How’s that?” Pete asked.
Lorne blew out an exasperated breath. “Because of the chief’s actions, we’ll have to postpone going after the real killer until we’ve cleared Wacko. As if time wasn’t against us enough.”
“I have an idea,” Jacques said with a glint in his eye. “What if I ring him and give him the good news. Will that help? Any grievances he has will be with me.” He rubbed Lorne’s arm in support under Pete’s glare.
“It’s worth a try. Be warned, Jacques: He’s set in his ways. He’s like a hundred-year-old oak tree standing firm in a tornado.”
Jacques grabbed her shoulders spun her around and gently pushed her towards the door. “Leave Chief Inspector Roberts to me. Now shoo. Get out there, and find us a killer.”
Once they were back in the car and en route to see the final driver on their list, Pete admitted, “Maybe I was wrong about the doc after all.”
Twenty minutes later, when they entered the putrid-smelling taxi office, Mary greeted them with a face like a guard dog. She was tucking into a doughnut and had jam and sugar all over her chin.
“Toni’s not here,” the fat woman said, through a mouthful of doughnut.
“We’ll wait for her.” Lorne wandered around the office. Pete stood by the window, looking out.
Toni marched in ten minutes or so later, looking surprised to see them.
“Inspector, Sergeant. What can I do for you?”
“We’ve arrested Wacko, but we’re still continuing our enquiries. Pete called on John Scott the other day, only to find he’d moved on six months ago. It would be great if you had a current address for him.”
“You can’t be serious. I would never have thought that of Wacko. Jesus, that poor girl.” Toni dropped in the nearest chair, and the colour drained from her face.
“We’ve actually arrested him on four counts of murder. What about John Scott’s address?” Lorne said.
Shaking her head, Toni walked over to where Mary sat. As usual, the controller gave the impression she wasn’t listening. Lorne suspected the woman was soaking everything up like a sponge.
“Mary, what’s John’s new address?” Toni said.
“Haven’t a clue.”
“How many times do I have to tell you it’s vital to keep personal information up-to-date? Is he on duty at the moment?”
“No. His address is around here somewhere, I just haven’t had time to update his file.”
Toni shook her head as she hunted through the pile of crap on the controller’s desk. “At last. Here it is: 26 Clearmont Rd.”
Lorne picked up on the glare Mary gave her boss. After thanking Toni, the two detectives stepped outside and sucked in a lungful of fresh air.
They pulled up outside number twenty-six as a man came out the front door. He froze when he saw them coming up the front steps of the large bay-fronted Victorian house. Hmm…Convenient. Has someone tipped him off?
“John Scott, we’d like a quick word. Mind if we come in?” Pete asked, stepping to within inches of him.
The man appeared surprised by Pete’s abruptness. His hand shook as he placed his key in the lock. The old Parker jacket he wore had a tear under the right arm. Once inside, he removed his jacket and laid it carefully along the edge of the sofa. His five foot nine inches seemed to shrivel under the detectives’ gaze. His shoulders slouched, and he dug his hands deeply into the pockets of his jeans. He had on an old-fashioned woollen tank top, the type a devoted aunt would knit a favourite relative. Underneath the tank top, he wore a short-sleeved blue and white striped shirt with a threadbare collar.
While Lorne surveyed the room, Pete bombarded the man with questions. John Scott assured Pete that he’d never met Kim Charlton. Wacko had told the other drivers to
back off, and only Wacko was to pick the girl up.
Although the furniture was old and worn, the flat was meticulously clean and tidy. Lorne tripped over a lump in the rug. John Scott’s gaze travelled with her. When she ran an inquisitive finger across the highly polished mahogany mantel, she was amazed to find it dust-free. An old gas fire served as the only form of heating in the relatively large room. The large maroon-coloured rug she’d tripped over covered rough-looking floorboards that showed signs of careless decorating around its edges. A tatty old painting of a galleon ship hung proudly on the wall over the fire.
Under the man’s scrutiny, Lorne picked up a cheap imitation brass frame that showed signs of discolouration along one edge. In it was a photograph of John Scott with a woman. The couple were cuddling each other on a pier somewhere. Is she a girlfriend, wife, a relative, or just a friend?
