by Chris Taylor
“W-what do you mean? I-I made them.”
Ellie was flooded with a surge of adrenaline. So much fit. It was all circumstantial, but there was too much of it to ignore. They had to take him in. She glanced across at Clayton, who nodded.
“Professor Boston, we’d like you to accompany us to the station to answer a few more questions about the murder of Josie Ward.”
The professor’s eyes widened in fear and he stood and backed up against the wall.
“No, no, you’ve got it all wrong. You don’t understand.”
“Tell it to your lawyer,” Clayton growled and led him out of the office. “Let’s go, Professor. It’s time we got better acquainted.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Clayton stared at the papers on his desk and frowned. He’d spent the last few hours interrogating the professor and although the man had finally cracked and blubbered about trading grades for sex with some of his students, he’d refused to admit he’d had anything to do with the disappearance of Sally Batten or the murders of Angelina Caruso and Josie Ward.
And there was something else that kept niggling him. Stewart Boston didn’t fit the profile. He was too old. His university file had stated his age as fifty-five. Fifteen years older than the outer limit of Clayton’s profile. Not that it was impossible, but he didn’t know of a single instance of an apprehended serial killer who’d been in his fifties.
His disquiet sat heavily on his shoulders. Ellie was convinced they had their killer. And he couldn’t blame her. The evidence against the professor, although purely circumstantial, was building up.
According to the class roll, Sally Batten had attended his art class on the day she’d disappeared. Then there were the sculptures. Boston had admitted he carved them from radiata pine, the same kind of timber they’d found in Josie Ward’s hair and under Angelina Caruso’s fingernails. A crew had been sent out to the professor’s house with a search warrant and even though they had yet to report anything untoward, it was always possible something incriminating would be discovered. Boston had been reluctant to supply them with his address details, after all.
But still, Clayton wasn’t convinced. Something about the professor bugged him.
With a heavy sigh, he opened Boston’s file and skimmed over its contents. The man had been employed at the university for more than two decades and although there were a couple of brief mentions of possible unsavory behaviour toward some of the female students, nothing had been proved and the complaints appeared to have been shelved.
Flipping over another page, Clayton came upon the professor’s medical records. Scanning the paragraphs, his gaze caught on a phrase. His breath came faster and his pulse thudded in his ears. He reached over and picked up the phone and punched in the number for the morgue.
Minutes later, he pushed back his chair and yelled for Ellie, urgency roughening his voice.
She appeared in the doorway of the tea room and frowned. “What is it?”
“It’s not him.”
She shook her head. “What do you mean, it’s not him?”
“It’s not Boston.”
“How can you be so sure?” she protested. “He had access to our girls. He’s someone they would trust and the carvings—”
“It’s not him.”
“But—”
“He has alopecia areata.”
She looked at him blankly.
“So?”
“It’s an autoimmune disease where the white blood cells attack the cells that contain hair follicles. No one really knows what causes it, but one of the side effects is hair shedding. Regularly. I phoned Samantha. There was no hair found on either of the bodies. He couldn’t have done what he did to them and not have left some of his hair behind.”
“But what if he’d washed them—?” Her protest was weaker.
“They were covered in blood and other detritus, remember?” He pursed his lips. “He didn’t wash them.”
Ellie’s shoulders slumped. Clayton knew how she felt. He put an arm around her and gave her a comforting squeeze. “I know.”
“I was so sure…”
“He was a good fit in a lot of respects, despite the fact everything we had was circumstantial. We’ll send his DNA sample to the lab anyway, just to be sure, but I think we have to accept he’s not our man.” Grim determination surged through him. “We have to keep looking.”
* * *
The sun had barely poked its head above the horizon to announce the beginning of another day when Clayton picked up the phone and dialed his twin’s number. He could have called Tom or even Declan for advice. After all, both of them had years of experience in law enforcement, but there was nothing like shooting the breeze with his twin. So much more got said without either of them saying anything. It had always been that way.
