[DC Laura McGanity 05 ]Cold Kill

by Neil White

  He went to the computer and navigated to the Telegraph’s website. The write up from the press conference had attracted some interest. Forty-eight comments. Maybe it was the Simon Cowell effect, but it seemed like a story wasn’t really a story until everyone knew what Bert from Burnley thought of it all. He flicked through them anyway.

  The first few were expressions of sadness, but then the identity of the woman must have leaked out. Jane Roberts. It meant nothing to Jack at first, but when the posts turned nasty and he saw the name of Jane’s father, Don Roberts, he wondered whether there was more to the story than a random attack. Jack was a crime reporter, and so he had heard the name Don Roberts bandied around. Don never turned up on the court lists, but there were always whispers and hints that he was the big man around town.

  Jack stopped reading when his phone buzzed in his pocket. The screen told him that it was Laura.

  ‘How’s your day going?’ Jack said.

  ‘Are you speaking as Jack the boyfriend or Jack the reporter?’

  ‘Jack the boyfriend,’ he said, laughing.

  ‘Long,’ she said, ‘and about to get a lot longer.’

  ‘What time are you coming home?’

  Jack heard the fatigue in her voice as she said, ‘I don’t know, Jack. I’m sorry. That’s why I’m calling. The post-mortem is tomorrow, and so we are going to have a briefing and then see how the night looks.’ She paused, and he heard her steel herself before she said, ‘Say goodnight to Bobby for me.’

  ‘I will,’ he said. ‘And I’ll wait up for you,’ and as they said their goodbyes, he glanced over to the kitchen and remembered the wine that had been in the fridge for a couple of days. It was no way to fill the slow hours, because the hill only ever slopes downwards, but just then, it seemed the right thing to do.

  Laura clicked off her phone and looked at Joe, who noticed the clench of her jaw and raised his eyebrows at her.

  ‘Why didn’t you just tell him that we were going for a drink?’ he said.

  Laura paused as she thought about this. She felt a blush creep into her cheeks. ‘It’s not that,’ she said. ‘It’s Bobby. I should be there for him.’

  ‘Having a career doesn’t make you a bad mother,’ Joe said.

  Laura looked at Joe. He looked thoughtful, his brown eyes soft. ‘I know that,’ she said. ‘I just feel like I don’t do enough for him.’

  ‘That’s natural, but he’ll grow up proud of you, because of what you do. It all comes good in the end.’

  She reached out and touched his hand, gave it a squeeze. ‘Thank you,’ she said, and let out a long, slow breath. She looked in the car mirror and teased out her hair, before frowning. ‘I look tired.’

  ‘You look fine,’ he said.

  ‘Fine is no good,’ she said, smiling now.

  ‘Okay, more than fine,’ he said, laughing with her. ‘Attractive, sexy.’

  Laura’s blush took over her face. ‘Enough about me. What about you?’ she said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘When are you going to let a lady sweep you off your feet?’

  Joe smiled. ‘I analyse things too much, so nothing seems to happen naturally.’

  ‘What about Rachel Mason?’ she said.

  ‘What about her?’ Joe said, his hand paused on the door handle.

  ‘You know she likes you,’ Laura said. ‘She stares at me whenever I’m with you, as if I’ve trespassed into her territory or something.’

  ‘Come on,’ Joe said. ‘The rest of the squad will be waiting.’

  ‘Is that your way of avoiding the subject?’ she said.

  ‘Something like that,’ he said, and stepped out of the car.

  Joe was still smiling as she joined him on the pavement. Laura glanced upwards, at the darkness of the sky, and took a deep breath. Getting on wasn’t just about turning up for work. There was this side too, being a squad member.

  But why did she feel so reluctant?

  She looked at Joe and her smile returned. ‘Your round,’ she said, and then headed for the pub door, Joe close behind.

  Chapter Fifteen

  He rewound the footage again, as he had done for the last ten minutes.

