‘If Carver finds out, I’m dead,’ he said several times when Geraldine and Ian questioned him.
The words might have been an exaggeration, but his fear was genuine.
Arriving at the police station, the boys were charged separately. All three of them strenuously denied being involved in any wrongdoing, and a search of the garage and each of their homes found no stolen goods. Obdurate even after lengthy questioning, Nelson admitted only that the boys had hung out together, talking, smoking cigarettes, and drinking beer. If he was to be believed, they spent most of their time sitting in the garage trying to blow smoke rings.
‘You can treat me like a big shot villain if you want, but kids hanging out in a garage isn’t a crime, is it?’ he had asked, opening his eyes wide in fake surprise that the police would be interested in him.
Ian gave an impatient laugh. ‘You’re a big shot villain like I’m Father Christmas.’
‘So why am I here?’
Ian leaned forward suddenly, a menacing scowl on his face. ‘Just because you’ve been nicking phones doesn’t mean you don’t have information that could be of use to us. And if you don’t co-operate with us, you’ll find yourself facing a charge of obstructing the police in a murder enquiry, and then the justice system will treat you like a serious villain, and you’ll find yourself in prison for a very long time. And I can promise you, if you don’t start talking, you’re going to be sorry, because that’s what’s going to happen to you. We’ll make sure you’re locked up for a long time.’
Nelson turned to his lawyer. ‘What does he mean? Why is he talking to me like that?’
The stout lawyer sitting beside the boy roused himself, blinking. He could almost have been fast asleep with his eyes open.
‘My client is becoming distressed,’ he said, throwing out a generic objection. ‘He’s not been charged with any crime and he’s young –’
‘Eighteen. He’s old enough to understand exactly what’s going on,’ Ian interrupted, ‘and he’s refusing to co-operate.’ He nodded at the constable at the door. ‘Take him to the cells and bring him back when he’s prepared to tell us the whole truth, and not before.’
‘You can’t keep me locked up. I haven’t done anything.’
‘Charge my client or let him go home,’ the lawyer said, yawning behind a plump white hand.
‘Take him away,’ Ian repeated. ‘You’ll be charged as an accessory to murder if you don’t start talking.’
It was pointless posturing. Nelson couldn’t be forced to talk to the police, and there was nothing they could do about it. They all knew he would be released within twenty-four hours unless they could come up with evidence placing him at one of the murder scenes.
The oldest boy gave his name as Carver. He insisted that was the only name he had, but the local borough intelligence officers knew him as Billy Whitelow. Their records showed that his mother was dead and his father had abandoned him when he was in his early teens, since when he had been in and out of care until he had disappeared off the radar when he reached sixteen. When he was brought in to the police station he was carrying a switchblade and there was a collection of other knives stashed in a rusty filing cabinet in a corner of the garage, all of which bore his fingerprints. The boys’ appearance matched several descriptions that had been given independently by victims of recent muggings. There was no doubt these were the three boys who had been active on the streets, stealing bags and wallets at knife point. Finding the hoard of knives raised everyone’s hopes that the killer had been found, and the following day the team at the police station went about their work in a mood of suppressed optimism. No one dared mention that Carver was blond and Caucasian, for fear of jinxing the enquiry.
When the forensic report came back, the cheery bubble burst. None of the blades discovered in the garage matched the murder victims’ stab wounds and, worse, none of the boys’ DNA matched that found on the victims. Even Carver’s DNA wasn’t a match. The identity of the owner of the DNA found at the crime scenes remained unknown.
‘We’ve found the muggers, but we’re no closer to the murderer,’ Eileen said grimly, when she called the team together that afternoon. She glared around the room as though each of her team was personally responsible for her strategy of focusing on finding the muggers. ‘All we’ve managed to do is finish the job for the team supposed to be cleaning up the muggings,’ she added crossly. ‘And although we all know they’re guilty we can’t even charge them with theft, because we haven’t found any proof of their guilt. Meanwhile, we’re still nowhere further ahead with our own investigation. Two weeks’ work, and that’s all we’ve come up with: three teenage thugs who’ve been out on the streets helping themselves to other people’s wallets.’
