by J. E. Mayhew
She knew that the police would become involved once Becky’s body had been found. Maybe if that idiot man had covered his tracks a little better, they’d still be wondering where Becky was. But no matter. They were digging up the past. Good. Let them turn over a few stones and see what crawls out. A little humiliation before the final judgement wouldn’t go amiss, anyway. People needed to see just how corrupt they were and the police would do that job for her. Soon, everything would be public; all their fornicating and corruption would be out in the open. Everyone would know what kind of family they were. Not that it would matter by then. They’d all be dead.
CHAPTER 11
The Incident Room buzzed with activity. Officers making and receiving calls, discussing interview notes with each other or combing through back catalogues of Converse boots. Blake’s desk sat in a small office in the corner that seemed crammed with too many desks and chairs.
Right now, Blake felt even more claustrophobic, as some of the team: Andrew Kinnear, Vikki Chinn, along with Kath Cryer and Alex Manikos, were in on the briefing too. It was so gloomy and miserable outside that the fluorescent lights were on and it felt more like midnight than midday.
Vikki had set up a whiteboard and blu-tacked a recent school photograph of Rebecca Thompson next to the shots of the crime scene. A printed picture of the shoes, Gavin Waters and Rory Evans sat to the side of them. Chinn held up a photograph of a doughy-faced young man with black stubble punctuated by spots and a tangle of greasy brown hair.
“Cameron Lock,” she said. “Born 1960, died 1981. Otherwise known as Clocky. He became something of an urban legend round here but in fact, he wasn’t as prolific as the stories would have you believe and there is some doubt over the safety of his conviction. Stephen Bradshaw was his only victim, if he was murdered by Lock at all.”
“We used to tell stories about Clocky when we went camping at Hadlow Fields with the Guides,” DI Cryer said and shivered. “We knew it was based on a true story. I suppose that’s how these myths get credence.”
Chinn gave a tight smile. She often wondered how Cryer had got her promotion to DI. She much preferred to work with Alex Manikas, who never wasted words. With his dark, Mediterranean looks, Alex had a lot going for him, Vikki thought. “Cameron Lock had a learning disability, possibly autism too. There were suspicions of abuse when school reported sexualised behaviour towards girls in his class but nothing seems to have come of it.”
“The good old Seventies, eh, Sarge?” Kinnear said. “When kiddy-fiddlers roamed the earth.”
Cryer gave him a sidelong glance. “I dunno,” she muttered. “Plenty of pervs still swanning around these days.”
Kinnear scowled at her. “What d’you mean by that, ma’am?”
“Just ignore her and listen to the nice sergeant, soft lad,” Blake said, clicking his fingers like an impatient teacher. Kinnear folded his arms and slumped in his seat, his face reddening. Blake didn’t miss the smirk on Cryer’s face.
Chinn shook her head but continued. “Lock began exposing himself to young girls in the Eastham and Bromborough area in the late Seventies and early in nineteen eighty but he always wore a mask. These crimes escalated in the summer of that year when he sexually assaulted a girl riding a bike on the Wirral Way.
There was a panic on the Wirral that autumn and children were chaperoned everywhere but Lock still managed to molest an eight-year-old girl in Eastham and evade capture. Officers questioned him but his mother always gave him an alibi and there were other suspects. In the meantime, six-year-old Stephen Bradshaw went missing. He’d been playing out in front of his house on Gilbert Close, Eastham and vanished. He turned up a few days later, naked and strangled. There was no evidence of sexual assault.”
“Who’d let a six-year-old play out on the street?” Kinnear said.
“Wasn’t uncommon, then,” Blake said. “More freedom for kids.”
“More opportunity for paedos, sir,” Kinnear said.
Cryer shook her head. “Honestly, Kinnear. Change the record. What is it with you?”
Kinnear’s jaw clenched as he glared at Cryer but said nothing; Kath Cryer outranked him and he wasn’t sure how Blake might react.
“All right, Cryer. That’ll do,” Blake said. “Vikki, carry on.”
“A few days later, Cameron Lock was caught on the Wirral Way by two teenagers who made a citizen’s arrest,” Chinn said. “They found Bradshaw’s clothes in Lock’s backpack which had been concealed nearby.”
