Loose Tongues

by Chris Simms

  ‘And is it mainly vocational stuff?’ he asked, lowering himself into it. ‘I noticed a sign for the plastering centre.’

  ‘That’s right. Lots of trades: plastering, plumbing, building and the like. Health and beauty is a growing part of things. Social care, too – which was my area when I got the opportunity to actually teach!’ She rolled her eyes while smiling.

  It was an obvious invitation for him to ask how she’d risen to principal. He didn’t take it: too much going on back at the office for that. ‘Interesting. Now, I appreciate you’re busy. This package. Could you describe everything to me?’

  ‘From when?’

  ‘I gather you weren’t actually in when it was delivered …’

  ‘No – my sister was. I’d popped out for some bits and bobs and when I got home, I saw a white van parked on the—’

  Sean looked up. ‘A white van?’

  ‘Yes. It wasn’t directly in front of my cottage, so I didn’t put two and two together. Not at first.’

  ‘Any markings on it?’

  ‘No. Plain.’

  ‘And the driver?’

  ‘I didn’t see anyone in the vehicle. But Amanda, my sister, said he’d gone just before I arrived. So I don’t know where he was at that point.’

  ‘Did you get a look in the vehicle’s cab?’

  ‘Yes. I’d slowed down quite a bit by then. There was no one in it.’

  ‘Could he have been in the back?’

  ‘I doubt it. The thing wasn’t large. Certainly not high enough to stand in.’

  ‘One of those that’s similar in size to an estate car?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you recognize the model?’

  ‘No. Just one of those ones builders and the like use. You see them everywhere.’

  Same as in the road next to Heather Knight’s flat, Sean thought. ‘Ms Harpham, do you ever travel by public transport?’

  ‘Me? No, I mean, I should do – it would be far greener, I know. But I live a bit away from the college. The trains aren’t always that reliable, so—’

  ‘You hadn’t caught a bus, tram or train in the days before this person called at your house?’

  ‘No.’

  It couldn’t do any harm to show her a photo of Petr Kadlec. If it did happen to be him, they had more ammunition for his interview. ‘I have a photo here.’ He started to reach for his folder. ‘It’s of a man—’

  ‘You’ll have to show that to my sister. She saw him, not me.’

  Shit, Sean thought. Of course. ‘In which case, would you have a number I can reach her on?’ He left the folder on the floor.

  She was flicking through her mobile’s address book. ‘Should I be worried? You’re a detective. I didn’t expect to be visited by a—’

  ‘We have no knowledge of burglaries taking place that involve dummy packages, if that’s your concern.’

  She met his eyes for a moment. ‘It is. So why have you come over here to see me?’

  ‘Certain aspects of your report tally with a case I’m working on.’

  ‘Really?’ She peered at him through her fringe. ‘Which ones?’

  ‘I can’t divulge that. Not at this stage. Sorry.’

  She didn’t look very impressed.

  ‘Let me speak with your sister. If necessary, I’ll contact you again. But please don’t worry.’

  The wheelchair rolled along the pavement at a painfully slow rate. But it made following her easy.

  After stepping off onto the pavement, he ducked into a little newsagent’s across the street. When the bus eventually pulled away, there she was. Deposited. She was a bit older than him. A saggy posture, straggles of dull brown hair hanging over each shoulder. Dreary clothes. Despite her look of dejection, he knew her mind was sharp. The way she’d observed the entire incident from a few days before was testament to that. Not just observed it. Reported the passenger who’d stood up to the swear-ridden bitch. She probably thought she’d been so clever. Making a contribution. Playing her part. She’d soon be doing that, he thought. It would be a small part. Just one of several others. Each in their own jar in his garage.

  He shadowed her from the opposite side of the road until she turned down a side street. About a third of the way along, she steered the little wheelchair onto a short driveway. He lingered until she was inside the house, then made a note of its number. Next, he checked his watch. She’d said to the driver she would have a spot of lunch then catch a bus at ten to two. It would take her five minutes to get to the bus stop. Which meant she’d be leaving the house at about quarter to two. If he was to return in his courier uniform before then, he needed to get a move on. He set off for the main road in search of a cab.