Scott looked about twenty years younger, and the woman looked vaguely familiar. Lorne studied the man and then the photograph. When her gaze returned to Scott, he was smirking. His eyes widened, daring her to challenge him. She didn’t. She felt strangely unnerved by the encounter, but why?
Lorne shuddered when they left the flat, and a cloud of uneasiness lingered. “Jesus, what a freak. Did you see the way he was looking at me? You asked him if he lived alone, didn’t you, Pete?”
“Maybe he fancied ya.” Pete laughed, and Lorne shuddered again. “Yeah, he told me he lived alone. Why?”
She pondered before answering him. “That’s strange, because there’s evidence of a woman’s touch in that room. How many guys do you know who dust every day or plump up the cushions on their couch after they’ve sat on it?”
“You’ve got a point: not many. I know I ain’t got time to do it. Maybe he’s got a cleaner.”
“Highly unlikely. I don’t suppose you noticed the scratches he had on his neck either, did you?”
“Don’t suppose I did, no,” Pete admitted, tartly.
Lorne’s phone rang. “DI Simpkins.”
“Hello, ma’am. It’s Tracy.”
“Yes, Tracy, what’s up?” Lorne picked up how nervous her colleague sounded.
“Sorry to bother you, ma’am, but you’re needed back at base ASAP.”
“Enlighten me?”
“Umm…It’s important, ma’am.”
“I understand, Tracy. ETA ten minutes.”
Lorne’s heart raced, and an ominous feeling swept through her.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
They barged through the swing doors of the incident room, both gasping for breath. The two distraught children, aged around eleven, were sitting at Tracy’s desk immediately caught Lorne’s attention.
Tracy hurried towards her and filled her in. “They arrived about an hour ago, ma’am. We’ve rung their parents; they’re on their way. We haven’t asked any questions yet, not until the parents arrive.”
“I don’t understand, Tracy. What’s going on?”
“Sorry, ma’am, I should’ve said. The little ones ran into the station screaming. Apparently, their teacher called for a cab. She was going to drop them off on the way home. Out of the blue, the teacher said something to the driver. The kids said he blew his top and struck out at her. The kids got scared and jumped out of the car when he pulled over. They started shouting to draw attention to themselves, and the driver sped off, with the teacher still inside. They knew the station was close by and came here straight away to tell us. Up till now we’ve given them a drink and called for a doctor to check them over.”
“Jesus, have they said anything? Like what type of car it was?” Lorne looked over at the kids.
“I tried to ask them without it sounding like I was questioning them, ma’am, and the girl thought it was dark green, but the boy seemed pretty sure it was a black Peugeot.”
“Good girl. Ring Toni’s Taxis. Make sure you only talk to Toni, no one else. Ask her what type of car John Scott drives.”
“Right away, ma’am.”
Lorne wandered over to the children and smiled broadly at them. “How are you two doing? I gather you’ve had a bad day.” She pulled up a chair and sat between them. Pete stood behind, notebook at the ready.
The girl had swollen red eyes and was fiddling with a tissue in her lap. The boy’s gaze looked glazed, as if he was reliving his ordeal in his mind.
Before the kids had a chance to answer, a WPC brought in the girl’s frantic parents. The mother hugged her daughter as tears ran down her face. “Sharon, my God…Thank goodness you’re safe.”
“Don’t fuss, Mum. I’ll be all right. But the man…he took Miss Sedark. What’s going to happen to her?” The young girl’s eyes pleaded with Lorne for the answer.
“The more you can tell us, Sharon, the quicker we can find Miss Sedark. Do you know why the man hit your teacher?”
“He picked us up from school. She lives around the corner from us and sometimes gives us a lift. At first, he was quite chatty, and he asked Miss Sedark how long she’d been a teacher at school. She said about thirty years. Then the man kept asking her questions like, did she remember this and that from years ago?” The girl paused.
Lorne said quietly, “Then what happened?”