  It was Inspector Carson on the news. A stern look to the camera. We are not ready to reveal details of her murder, but I would like to say this: that whoever carried out this barbaric act must be caught. And then the flashback from the press conference three weeks earlier, images of Corley in distress. Oh, he liked that, but when will they be ready to disclose more?

  The image was back in his head. Corley’s daughter this time. Less fight than Roberts. A scream and then she was crying. She almost gave up, it had been too easy. Her choice. The wrong choice. She could have walked a different way, or put up more of a struggle, but she chose surrender, as if he was going to maul her and run. He was different. She should have realised.

  He was aroused again. His breaths were fast, and he knew he had to look at Jane again, but something wasn’t right, wasn’t how he expected it.

  He went to his study, really just something he had crafted from the space under his stairs, so that the slope of the steps was just in front of his face, smoothed out by plasterboard and wallpaper. It was cramped, and so his knees had worn blue marks into the wall where he turned in a tight circle on his chair. He couldn’t move back much, but it was private and felt like somewhere separate from the rest of the house.

  He felt the space close in as he shut the door behind him. The light from the screen bathed his face in flickering lights and his head was filled with the soft hum of the computer fan.

  Normally he liked the darkness, the confinement, but it wasn’t the same today. Jane was supposed to be the finale, the crescendo, but it didn’t feel any different from before.

  He closed his eyes. He could feel the hiss of the pressure release, like a loose valve. He had tried to smother it, but it was impossible, like a song in your head that never stops going round. You can try to ignore it, but eventually the beat gets in your fucking head and you just go with it. But, oh Christ, the thoughts of her. Her look of fright, short squeals, drowned out by his hand, tight around her neck, squeezing, her skin soft, bruised. His breaths came as short gasps, loud in the confined space.

  His hand went to his belt, but he stopped himself. Don’t waste it, not here.

  He went to the website of the local paper and read the story. He saw the outrage in the comments, but then he read the scorn for Jane. He remembered her differently. The swish of her hair, the soft scent of her perfume as he pressed her down, the roar of his thoughts as he gripped her. The struggle. The fight.

  He took a deep breath. He had to calm down. He had projects to complete, he knew that now. Jane was supposed to be the last one, but the need was still there. It didn’t feel like he was finished. He needed that final rush, to get somewhere near the intensity of his first time. And he should listen to that need.

  But it was hard not to think of Jane. The young woman. Pretty. Scared. The dirt. He had seen the buzz around the station, the big shirts wheeled in, and still they didn’t know of the connection. Jane and Deborah. He had to do more.

  He saw the reporter’s email address at the bottom of the article. It was time to go public. That had always been his plan.

  His fingers started to tap on the keys, soft clicks that echoed in his tiny office.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Jack’s movements felt sluggish as he read the words on the screen. He had thrown together Dolby’s article, questioning why the killer was still at large, a rehash of facts from the press conference mixed in with the article he had submitted earlier. It would appear in the paper in the morning. He had just opened a second bottle of wine and his vision was starting to swirl, fingers moving clumsily over the keys as he headed to the Blackley Telegraph site to check for the latest comments.

  He took another drink of wine as the page loaded, his name writ large at the top, and saw that snipes at Jane’s father had taken
over from sympathy. Some had even found a racial angle, putting forward one ethnic group as potential suspects. Jack knew that the comments were moderated, but Dolby usually took a relaxed view because he knew that bile kept the page counter turning.

  He was about to shut down the computer when it flashed up that an email had arrived. He went to the inbox, expecting an offer for bogus medication, but instead there was a message entitled Blindness.

  He started to read:

  You’re writing the wrong story, Jack Garrett. So another woman has died in Blackley, just the daughter-whore of the town’s biggest thug. My message to him is that you’ve wrecked lives too, so how does it feel now? Both fathers. Both sinners.

  Spot the link, win the prize, because they won’t, I can guarantee it, those special boys in blue. Yes, spare a thought for the girl in the woods who gorged on the floor, but don’t think too long, think then of Daddy at last feeling the pain.