  Twenty minutes later, he was climbing out of the taxi. A narrow alley let him cut through to the road that his cul-de-sac branched off. He kept up a fast walking pace, pushing off with the ball of each foot, swinging it forward so he could feel his hamstrings stretch. Left right left right left right. He emerged onto the road, and as the steady rhythm carried him forward, he rechecked his watch. Nearly half past one. It would be close.

  The entrance to his cul-de-sac was now in sight. More of it was coming into view. The privet hedge that formed the boundary at the front of his garden. The russet tiles of his garage roof. The mouth of his drive.

  A patrol car was at the far end, using the part where the cul-de-sac ballooned out to perform a three-point turn. The livery on the vehicle was alarmingly bright. Alien. Police cars never drove down here.

  Before he knew what he was doing, he altered his step to continue straight on. As he crossed the expanse of tarmac to the far pavement, he could see the vehicle beginning to nose its way in his direction. He risked a last look. Both officers were turned towards his house. His drive. Where the new van was parked. What did it mean? Had they come for him?

  He slowed to a more normal pace and listened as the car pulled out behind him. The sound of its motor shrank as it moved away down the road. He counted twenty more steps then looked behind him. It was gone.

  He span round and jogged back. Now he needed to get ready even faster.

  FORTY-NINE

  Amanda Harpham was different to her sister. Though unmistakeably older, the extra years only seemed to lend her a certain glamour. She was a lot slimmer and her hair was tied back in a simple ponytail. Understated make-up, done with neutral colours. She wore stylish black trousers and a fitted cream shirt.

  ‘Detective Constable Blake?’

  Her voice was lower. Authoritative. A hand was being held out.

  ‘Correct,’ he said, feeling the coolness of her fingers as they shook.

  ‘I’m so glad she made a report. Is over here OK?’

  The seating area of the reception could have comfortably accommodated a bus load of people. He led the way to a couple of corner seats separated by a low glass coffee table. ‘Perfect.’

  ‘So do you regard this as serious?’

  He could see something shining in her eyes. It looked suspiciously like excitement. Not excitement. Triumph. Guessing Katherine would have already spoken to her, he said, ‘It’s of some concern, certainly.’

  ‘Some concern?’ Her eyes narrowed.

  ‘Shall we sit?’

  She took the nearest chair and crossed her legs. ‘Katherine was making light of it. Like it was one of her students. A prank. I thought it was bloody sinister.’

  He took out a notepad and pen. ‘The man who knocked on the door. How would you describe him?’

  ‘He was in a uniform, you realize that?’

  ‘Yes.’ He left it at that, encouraging her to continue.

  ‘He had a baseball cap on his head. Blue, like the uniform itself.’ As she brushed at a cuff he spotted the wedding ring on her finger. The one next to it held a large diamond. ‘Silver buttons. Something on the jacket, above the breast pocket. A silver emblem.’

  ‘Do you recall the shape?’

  ‘Wings, or a feather. Curving anyway
.’

  ‘What shade of blue was the uniform?’

  ‘Royal. In fact, the entire thing made you think of something official. Like an airline pilot.’

  ‘And the man himself. Weight, height, age?’

  ‘Fifties – mid, I’d say. About five ten. Quite trim. Fit-looking, really. For his age.’

  Sean tried his best to hide his dismay. Petr Kadlec was over six feet tall, heavily built and ten years younger than the age she’d just given. ‘How sure are you about his height?’

  ‘Well, I’d say pretty accurate.’

  Sean thought for a second. ‘You’d opened the door to him. Did you stay in the house?’

  ‘Of course. I was standing in the doorway. He was on the path.’

  ‘Is there a front step to your sister’s residence?’

  ‘There – ah, I see what you’re up to. Clever. So: he was about the height of my shoulders. I was definitely looking down at him, and I’m five foot eight.’

  ‘Is the step a high one?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘About six inches, then?’

  ‘Yes, that sounds about right.’

  Sean made a quick mental calculation. Allowing for the step and the fact their eyes weren’t level: the man couldn’t have been over six feet tall. Not even close. ‘What colour was his hair?’