The girl let out a long breath and said, “Miss Sedark said she remembered the man—that was when he hit her. Lee and I jumped out of the car when the driver pulled over. I made as much noise as I could, Mum, just like you told me to, and no one came to help us. We knew the station was just round the corner, so we ran all the way. But he’s still got Miss Sedark, Mum. We couldn’t get to her.”
The girl’s mother hugged her again. “There, there, love. You did the right thing. So you do listen to your old mum, after all? I’m so proud of you, sweetheart.”
“I know this must be hard for you, Sharon, but was Miss Sedark still conscious—I mean, awake—after the man hit her?” Lorne leaned forwards and rested her elbows on her thighs.
“No. I don’t know if she was unconscious or dead,” the girl replied, and a sob caught in her throat.
The doctor performed a brief exam and concluded that both kids were suffering from a touch of shock but felt they were tough enough characters not to have any lasting side effects.
Lee’s parents arrived soon after, which meant that Lorne could direct her questions to both children. “Can you describe the driver to us?”
Lee started, “He had brown hair—”
“No, I’m sure it was blond,” Sharon interrupted.
“How old would you say he was?” Lorne smiled at the kids.
“I’d say he was about forty,” Sharon said, and that time, Lee agreed with her.
“Did he have an accent, or do you think he was from around here?”
“He was definitely from around here, ’cause he said Miss Sedark taught him years ago.” Sharon looked pleased with herself.
Lorne stood up and took Pete to one side. “Look into John Scott’s background, find out which school he went to and when. See if he’s got any siblings too, will you, Pete? Jesus, I’ve just thought of something, Scott lives in Clearmont Rd.”
Pete looked puzzled, and then the penny dropped. “It backs onto the railway line. Shit. You’re right. It’s gotta be him.”
Before Lorne could respond, Tracy interrupted them. “John Scott drives a black Peugeot, ma’am. He was due to start work at five. Guess what? He neglected to turn up.”
“Is Wacko still in custody?” Lorne asked the sergeant.
“He is.”
“Do you know if Doctor Arnaud rang the chief?”
“I haven’t got a clue, ma’am. I could find out for you.”
“No, it’s okay, Tracy. I’ll go and see the chief myself after I’ve finished with the kids.”
“I’ll crack on. See what I can dig up on J.S.” Pete walked towards his desk.
“Tracy, you come with me. We’ll take down the kids’ statements. I don’t want to keep them hanging around here any longer than necessary. They’ve had a traumatic day.�
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Chief Roberts arrived as Lorne was recapping Sharon’s statement with her.
“Can I have a word, Inspector?” he asked abruptly.
“I’m just about finished here, anyway. Thanks for all your help, Sharon. Now go home and get some rest. I don’t want you worrying about Miss Sedark. You have my word that we’ll find her, okay?”
“What’s going on? Why wasn’t I informed of this incident the minute it occurred? Why did I have to hear about it from my secretary?” Roberts demanded, anger making his mouth twitch.
“It all happened so quickly, sir. I didn’t have time to tell you.”
“Forgive me if I don’t believe you, Inspector. Was it your idea to rush Wacko’s prints over to forensics? I’ve had an irate pathologist on the phone, some guy with a French accent. He told me in no uncertain terms, he believes we’re holding the wrong man for these murders. I smell a rat. Did you have anything to do with that call, Inspector?”
“First of all, we found prints at a few of the scenes. I thought it only right we should check those prints against Wacko’s. They didn’t match. I didn’t think they would. We’ve carried out all the relevant background checks on the guy, and nothing untoward has popped up. His alibi checked out. This guy’s so innocent he hasn’t even had a shit in the wrong place. If he had, I’d know about it.” Her voice rose out of frustration. “Secondly, I didn’t tell Doctor Arnaud to ring you. It’s his responsibility to ensure he gives us the evidence he finds. He also, presumably, wants to make sure innocent people don’t get thrown in prison due to aggressive policing.”
“When you’ve quite finished, Inspector. It’d be wise for you to adopt a more respectful tone when you’re speaking to a superior officer. I realise our situation must be unsettling for you, but the fact remains, that’s exactly what I am: your superior. Do I make myself clear?” His eyes widened, and the angry twitch grew more intense.
“As clear as a nun’s conscience, sir.” Lorne said.