  Jack put down his drink, surprised. That was strong stuff. He checked the email address. It was a Google address, so it would probably be hard to trace the owner.

  He sat back and tugged at his lip. Crime reporting certainly attracted its fair share of oddballs, from those who sat at the back of court, just for the public viewing, to those who sent out paranoid emails without a second thought. But why the reference to gorging on the floor? And what was the link between the two victims? The police had hinted that they were random, that all women were in danger.

  Jack looked around for a notepad, and felt a familiar tremble of excitement in his fingers. If the police were holding facts back, he needed to know.

  He pressed the reply button and typed, Gorged on the floor. What do you mean?

  He clicked send and drank some more wine, wondering what the reply would contain. He didn’t have to wait long.

  Good to see that you’re alert, Jack, but this is just for you and me. If you tell the police, I’ll know. I’ll hear the whispers. But what about a poem, an ode to Jane:

  What is this that I can see,

  Cold icy hands taking hold of me,

  For Death has come, you all can see,

  Hell has opened a gate to welcome thee,

  He’ll stuff your jaws till you can’t talk,

  He’ll bind your legs till you can’t walk,

  He’ll tie your hands till you can’t claw,

  And he’ll close your eyes so you see no more.

  Jack took another drink of wine. It seemed like the story had taken a new twist

  Chapter Seventeen

  Light streamed through the open curtain, making Jack groan. He lifted his head off the pillow and the bed seemed to shift. He shouldn’t have opened that second bottle of wine, and he could still taste it as he smacked his lips.

  He put his hand out, expecting to feel the rise and fall of Laura’s body, or the spread of her dark hair across the pillow, but she wasn’t there. He squinted at the alarm. Eight o’clock. He flopped back onto the pillow. Everything felt heavy, and quick movements sent flashes of pain through his head. He lay back and listened for the sounds of Laura downstairs, chatter with Bobby or the noise of the hairdryer, but there was only silence.

  He tried to think through what had happened the night before. He couldn’t remember Laura coming home, but he remembered her weight against him in bed, her naked skin, warm and close. Yesterday’s clothes were discarded on the floor and he could smell the flowery haze of her perfume spray.

  He clambered out of bed and shuffled to Bobby’s room, just to check that he was awake. He wasn’t. His dark hair peered out above his England football duvet, a remnant of his World Cup mania from the year before. Jack rubbed his eyes. He would have to rush now, and he didn’t feel much in the mood for speed.

  Jack nudged Bobby gently until he stirred and then pointed at his school clothes, set out by Laura.

  ‘Time to get moving,’ he said, although his voice still had a slur.

  It was going to be a slow morning.

  Laura threaded her way through the Incident Room, her coffee in her hand, the smell of stale booze hitting her, the remnants of the trip to the pub the night before, everyone more bleary-eyed than the previous day. Mornings were always the toughest part of a murder investigation, because they were no nearer the killer and hours of uncertainty lay ahead.

  As she got to Joe, he looked up and smiled. ‘Did you get in trouble for being back so late?’

  ‘Jack was all tucked up when I got back,’ she said, and returned the smile. ‘I enjoyed myself. Thank you for making me go.’ She took a sip of coffee and then nodded towards some sheets of paper in front of Joe. ‘Is there anything new?’

  Joe looked down and then shook his head. ‘Not much to get excited about,’ he said. ‘Just last night’s calls, and unless Don Roberts had a change of heart overnight, all we’ll have today is tips from friends.’

  ‘So when was Jane last seen?’

  ‘Last Saturday,’ Joe said. ‘A routine night out, she was supposed to go to a friend’s house. There was a group of girls waiting for her, but she never showed up. They called her house but Don said that he didn’t know where she was and told them not to worry. They went out and forgot about it. Some of her friends texted her, but didn’t think much of it when they didn’t get a reply.’

  ‘They don’t seem like close friends,’ Laura said.

  ‘They were used to the disappearing act,’ Joe explained, as he reached for a photograph. ‘It seems like the ex-boyfriend wasn’t that ex.’ He passed her the picture of a young man, good teeth and skin, dark hair teased over his forehead. ‘Adam Carter. They were making like single people, but they weren’t, because they were still an item. They just had to keep it quiet from Don.’

