by Chris Simms
‘You don’t think this merits ringing the police?’
‘I didn’t say that,’ Katherine replied. ‘But I’m not phoning now. I’ll drop it in tomorrow. There’s a station just along from the college.’
Amanda put her coat on. As she retrieved the photo album, she sent a wary glance towards the box. ‘If you can sleep soundly tonight, I take my hat off to you.’
‘Amanda!’ She chided her sister in a light-hearted voice. It was so rare she had the chance to turn the tables like this. ‘I do have security lights and alarms. I don’t think you need worry.’
‘Well … I’d better be going. They’ll come on, won’t they? The ones for the drive? How you manage out here without street lighting.’
Out here, thought Katherine. Like it was the middle of nowhere. ‘They’ll come on and I’ll see you out.’
The gravel of Katherine’s drive seemed to have been bleached by the floodlight’s glare. They embraced briefly while standing beside Amanda’s car.
‘You promise to take it to the police tomorrow?’
‘I promise,’ Katherine said, stressing each syllable. ‘And you drive safely.’
She watched as Amanda backed out on to the deserted lane. Pale fingers waved from behind the glass, then the Mercedes moved off.
With a single click, the security light died. Katherine immediately turned, not allowing herself to look around as she hurried towards her kitchen’s warm glow. As soon as she was inside, she bolted the door.
THIRTY-TWO
‘I thought you wouldn’t get home until later.’ Janet took the plate out of the microwave and set it down before her son.
‘They said not to stick around if you didn’t need to; tomorrow will be busy enough.’
‘And how was it today?’
‘Better, actually.’ He used the edge of his fork to start dividing the omelette up. ‘A DI went back to get a more detailed statement about the white van. He said my suggestion to take a load of photos off the internet worked really well.’
Janet beamed. ‘So, what else?’
Oh, yesterday, he thought, I had to challenge another detective to a fight. But the other bloke backed down. ‘The psychological profiler fed back for a second time.’
‘What did she say first time round?’
Sean filled her in on the morning report as he wolfed mouthfuls of food down.
‘Very considered,’ Janet said, approvingly. ‘Especially him having his own means of transport. I like that.’
‘Not because it makes the white van thing significant, by any chance?’ Sean asked, head cocked to the side.
Janet gave him an innocent look. ‘What was the follow-up analysis?’
‘More theory, less actual stuff.’
‘That happens. What was the gist of it?’
‘She said it’s likely he’s had a traumatic experience at the hands of a female. Treated unjustly, victimized, slighted: that kind of thing. That, in itself, suggests some kind of power relationship where he was lower in the pecking order. Could be a boss, but could be a bank manager, a doctor, a planning officer, an MP, even. Someone pointed out Greater Manchester has loads of female MPs and councillors.’
‘If it is a boss,’ Janet mused, ‘what kind of a workplace has females in charge? Not many in the building trade. More among utility companies, I imagine. Telecoms suppliers, gas, electric.’
‘She also reckoned it could have been a personal, not professional, incident that set him off. His mother dying or his wife leaving him, for example.’
Janet screwed her nose up. ‘Bit wishy-washy now, if you ask me. What else?’
‘She was going on that the something that’s tipped him into killing will have happened recently. There have been multiple attacks in a very short space of time. Normally, the pattern is long spaces between attacks, but gradually lessening. Usually years to begin with, sometimes decades.’
‘What about him already having a history of violence?’
‘Yeah – she said we should be looking for minor stuff that might have only resulted in a written notice.’
‘Stalking? If the complaint was made a few years back.’
‘Yes, or just using threatening language. Perhaps low-level harassment. Things could have been logged somewhere, but no further action taken.’
Janet’s attention had moved to the bag Sean had brought into the kitchen. ‘Did you manage to take any copies?’
He moved his empty plate aside. ‘I did, but only Pamela Flood’s transcripts.’
‘Not all the victims’?’