  ‘What was poking out from the baseball cap was light brown, but going grey. It didn’t cover his ears, so it wasn’t particularly long. On top, he could have been bald for all I knew.’

  ‘How did he sound when he spoke?’

  ‘Manchester accent, but not heavily so. You knew he was from the region. Another thing that was odd, was how he could hardly get his words out to begin with. I opened the door and he looked nonplussed. First day in the job: nervous, I thought. Then he adopted this silly accent.’

  ‘Silly accent?’

  ‘Mock Indian would be the best way to describe it. I began to think, what is wrong with you? I took the package, but then he said the machine wasn’t working. The thing you sign on.’

  ‘The console?’

  ‘That’s it. There was a pen and a glass screen, which was glowing. But he said the batteries were dead. Then he shot off. Didn’t want a signature.’

  This person, Sean thought, was definitely up to something. It sounded almost like he hadn’t expected Amanda to open the door. But it obviously wasn’t Petr Kadlec. He eyed the cushion on a nearby sofa, thinking he’d like to push his face into it and roar with frustration. ‘I’m going to show you a photo, Mrs Harpham. I’d like you to say if it’s the man who visited your sister’s property.’

  ‘Very well.’

  He removed the CCTV still of Kadlec from the folder and placed it on the table. Immediately, she frowned. ‘No. Definitely not – but who is that? I’ve seen that face.’ She looked up at him.

  Sean put the sheet back in the folder. ‘You may well have seen an appeal on the—’

  ‘Oh my God.’ Her voice had dropped to a whisper. ‘It’s the one you think has been …’

  ‘Mrs Harpham, we had to eliminate him because of certain factors in your report. However, I didn’t show his photo to your sister because it was only you who had seen him.’

  A hand was covering her mouth.

  ‘I really don’t think it’s necessary to worry your sister with this. The location of the man we’re looking for is known to us and he’ll be in custody very soon, if not already.’

  ‘So … so what about this other person who was at my sister’s door?’

  ‘I imagine the team I’m part of will hand it back for local police to look into. Thanks for your time, Mrs Harpham.’

  The magistrate put his signature on the warrant at twelve forty-seven. A call immediately went to the team who’d been waiting in the car park of a nearby pub. The vehicles raced off and, two minutes later, the front door of a two-bed terraced house on a quiet street in Chadderton was being smashed in. Officers poured through the property, shouts of Clear coming from each room moments later.

  Once it had been confirmed no one was in the property, the search could begin.

  Every drawer in the house was riffled through. In the kitchen, all containers and cereal boxes were emptied out into the sink. The toilet cistern was checked. Skirting boards were ripped from walls, as were the panels round the bath.

  A laptop was carted away.

  Carpets were peeled back, books shaken by their covers then thrown into a pile on the floor. The oven and grill and microwave compartments were searched. Clothes were pulled from wardrobes, pockets checked and each item tossed on the bed. The sofas and armchairs were upended and the linings across the bases cut away.

  All paperwork, including letters, bills and receipts, were sealed into evidence bags.

  DI Levine caught DS Dragomir’s eye as she emerged from the kitchen with an evidence bag full of household bills. She shook her head: nothing significant.

  ‘Bollocks,’ he muttered. So far, they hadn’t found a single thing to do with any of the victims. ‘Let’s hope he has another property. Or a garage somewhere.’

  Magda considered how Petr Kadlec was booked as a foot passenger on the ferry. ‘Anyone found anything relating to a vehicle? Insurance documents? Breakdown membership?’

  ‘Nope.’

  She lifted her eyes to the ceiling. And before entering the property, they’d honestly been expecting to find a container of human tongues in the fridge. Strange, she thought, how disappointment can come in so many guises.

  Sean used both forefingers to tap against the top of his steering wheel. In front of him, a Sainsbury’s delivery van was waiting to turn right. No one in the stream of oncoming traffic was prepared to let him across.

  The thought bobbed up once again. It appeared Pamela Flood was Kadlec’s first victim. The psychological profiler had talked about the circle hypothesis: an imaginary ring drawn around the murder locations in which the killer was very likely to live.