Catching a glimpse of gold and orange and pink through the window near his desk, Clayton took a moment to appreciate the beauty of the dawn as it filtered slowly across the sky. Riley answered the phone, interrupting his reverie.
“Clay, do you have any idea what time it is?”
“Mate, how’s it going? I’m glad to know I’m not the only one up at this ungodly hour.”
“Who said I was up?” Riley grumbled.
Clayton chuckled. Unable to sleep and with too many unanswered questions whirling around inside his head, he’d decided to go into work early. The squad room would be at its quietest and he’d spend some time figuring out what the hell he was missing. He’d stared at the files for more than an hour and had little to show for it other than his continued certainty they were looking at the wrong man.
“I assume this early morning wake-up call means you’ve gotten over your little spat about Denise?” Riley said over a yawn.
Clayton grimaced, recalling their last conversation. It felt like a lifetime ago. Despite the love and affection he had for his brother, it irritated him no end that his twin was forever trying to force eligible women on him. As if he couldn’t find one on his own. As if he was even interested.
“As a matter of fact, I haven’t, but I have better things to do than argue with you over whether I should be racing some strange and unsuspecting woman down the aisle, especially when that advice comes from one who also happens to be footloose and fancy free. When you decide to saddle yourself with a wife, then I might have cause to listen to you when you offer advice on women.”
Riley laughed. “Okay, okay. I hear you. No more matchmaking. Why are you calling, anyway?”
Clayton’s thoughts turned somber. “I’m in the middle of a scary one, mate.”
Immediately, sensing his change of mood, Riley’s voice became businesslike. Clayton could almost picture him pulling his six-two frame into an upright position and tugging a notepad and pen off his bedside table.
“What’s going on?”
With a heavy sigh, he gave his brother a summary of the events that had kept him sleepless for the best part of a month, including the fact the killer amputated his victims while they were still breathing.
“We’re hitting a brick wall, mate. No hard evidence to tie to anyone. The only DNA we’ve managed to find hasn’t matched anyone in our database or the suspects we’ve interviewed. No hair, no blood, no semen. The only thing we have are some wood shavings and a pile of pink paint chips. It’s frustrating the hell out of me.”
“Sounds like he’s pretty careful, which usually means he’s done it many times before. That level of care takes a hell of a lot of planning. How’s he overpowering them?”
Clayton sighed again. “We haven’t figured that one out yet. One girl was found in pieces. The other one was intact, apart from her arms. The coroner ruled death by strangulation, which still doesn’t tell us how he gets them off the street and into his car.”
Clayton issued a groan of frustration. “We’re going round and round in circles, mate. We had two suspects, but one of them doesn’t match the DNA profile and the second one’s been eliminated for other reasons.”
“All right, let’s talk about what you do know. You said all the girls went missing on weekdays; is that right?”
“Yeah, they did, although until we find Sally Batten, we can’t say for sure she’s related. The only link we have is the professor at the university and, pending DNA results to confirm what we already know, he’s no longer a suspect.”
“But you think this other girl’s connected?”
“Yeah, I do. I don’t have any proof other than what my gut’s telling me, but I think she’s another one of his victims.”
“Okay, so for the purposes of the argument, let’s count her in. So, they all disappeared through the week. To me, he either works on weekends, or else he fits it in around his job, which means he has a job that’s pretty flexible.”
“Yeah,” Clayton replied, “I’m thinking shift work. He’s obviously freer during the week. He either works weekends or does something else that takes him out of town. There’s got to be a reason why no one’s disappeared then.”
“Yeah, that makes sense. And I think he has his own vehicle and probably his own house.”
Clayton thought for a moment. “You’re right. He must take them somewhere. Neither of them was killed where they were found. So he does the deed in one location and when he’s finished, he dumps them.”