He shook his head. ‘I felt paranoid enough copying just hers. Data protection, Mum. I could lose my job over this. So, the shredder, yes? As soon as you’ve had a look.’
‘Of course.’
When he came back downstairs from the shower, the kitchen table was hidden beneath a layer of white. He looked in from the corridor. His mum was utterly engrossed, bent over the documents, oblivious to his presence. ‘What do you reckon?’ he asked, stepping through the doors.
She spoke without looking up. ‘I tell you what’s bugging me. How does he know they’re alone?’
Sean took a chair. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Each victim was alone in their home when they died – correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘The others – some have got boyfriends or partners – but none of them were there. How did the killer know that?’
‘Maybe he didn’t.’
‘Mmm. In which case, he’s calling at a lot of houses, trying his luck.’
‘This could relate to what Ransford said: the victims and the killer aren’t complete strangers. He knows them from some prior context. Photocopier repair man, that type of thing.’
‘And he then shows up at their home address and they’re all right with that?’
‘They don’t need to be all right with that. They just need to be caught off guard.’
She looked down at the table, eyes roving the pieces of paper. He hadn’t seen her this energized in years.
‘It would be so good to see the transcripts for all the victims’ calls. Not just Pamela Flood’s.’
‘Because?’
‘Whatever links these women.’ She tapped a printout. ‘I reckon it’s somewhere here.’
‘Despite there being no common factors? People, places, topics in texts – nothing.’
An elbow went down on the table and she jammed her fist against a cheek. ‘I don’t know …’
Sean smiled. It was like when she got stuck on a crossword clue. ‘How’s your back been?’
Her head lifted. ‘My back?’ A row of red knuckle marks now ran across her face. ‘Hadn’t even thought about it until you just said.’
‘Is it giving you any grief?’
‘Not really. The doctor gave me a new load of pills. I just pop one of them.’
‘How many have you got?’
‘Enough for now.’
‘OK.’ He got to his feet. ‘I’m heading up. Don’t leave that lot lying around, will you?’
‘I’m not shredding them now. I’ve hardly got started.’
‘I bet you haven’t.’ He went round the table and bent to kiss her cheek.
Up in his room, he logged on to the Facebook group. As expected, everyone else had now added a reply to Guy’s news about his dad. Sympathy and warm wishes for the future. Light-hearted comments about feeling jealous over his trip. Stern commands with a trail of smiley faces about staying in touch.
Sean knew as well as them that it wouldn’t happen.
Alice had replied to say the mould trick seemed to be working.
His eyes moved to an alert for a new email and he brought up the screen. It was from Jay at the Snowdonia Wolf Sanctuary. As Senior Keeper, Jay had monitored both of Yurok’s litters. Frowning, Sean clicked on the message.
Hi Sean, I have some news about Kaska, the three-year-old female you sponsor here.
Recently, there’s been some tension in the enclosure
that will be linked to the new pups. Being part of Yurok and Cree’s first litter, Kaska and the others have been busy adjusting. Poor Haida remains the Omega at the bottom of the pack, but recently Makah (he’s the Beta male) has been targeting her with some quite vicious treatment.
Earlier today, Kaska moved in to defend Haida and there was quite a stand off! Kaska wouldn’t back down and it only ended when Cree appeared. I’ve never seen a Gamma female like Kaska challenge the Beta male in this way and I don’t know how things will develop – but it could be a case of moving Kaska from the enclosure if things between her and Makah escalate. I’ll keep you informed, thanks, Jay.
Sean immediately clicked on the web cam. Most of the pack was motionless in the sleeping area. He searched for Kaska’s dark ears but couldn’t pick them out. This time, he went straight to the camera that overlooked the pool. There was the slightly built Haida licking at what looked like a laceration on her hind leg. In the shadows behind was Kaska, wide awake and watching over her sister. Something – perhaps an owl calling from the nearby forest – caused both animals’ ears to pick up. Kaska rose to her feet and stared towards the edge of the enclosure. Her entire body was tensed. Sean’s face moved closer to the screen. You would, wouldn’t you? If that fence wasn’t so high, you’d leap over it and run right through the night.