  Not only that. Studies in some countries had shown that a serial killer and his first victim often lived close to each other. The theory was that the initial killing often had opportunistic elements to it. After that, the perpetrator began to roam more widely, actively seeking out further prey.

  Yet the property where Kadlec was believed to be based was north-east of the city centre – which was completely outside the kill circle. Were there earlier victims still to be found? Or could Petr Kadlec be the wrong man? Then there was the fact he hadn’t appeared in any other CCTV footage other than that for Julie Roe. It didn’t seem possible.

  He took his phone out of his jacket and immediately spotted the missed call icon. Mum. She hadn’t left a message. Obviously assumed that, once he knew she’d tried to ring, he would crack and call her back. Not yet, Mum. I’m busy right now.

  He brought up the number for the incident room. It sounded like the Civilian Support Worker, Katie May, who picked up.

  ‘Is Inspector Troughton there?’ Sean asked. ‘It’s DC Blake calling.’

  ‘Two seconds, Sean.’

  Sean, he thought. She was suddenly being friendly. The road finally cleared and he was able to let the handbrake off.

  ‘DC Blake, are you psychic? The footage from Heather Knight’s tram journey is about to come through.’

  ‘I was wondering if it had.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Five minutes away.’

  ‘Good timing. No joy, so far, from the search of Kadlec’s residence. It’ll be his floorboards, next.’

  ‘When’s the ferry with Kadlec on due to dock in Hull?’

  ‘About an hour.’

  Janet Blake pushed her half-eaten sandwich aside. Where had her appetite gone? She knew the answer to that: a city centre hotel, along with her son. Should she have tried to call him just now? Probably not. But they needed to talk. She needed to hear his voice. She hoped the fact she didn’t leave a message would act as some sort of compromise. I tried to get in touch, ring me back if
you also want to.

  She checked the clock above the door. Just after one o’clock.

  Using the walking frame for support, she got herself out of the kitchen chair. The walkie-talkie in her cardigan pocket bumped against her hip. Why had she even bothered to take if off the hallway table as she came in? Its partner was still out there. But without Sean, the things were worse than useless.

  She contemplated taking hers out and throwing it in the bin. That would make him realize how much he’d hurt her. Just going off like that. Deserting her. She’d have to pay for one of those panic buttons you wore round your neck. She’d have to rely on a stranger in an office God-knew-where to summon help if she needed it. That’s what modern life came to. Families broken into fragments, crowds of lonely people, all of them checking their screens, longing for some kind of contact.

  Stop it, she told herself. Carry on thinking like that and you’ll lose the will to live. She wanted to cry. Instead, she took her phone from her other pocket to see if, maybe, he might have sent a text. Anything.

  FIFTY

  There was no sign of Troughton when Sean got back to the incident room. But there was a voicemail from the office manager waiting for him on his desk phone. He lifted the receiver and retrieved it.

  ‘I’ve been over the Heather Knight tram footage. Nothing, I’m afraid. It seemed so promising, too. But that’s often the way. I’m sure you’ll also want a look – it’s on the system, in her folder.’

  Sean kicked his desk in frustration. The noise caused a couple of heads to turn. Two colleagues, back from the search of Petr Kadlec’s address, judging by the pile of evidence bags beside them.

  From their faces, there was no need to ask if they’d hit the jackpot. What was it with this bloody case? Nothing would slot together.

  He sat down and logged into the system. The CCTV from the tram was where Troughton had promised. Over twenty minutes of it: they’d obviously sent through footage either side of when she’d got on and off.

  He opened the file, selected the full screen option and clicked Play. The usual view of the inside of a tram. People had spread themselves through the carriage to ensure the maximum distance possible from their fellow passengers. He hit pause and studied each person. Kadlec wasn’t among them. He let the footage resume. A few were chatting on their phones. Others’ heads were down, fingers brushing screens. One woman was reading a book. An actual book. A rarity, Sean thought. An elderly couple were looking out the window, lips moving. She pointed at something and he leaned into her and smiled.