‘Maybe the team who are supposed to be finding the muggers will discover the murderer for us?’ a young constable piped up.
‘Don’t talk nonsense. If we can’t find him, no one can,’ a sergeant replied.
‘Of course we can find him. It just takes time,’ Ariadne said.
‘Be quiet, all of you,’ Eileen snapped, and the chatter ceased. ‘I’ve arranged to have those thugs identified this afternoon. Let’s hope someone recognises them and then at least we’ll have a conviction for thieving, if nothing else.’
The line-up turned out to be as disappointing as the lack of DNA evidence linking the boys to the murder scenes. No one was able to identify any of the boys with any certainty. ‘It all happened so fast,’ the victims of the muggings kept saying. ‘It could have been him, but I can’t say for sure.’ Even Wendy, who had given a relatively coherent description, was reluctant to confirm these were the boys who had attacked her. Several young police officers were picked out, along with other boys who vaguely resembled the suspects. It was inconclusive, so the three boys were released.
‘That’s harassment, that is,’ Carver protested, when the custody sergeant warned them the police would be keeping an eye on them.
‘Come on, officer, they’re good boys,’ the lawyer interrupted, with an oily smile. ‘Don’t worry, boys, it’s just talk. You’re free to go.’
Along with the rest of the team, Geraldine was disappointed. But at least they had hopefully put an end to the recent spate of muggings. When Ariadne suggested that at least one of the gang was potentially young enough to be successfully rehabilitated, Eileen grunted.
‘Let’s hope they all learn a lesson from this, and stop before they really do hurt someone,’ she concurred.
Miserably they all agreed that their time hadn’t been completely wasted in tracking the gang down. Geraldine didn’t mention that she had been convinced all along that they had been misguided in focusing their resources on searching for the muggers. Their job was to find a killer and, so far, they had failed. Discovering the identity of the muggers had no bearing on their investigation. Somehow the temporary excitement, and subsequent disappointment, made it even harder to continue an investigation with which they were making no headway.
31
No one else seemed interested in finding out what had happened to the missing long-haired witness, Lindsey Curtis, but Geraldine still clung to the possibility that her fate might be somehow tied in with the murders.
‘It seems too much of a coincidence, her disappearing like that, just after she might have seen two murders being committed.’
‘Are you saying you still think she was somehow involved?’ Ariadne asked. ‘There’s no evidence for that.’
‘No, I’m saying I don’t think it’s necessarily a coincidence that she’s disappeared just now.’
‘Women leave home for all sorts of reasons,’ Ariadne replied.
Despite her colleagues’ lack of interest in the missing woman’s fate, on her way home from work that evening, Geraldine called at the house once again. Sooner or later she hoped to find out what, if anything, the woman had witnessed on the nights of the t
wo murders. In addition to that, even though no body had been discovered, Geraldine remained uneasy about her fate. If no one answered the bell again, she would question the missing woman’s neighbours to see if they could tell her anything about her. It was possible one of them knew her and might be able to suggest where she could have gone. Perhaps she had confided in a member of her family, or a friend. It was unlikely, but worth following up, because it was possible.
Geraldine drove to the address in a side turning off Gillygate. Claremont Terrace was narrow, and several cars were parked along the kerb. Parking a few doors away from the house, she walked up and rang the bell. No one answered so she walked past paved front yards as far as the adjoining property. The man who came to the door there was at least seventy, with a balding head and a round face. He smiled kindly at Geraldine.
‘Yes? Can I help you?’ he greeted her with old-fashioned courtesy.
She was pleased his smile didn’t falter when she held up her identity card. Increasingly, members of the public clammed up or became hostile when she introduced herself as a police officer. When she asked him whether he knew his neighbours, he nodded thoughtfully.