“Give those teenagers a medal,” Manikas said, breaking his silence. “They sound like they came straight out of Scooby Doo or something.”
Chinn nodded in agreement. “They were local celebrities for a while. Have a go heroes. Front page news. Drucilla Hunt and Gerald Rees…”
“Gerald Rees?” Blake said, glancing at Kinnear. “That’s the name of the man from the charity shop. The one who was looking for Rebecca and the shoes.”
“Mightn’t sit right with him, a young girl getting her kicks from wearing a child-killer’s boots,” Cryer muttered. “It sounds pretty sick to me.”
“Perhaps,” Blake said, nodding. “Did we manage to find an address and pick him up?”
Manikas reddened a little. “We found the house, sir. Curtains drawn. No sign of life,” he said. “Neighbours haven’t seen him come or go. He doesn’t have any known haunts. Just the shop and home. Keeps himself to himself. Officers are checking regularly.”
“So a girl turns up dead and a person of interest disappears. Does that sound suspicious to anyone?” Blake slumped back in his chair. “If Rebecca was murdered for those Converse boots then it could be connected with the Cameron Lock case. Keep going, Vikki."
Chinn continued. “Lock always protested his innocence as did his mother and there was a hospital appointment that put Lock out of the picture for the abduction. Except that Lock never saw the doctor. He claimed the waiting room was too busy and stressed him out, so he left before his appointment time. The evidence in the bag convicted him but he claimed the police planted it. He protested his innocence right up until the spring of 1981 when he was beaten up by other prisoners and died of internal injuries. His mother died a month or so later; stabbed to death in her back garden. It was assumed someone held her responsible for her son’s crimes but the killer was never caught.”
“What about this Drucilla Hunt? Is she still living locally, like Rees?” Blake said. “She might be able to shed some light on the whole episode.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, sir,” Chinn said. “Drucilla Hunt is dead. Murdered. Her body was found dumped far out on the Dee marshes in December 1981. A local petty criminal, Gary Archer confessed to her murder and served time for it.”
“Jeez,” Kinnear muttered. “Four deaths. One unexplained? Is it me, sir, or have we just opened a whole can of worms?”
Blake blew out a long breath. “Looks that way, Kinnear but we’ve got to make sure we aren’t going down a blind alley. Cryer, I want you to check up on Gary Archer; his movements, alibi etc. Also find out about the ranger at Eastham Woods. His name is Eric Stafford.”
“Suspect, boss?” Cryer asked.
Blake shrugged. “Told me he was at home on the night of the murder but he was holding something back. Could be nothing but we need to check him anyway. Did you get anywhere with Rebecca’s social media or internet activity, Kath?”
“Can’t break into her social media accounts without the passwords and parents didn’t know them. But if we can find a friend or follower on any of the accounts, we can view some activity.” Cryer picked up a sheet of paper. “She seems to have cleared a lot of browsing histories but she has visited a few sites, some not surprising for a girl her age; dieting, clean eating, make-up stuff, a couple of film trailers. A couple of Ancestry dot com searches and Oh!”
“What?” Blake liked Cryer’s thoroughness but her tendency towards the dramatic drove him demented.
Kath Cryer looked up at Blake. “It didn’t really register
before but there’s one search for Drucilla Hunt. That’s a bit spooky.”
“Just part of a puzzle we haven’t put together yet, Cryer,” Blake said.
“Do you think there’s that much of a connection, sir?” Vikki Chinn said.
Blake shrugged. “Drucilla Hunt and Cameron Lock are connected, that’s certain. Maybe our victim just had an unhealthy obsession with the whole Cameron Lock case. It’s certainly worth looking into. Any idea who led the investigations into Drucilla Hunt’s death?”
DS Chinn leafed through her notes. “DCI Leech,” she said. “Is he still alive, sir?”
“Oh yes,” Blake said pinching the bridge of his nose again. “He’s still alive all right. Only the good die young. Isn’t that what they say?”