  Laura picked up the photograph. ‘Why is that?’

  ‘We’ll find out later,’ he said. ‘But that’s why Jane’s friends weren’t worried, because they thought she was with Adam.’

  ‘So is Adam a witness or suspect?’

  ‘Everyone’s a suspect,’ Joe said. ‘All we know about Adam is that he’s just finished university and is trying to find a job. Jane’s friends seem to like him, but I suppose that doesn’t mean too much.’

  ‘But if he’s anything to do with Jane’s death,’ Laura said, ‘he’s done it as a copycat, to make us think that Jane was killed by Deborah’s killer. How would a young student find out so much about Deborah’s murder to pull that off?’

  Joe smiled. ‘I didn’t say he was high up the list.’

  ‘At least we’ve got a list,’ Laura said, looking at the picture and then tapping it against her hand. ‘What about her workplace?’

  ‘The same as with her friends,’ Joe said. ‘She didn’t show up, and when they called home, they spoke with her father. The same answer as before, that he didn’t know where she was but not to worry.’

  ‘I don’t get it,’ she said. ‘Why would Don shut everyone out when his daughter was missing? Was his hatred for us more important than finding Jane?’

  ‘Maybe it is more complicated than that,’ Joe said. ‘People who behave in that way often have something to hide.’

  ‘What, you think that Don Roberts might be involved?’

  ‘I don’t know, but we have to look,’ Joe said, and then pointed to two detectives at the back of the room, scouring through papers and then looking at a computer screen. ‘That’s their job.’

  ‘What are they looking at?’ Laura asked.

  ‘Just old intelligence reports, to check for any allegations of sexual abuse within his family.’

  ‘Do you think she was about to expose him?’

  ‘Maybe there was nothing to expose,’ Joe said, ‘but I would rather we looked and found nothing than not look and miss it. A lot of men who kill their daughters do it because they are about to be exposed. It’s a mixture of betrayal and sexual confusion and downright fear that they are about to be shown up for what they really are. So they lash out.’

  ‘And stuff their daughter’s vagina wi
th leaves and dirt?’ Laura said, her eyebrows raised.

  ‘Well, that’s pretty extreme,’ Joe replied, ‘but like with the boyfriend, that would be all part of the cover-up, to deflect attention, to make it look like the murder was done by the same person who killed Deborah Corley.’

  ‘But we didn’t disclose the details of that murder,’ Laura said.

  ‘So we need to see if there is a leak anywhere,’ Joe said. ‘Don might have some friends in the police. Yes, he’s a crook and a thug, but some officers think that they might pick up some useful information if they keep their enemies close, but in reality, it’s more than that. There’s a bond, like opponents shaking hands away from the arena. I’ve seen a lot of hardline coppers end up working for defence firms, working hard to keep the crooks free. There is one I know who works as a driver for a defence firm, acting like a taxi for criminals, picking them up and taking them to court.’

  ‘That sounds demeaning,’ Laura said.

  ‘It is, but it’s not about the money,’ Joe said. ‘It’s just about finding a way to stay in the game, because as much as the cops like to fight the crooks, they love the game more than anything, and they miss it when they retire.’

  ‘So you think Don Roberts might have received information about how Deborah Corley died and re-enacted it to pass the blame?’

  ‘It’s just one more possibility.’

  Laura sat down and sighed. ‘This could be never-ending.’

  ‘Worse than that,’ Joe said. ‘We might only find out that Don Roberts isn’t a copycat killer when someone else dies, because he would be stupid to repeat it, just for effect.’

  ‘We could arrest him,’ Laura said.

  Joe shook his head. ‘You’ll get nothing from him. Even if he’s innocent, he’ll clam up.’

  ‘So what now? A visit to the boyfriend?’

  Joe checked his watch. ‘In a couple of hours from now.’

  ‘Why so long?’