THIRTY-THREE
‘Sure this’ll do? No worries carrying on round.’
‘No, mate. This is perfect.’ Danny pointed briefly through the stationary van’s windscreen. ‘After those lights, it sends you all round the houses. I can just cut down there. Quicker for us both.’
The driver reached across. ‘Safe.’
They clasped hands. ‘Appreciate this, Andy. Call you in the morning?’
The driver broke their grip to check his watch. ‘Just gone eleven. Not too early, mate. Gonna head home and have me a nice fat doobie.’
‘Sounds good.’ He reached for the door handle. ‘And I’m going to see why that dopey tart I call a girlfriend can’t even pick up her phone.’
‘When the cat’s away …’
He lifted a middle finger over his shoulder as he stepped down onto the tarmac. ‘Passed out in a puddle of her own piss, more like.’
He banged the van door shut, and before he could start circling round to its rear, the vehicle pulled away. He looked at the back doors. Mr Masters. Retail Interiors.
It had been good of the boss to let him get a lift back with Andy. The agreement was for six days’ work, but it was only tidying up the next morning. No point all of them spending another night in Newcastle. Especially not in that dire bed and breakfast. Double rooms above a pub were never a good idea, however cheap. He thought about eating breakfast on a table that was still sticky with drink spillages from the night before. The fruit machine flashing away beside the bar. Flat-screen tellies with Sky logos silently ricocheting their way round dead grey screens. Shithole.
The road that connected to the side street where Julie lived was deserted. He turned the corner onto Aden Avenue. A cat froze halfway across the narrow street, eyes wide and assessing. When he continued in its direction, the animal doubled back, paws silently dabbing. It vanished beneath a parked car.
TV sounds leaked from windows as he walked along, holdall bumping against his back with each step. He had a Simon and Garfunkel song going round in his head. ‘Home, where my love lies waiting.’ It reminded him of his time in the army, arriving back on leave, wondering if anything had changed, realizing that nothing had. Weird how, despite that, he always found it faintly exciting.
The big house where Julie lived came into view. A couple of lights were on in windows at the top. She had a ground-floor flat on the corner. Best thing about it was not having to share the main entrance with the other tenants.
He stopped at the side door, dumped his bag down then leaned across to the nearby window. Lights were off. If she was in bed by now, she’d really been hammering it over the weekend. As he reached for his key, he imagined the state of the place. Would there be burned bits of foil among the empty cans and bottles? He hated it when she went on the skag. There’d be no milk or bread in for a start.
The door opened and he decided not to call her name. The flat was so quiet, she must have crashed out already. If she’s even here, a bit of him said. He scrubbed the thought: Julie liked to get off her head, but she was always faithful. Quite conservative in that sense. Traditional.
He turned a light on, put the bag down gently and paced carefully along the short corridor. The bedroom door was half open. Odd. She always liked to sleep with it shut. He poked his head in, waiting for his eyes to adjust. One pillow on a diagonal. A rumpled duvet. Was she under there, all curled up? He entered the room properly and stood over the bed. Silence. The air was cold; free of the smell of sleep. He patted the crests, lightly at first, then with more force. The duvet flattened beneath his palm. Nope.
He backed out, frowning now as he headed back towards the front door. Bathroom was dark and empty. Same as the miniscule kitchen. She definitely wasn’t watching TV, so where the hell was she? She hadn’t answered her phone since Friday. That was, what? Three days?
The switch for the living room light was just inside the door. His fingers searched it out and he turned it on, shoulder simultaneously pushing the door fully open.
Yeah, three days and not a— Legs. Pink dressing gown. She was sitting in the armchair. His mouth actually started to open, words beginning to form. ‘Fuck’s sake, Ju—’
Mottled grey skin and milky eyes. Blackened blood coating her chin and neck. Lips stretched too wide, like a letter box. An edge of hard grey jutted out from her mouth. Head bent back, she looked like a failed sword swallower. A red light blinked. Voicemail messages, waiting. My messages. Trying to call you.