‘You mean next door?’ He jerked his head in the direction of the house where the elusive woman lived. ‘Oh yes. That is, I don’t know her, exactly, but I’ve seen her once or twice, coming and going. She isn’t often around. I don’t think I’ve seen her more than a few times and never to speak to. Why? Has something happened that I ought to know about?’
The neighbour told her that the woman rarely seemed to go out.
‘At least I don’t see her go out much during the day,’ he added, pulling a face.
‘Do you mean she goes out at night?’
The old man sniffed. ‘It’s not for me to pass any comment on how other people live their lives, but yes, I’ve seen her going out after dark far more often than I’ve seen her go out during the day.’
‘Do you mean she works shifts?’
‘I don’t think she’d be going to work, not in a respectable job, not dressed like that. I’ve seen her traipsing down the road at all hours, off for a night out, dressed up to the nines in tight skirts, with her hair all done up in curls.’ He sniffed again. ‘I can’t say I hold with such carryings-on.’
‘What time did she usually go out at night?’
‘Oh, don’t get me wrong, I only saw her going out late once or twice. I go to bed early as a rule.’
‘And on those few occasions when you did see her going out at night, what time was that?’
‘I’m afraid I couldn’t say what time it was, exactly. But it was after dark anyway. I wish I could be more helpful.’
‘And was she on her own?’
‘Always.’
Geraldine had the distinct impression he disapproved of his neighbour and what he referred to as her ‘carryings-on’, but it was important to keep to the facts. People’s opinions could be misleading. Having found out what she could, she thanked the neighbour and moved on to the property on the other side. The woman there was about sixty and slim, and voluble. She seemed eager to help.
‘Well, I probably shouldn’t say it, but she’s a bit of a dressed-up tart. Sorry, I shouldn’t say that, should I? I hardly know the woman. But the way she dresses! Talk about over the top. I’m guessing she’s a lot older than she looks.’
‘How old does she look?’
‘I don’t know that I can say, really. I’ve never seen her close up.’
‘What’s she like? Can you describe her?’
The woman shook her head. ‘I don’t know. She’s got long hair, I can tell you that much, but I’ve never spoken to her, and I can’t say I want to either. I see her once in a while when I’m putting the rubbish out at night, stalking past with her nose in the air. I’m not saying she’s any better than me, only she looks as though she thinks she is. Why else would she ignore me? The first time I saw her going out, I called out, just to say hello, as you do, and she completely blanked me.’
‘Perhaps she’s deaf.’
The woman frowned. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. But I don’t think so. I think she’s just hoity toity. So, how is it the police are interested in her all of a sudden? What’s she done?’ Her eyes glittered with curiosity.
As Geraldine questioned other residents of the street, a picture emerged of a vulgarly dressed woman who was rarely seen during the hours of daylight. It was interesting, but none of it helped further the investigation into her disappearance, or into the recent murders. No one seemed to care that the woman might have gone missing. It was depressing that a human being mattered so little to the people living around her. Geraldine hadn’t met any of her own neighbours. She wondered who would notice if she herself ever disappeared.
32
Carver tapped rhythmically on the arm of his chair making a barely audible thud with each impact of a stubby fingertip on the upholstery.
‘The whole lot,’ he fumed. ‘The whole bloody lot.’ His head whipped round and he glared at his companions. ‘Do you know how long it took me to collect them all?’
‘No,’ Nelson muttered, without meeting Carver’s eye. ‘I don’t know. How long did it take?’
Daryl merely shook his head, wary.
‘I don’t fucking know, do I?’ Carver replied. ‘I’ve been collecting them for years. Years! They couldn’t even open it properly like any normal person. They’re worse than animals. Ignorant fuckers! Don’t they know how to use a key?’