“I think that puts paid to my part-time weekend-work theory. Unless he lives with his parents, in this day and age, it’s almost impossible to have a house and car without a full-time job, even if he’s renting.”
“Yeah, you’re right. We need to start looking at people who earn a reasonable living, who have access to a vehicle, who possibly do shift work because two of our girls disappeared early in the afternoon and the other one went missing later in the evening.”
“A courier would be a good fit,” Riley suggested. “Especially one with a van. He’s got a ready-made hiding spot.”
Clayton frowned. “But why would a university student get into a courier’s van?”
The door to the squad room opened. Clayton glanced up and caught sight of Ellie. She nodded a brief hello and headed for her desk. Riley spoke again and Clayton forced himself to concentrate on the conversation.
“Maybe he says he has a parcel for them?” Riley suggested. “Who knows? He’s obviously got some line worked out—one that works.”
“Yeah, yeah you’re right. It bears further consideration, that’s for sure. I raised the idea with Ellie about a taxi driver a few weeks ago, although as far as we know, only one of our girls may have caught a cab.”
Clayton cursed himself when Riley pounced.
“Ellie? That’s a nice name. She working with you, is she?”
“Yes, Riley,” he forced through gritted teeth. “I guess it’s a nice name and yes, she’s one of the detectives working the case with me.”
“Mm, I see… Is she hot?”
He grimaced and struggled to banish images of Ellie smiling, frowning, thinking, teasing. He peeked over at her. She had her head lowered, already engrossed in the files on her desk. Dammit, he didn’t need this kind of distraction or these questions. He had a murderer to find.
He lowered his voice. “Let it go, Riley. I’ve already told you, I’m not interested.”
His brother’s voice was unapologetic. “Hey, you know best, Clay. Whatever you say. By the way, I was talking to one of the boys about you the other night.”
The casual tone immediately set him on edge. He braced himself as Riley continued.
“Yeah, Max. He’s a young constable from Sydney. Keen as mustard. Says he’s got a friend in Balmain—Dianne. He says you ought to look her up. She’s twenty-five, blond, filled out in all the right places—”
“Riley.” Clayton’s warning came out through tightly clenched teeth.
“Seeing you’re in Sydney for a while—”
“Riley, butt out. Did you not hear a word I said? I’m not interested. When are you going to get it?” Anger flared into life. Heat flooded his cheeks. “I had a wife, remember? A perfect wife. A perfectly beautiful wife. It wasn’t her fault she couldn’t cope. Just imagine what it would be like burying the woman you loved three years after your wedding. Would you be happy to have me shoving potential brides in your face?”
The silence on the other end of the phone was deafening. He felt a twinge of guilt. His brother meant well. All of his family did. It was just that he didn’t want to be someone’s pet project. He was fine just the way he was. He had his daughter. He had everything he needed.
Ellie’s wide green eyes surfaced in his memory. The way she’d looked at him a few nights ago, tipsy, completely guileless as she’d leaned into him in the back seat of the taxi. Her softness and warmth pressed up against him had felt so good. Too good.
With a snort of impatience, he pushed the memory aside and forced himself to apologize. “I’m sorry, Riley. I shouldn’t have said that. I was a bastard. You didn’t deserve it.”
“No, mate. I’m the one who’s sorry. I guess I just hate seeing you so unhappy. I know what you had with Lisa, but mate, she’s gone and she’s never coming back. You’re too young to spend the rest of your life shut off from love.”
Clayton’s lips tugged upward into a soft, sad smile. “Yeah, I know. But that’s just the way it is. None of us get to write the script, mate.”
This time it was Riley who let out a heavy sigh. “You’ve got that right. And it bloody sucks.”
“You said it, bro.” He struggled against the sadness that threatened to overwhelm him. Now wasn’t the time or the place. He was at work, for Christ’s sake.
He sat up straighter at his desk and cleared his throat. “Anyway, thanks for your help. Riles. I really appreciate it.”