Why had she gone and done this? He turned his head, saw the wine, the cans, the ashtray. What sort of a crazy state did you get yourself into that you’d try and eat your own …
Another thought smashed into his mind. It wasn’t her. Someone else had done this. Had someone been in here? His eyes roved the room, searching for any sign of a visitor. Nothing. He slid his own phone from his pocket, taking slow steps backwards.
The option came up, saving him the trouble of keying his code in. Are you sure you want to make an emergency call?
THIRTY-FOUR
The moment Sean stepped through the doors, he knew something was wrong. The incident room felt ragged: people speaking too fast, voices tense, movements jerky. Eye contact was brief and flickery, until he saw Magda.
She waved him over. ‘Another has been found.’
‘A body? Jesus.’ He looked sharply about, feeling the atmosphere infecting him. ‘When?’
‘Late last night. By the boyfriend who’d been away with his work.’
Another absent partner, Sean thought. Just like Mum had pointed out. ‘Whereabouts?’
‘I’m not sure. He works for a company that—’
‘No, I mean the victim.’
‘Ah – Failsworth.’
‘That’s not far from me. Where in Failsworth?’
‘The street is Aden Avenue. You know it?’
‘No. We’re on the edge of Hollinwood, really. But still, it’s the next bit in as you head into the city.’
‘She was in the front room, propped in an armchair.’
‘Was her phone …?’
‘Yes. Definitely him again.’
‘Any idea when she was killed?’
‘Not in the last twenty-four hours, that’s for sure. The body’s already been taken for autopsy.’
Sean glanced across to Ransford’s office. He was in there, three other officers at his desk. One of them was chopping at the air with the edge of a hand. Ransford looked exhausted. ‘Have they called a briefing?’
‘Not yet. I heard Troughton talking to Maggie James. They want to move the CSWs to an adjacent room. That will free up more space in here for other detectives.’
�
��Where from? Aren’t we already running at capacity?’
‘They’ll rustle up more, don’t worry. Borrow from Liverpool and Yorkshire, if necessary. Anyway, until the briefing’s called, just press on with whatever you were doing.’
‘Right. I’ll see you later.’ He hurried across to his desk, mind spinning. That made five victims in as many days. Could there be more? This was totally out of control. And when it got to later that afternoon and they didn’t charge Cahill with the murders, everyone else would know it, too.
He sat down and looked to the end of the room. They’d need another bloody noticeboard for the latest victim. Pamela Flood, Francesca Pinto, Victoria Walker, Heather Knight. And now the one from last night. He studied the women’s faces, as he did several times each day. How had the profiler described them? Diverse, that was it. Pamela, late thirties. Victoria, barely twenty. Francesca, fine featured with long black hair. Heather, short and choppy blonde strands, too-perfect eyebrows. Why were they being selected? What had they all done?
Troughton’s voice startled him. ‘Where are you with that CCTV survey, DC Blake?’
He lifted his head clear of the chair. ‘Sorry, sir. Trying to work out—’
Troughton had clocked the direction of his gaze. ‘Don’t. Just get on with what you’ve been tasked with.’
Sean reached for a folder. ‘Eighty per cent there.’ The uppermost sheet was a screen grab of the streets surrounding where Pamela Flood had lived. ‘There were three places I couldn’t get through to last night. Another four have yet to ring me back.’
Troughton nodded. ‘It’s quarter past eight. If they’re not already open, they will be soon. See what you can get before nine. Still no joy after that, call in on them.’
‘In person?’
Troughton was already making his way to the next desk. ‘Yes, DC Blake, in person. We haven’t the time to be fucking around.’
Katherine Harpham kept her eyes on the row of etched letters that spelled her name. When they were no longer visible beyond the bonnet of her Fiat, she knew the vehicle was sufficiently far into its parking space.