The three boys all turned to stare at the metal cabinet, its bent door hanging uselessly on one rusty hinge where the police had busted the lock.
Nelson hazarded a question. ‘Did they take them all?’
‘You know they did. The bastards. Cowards!’
Carver was working himself up into a rage, and when he was angry he was dangerous – but not as dangerous as he had been when he was wielding a knife. Daryl was frightened, but also slightly excited when Carver leapt to his feet and began prowling around the garage. Nelson was vicious, but Daryl could be handy with his fists if he needed to be. Without weapons, if it came to a fight, it would be a question of numbers. Between them, Nelson and Daryl could easily take Carver down. That was a thrilling thought. But Daryl knew that Nelson was never going to turn against Carver. It wasn’t safe to antagonise the two of them.
‘What do you want us to do?’ he asked Carver. ‘Whatever’s going on, I’m your man.’
‘You’re my man?’ Carver repeated, the words sounding like a sneer.
Daryl nodded, licking his lips which suddenly felt dry. ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘That’s what I said. I’m your man.’
There was a slight hiatus during which none of them spoke.
‘What did you need to say that for?’ Nelson challenged Daryl at last. ‘What makes you think we might suspect you’re not one of us?’
Daryl shook his head, suddenly fearful. He felt a rush of anger against Nelson for stirring things up against him. It wasn’t the first time he had tried to make trouble for Daryl.
‘I never said that,’ he protested. ‘I never suggested anyone was thinking I wasn’t in. Why would I say that?’
He turned to Carver who was watching him without blinking, one hand resting proprietorially on the broken cabinet.
‘What the fuck are you talking about then?’ Carver asked him.
Daryl shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I just thought…’
‘And?’ Nelson prompted him. ‘What were you thinking?’
Carver answered for him. ‘You know your problem? You try and think. It doesn’t suit you. And you know why? Because you’re a cretin. That’s why.’ He laughed. ‘You are a cretin.’
Carver stared at Daryl, as though weighing him up. He glanced over at Nelson who was already poised to pitch in if it came to a fight. There was little doubt that Nelson would support Carver in
any kind of conflict. Carver tapped his toe on the dirty floor, his eyes fixed on Daryl.
‘Well?’ Nelson pressed him, taking a step closer to Daryl.
‘No point in us falling out,’ Daryl muttered. ‘It’s the pigs who done it, not any of us.’
As it happened, he wouldn’t have minded falling out with the other two. In fact, he would have been very happy to know he was never going to see either of them ever again. But he had to tread warily. The last thing he wanted was to find himself caught up in a fight with them. It would be two against one and he would suffer a bad beating, if he even survived. They were dirty fighters, both of them, and strong with it. Carver let go of the cabinet and took a step forward. Spellbound, Daryl watched him move closer.
Carver’s voice was low, and his words hung suspended in the air. ‘But who was it brought them here is what I want to know.’
His eyes gleamed as he glared from Daryl to Nelson and back again.
Sensing danger, Nelson grunted. ‘What the fuck?’
Carver’s voice was a hoarse whisper. ‘What’s that you said?’
‘No one would be that stupid,’ Nelson spluttered in alarm. ‘For fuck’s sake, Carver, you can’t think one of us would do a thing like that. Bloody hell, it makes no sense. Why would we want to get in trouble with the filth? What would be the point? And you know we got in trouble the same as you. If you think it was one of us told them where we hang out, you’re fucking mental, man. Fucking hell.’
‘You’re doing a lot of talking,’ Carver said.
‘To you, man, to you. I don’t talk to anyone else.’
Nelson sat down on the yellow chair, muttering.
‘And you?’ Carver turned to Daryl. ‘You’re keeping very quiet. You think I’ve forgotten you?’
‘No, no,’ Daryl stammered. ‘I don’t think you forget anything.’
Until Carver armed himself with a new blade he was a toothless tiger, so Daryl took courage and spoke up.
Rogue Killer Page 15