“No worries, anytime. You take care, okay? Good luck with the case, and give Olivia a big hug and a kiss from her favorite uncle.”
“Yeah, I will.”
* * *
Clayton leaned across to hang up the telephone receiver and Ellie quickly averted her gaze. The last thing she wanted was for him to catch her looking at him. She was too far away to hear his conversation, but she wondered who or what had put the sadness in his eyes. She snuck another peek at him and watched as he sat for a few moments, deep in thought, staring blindly at the scatter of paperwork on his gray steel desk.
He hadn’t mentioned his wife, his dead wife, or their dinner date again. Not date, she corrected, tamping down on her irritation. Why did her stupid mind insist on referring to it as a date? He’d asked her to share a meal with him. He was a stranger to Sydney. Dinner with a work colleague naturally won out over a solo meal of Chinese take-away in a hotel room.
If it had been a female colleague who’d suggested it, or even another male one, she wouldn’t have given it another thought. People went out to dinner all the time. It didn’t mean anything. It was only dinner.
It was just that he didn’t feel like just a work colleague. And it hadn’t felt like just dinner. It was scaring the hell out of her.
Ever since her messy breakup with Robert, she’d sworn never to mix business with pleasure again. It made things too awkward when the pleasure went south, as it inevitably did. She was lucky in a way that Robert had literally gone south to Canberra, to further his career as a member of the Australian Federal Police. Otherwise, she might have been the one to put in for a transfer.
At least that was one thing she didn’t have to worry about with this Fed. He was only here for the short term. Once his job was finished, he’d ride off into the sunset, never to be seen or heard from again.
Which was fine. Exactly how she preferred it, in fact. It actually made it easier to decide whether she wanted to take things any further.
Take things any further? Was she totally out of her mind? It just went to show how far her normally sensible thinking had gone to the dogs since a killer was let loose on the city and a way too good-looking Fed had landed on her doorstep.
The whole squad was on edge. It had been a fortnight since
they’d found Josie Ward. Every time the phone rang, she expected it to be another gruesome discovery. Sally Batten was still unaccounted for. And they were the ones they knew about.
With a sigh, she flipped open Ronald Carter’s file. She’d been doing her best to work on his missing freezer. She’d come in early to try and give it some attention. With the onset of the murders, the stolen freezers had been put on the back burner.
At least she’d made progress there. His chest freezer was still missing, but the license plate number had finally come back, ascribed to a woman by the name of Michelle Wilson. The address on her driver’s license was in Cranebrook.
It was certainly the right location and it was probably worth looking into. Although, why a woman in her mid-thirties would be driving around stealing old chest freezers off back porches was baffling.
There was always the chance Ronald took down the plate number wrong. Even one digit would make a world of difference. It had happened before.
Anyway, she’d have to check it out, just to make sure. Besides, it would give her something to tell Jim Whitton when he made his weekly call. She’d never have guessed an old Westinghouse freezer would mean so much. She was beginning to suspect it wasn’t the freezer at all. Maybe he just craved the contact.
She lifted her gaze off the paper and glanced casually in Clayton’s direction. Her heart jumped. The momentary sadness had vanished and his eyes now burned into hers with fierce determination.
She snatched a breath. The oxygen in the room seemed to have evaporated. He stood and came toward her. A staccato rhythm pounded against her ribs.
Get a grip, Cooper. What are you? A teenager? He’s a guy. Just a guy. So what if you’ve been having hot fantasies about him? He doesn’t know that. You’re a professional, for goodness sake. Just nod and get on with it.
Right. Just nod.
She nodded.
And get on with it.
She got on with it. “Any luck with the—?”
“I just came to check if you—”
They spoke simultaneously and then looked awkwardly away. Heat stole into her cheeks. God, now she couldn’t even string a few words together. How the hell did he manage to turn her into a nervous and jittery idiot with his mere presence? This was her territory. Her domain. He was the interloper.