CHAPTER 12
Kinnear stared out of the window as Blake drove. The roads became lanes and the houses hedgerows as they crossed the Wirral to more affluent parts of the peninsula. Normally, Kinnear was full of questions about the Opel Manta. His fascination for the old car quite pleased Blake; he’d inherited it from his father. Kind of. And loved it because of the love he’d seen his father lavish on it. Mind you, it seemed to require more love and attention with each year Blake drove it. Finally, as they neared their destination, Blake broke the silence. “You all right, Kinnear?”
“Yes, sir, fine.”
“Only I couldn’t help noticing you seemed a bit rattled by Kath Cryer.”
“No, sir,” Kinnear muttered, keeping his eyes fixed out of the window. Blake could see the muscles in his jaw tightening. “Didn’t bother me, sir. She’s the DI.”
“Okay. Pay her no heed. She doesn’t always think but she’s a good copper and will have your back in a tight spot.”
“Yes, sir.”
“D’you know much about DCI Jimmy Leech, Andrew?"
“I assume he must be clocking on a bit and long retired. Otherwise, nothing.”
“He’s a slippery bastard,” Blake said. “A reptile. He retired before you were born and when I was just a kid but our paths have crossed a few times on cold cases. You’ll have stumbled across his children and grandchildren, no doubt,” Blake muttered. “Those rotten apples didn’t fall far from the tree.”
“You mean, he’s part of that family?” Kinnear said. The Leeches were a notorious criminal family on the Wirral. Between the extended lineup of cousins and uncles, brothers and sisters, they managed to cover a whole spectrum of offences from shoplifting to armed robbery.
“How do you think they were so successful? DCI Leech was their inside man although nobody ever proved it, he always managed to keep one step ahead of any internal investigations. Whether that was by sheer wiliness or by greasing a few palms, I couldn’t say.”
“Maybe both, sir,” Kinnear said.
Blake nodded. “He’s not the most savoury of characters, either. He’ll try to push all your buttons but don’t react. He’ll be fishing for information as much as we are. So please, keep schtum. Watch and listen.”
Leech lived in a nondescript cul-de-sac in Newton up at the top end of the Wirral. They pulled up and Blake wondered who thought these roads were a good idea. Obviously, someone who didn’t have a very big car. The round bulb of the cul-de-sac, meant that parking was awkward. Leech’s house looked well cared for; the paint bright and clean, the garden clipped and neat. Despite the wholesome respectability of the property, Blake reckoned Leech’s presence in the cul-de-sac probably wouldn’t go down well with the other residents at all. The man was corrupt and unpleasant, not the kind of person you dropped in on for a cuppa. They climbed out of the car, swung the green, wooden gate open and walked the scrubbed path to the front door.
“Leech clearly has people looking after him,” Blake muttered. “I can’t for one minute imagine him mowing the lawn or clipping the hedge.”
The curtains were drawn and the only evidence of life in the house was the wire crate that held a single pint of milk. Blake lifted the door knocker but, as he did, the door swung slightly open of its own accord.
Frowning at Kinnear, Blake pushed the door open a little more. “Hello?” he called. “Jimmy? It’s me DCI Will Blake. Can we come in?”
Silence.
Blake nodded to Kinnear and they edged into the hallway. The house smelled of air freshener, wood polish and cigarette smoke. Beige gave way to floral patterns and back to beige again Three doors and the stairway led off the hallway. Directly ahead, Blake could see a narrow kitchen, mugs dangling from a mug tree and a gas cooker facing him. The nearest door was shut but the door into the back room stood ajar. The drawn curtains made everything seem dark and subterranean.
“Jimmy? Are you there?” Blake said, pushing the door open wider.
Jimmy Leech sat engrossed in a magazine. Blake could tell from the skin tone that plastered the front cover what kind of magazine it was. Leech looked like a living skeleton, his skin stretched tight over his bony frame. Thin, blue veins pulsed in his temples and his glittering black eyes nestled deep in his skull. He flicked over each page with long, bony fingers. The rest of his frame was covered by an old blue shirt, protected from food debris by a brown zip-front cardigan. A pair of tartan slippers and baggy tracksuit bottoms completed the geriatric chic. He glanced up from his magazine and his face split into a crooked, brown-toothed grin. “Well now,” he said. “Who do we have here? Ace Detective and TV personality of yesteryear, DCI Blake, I believe. And who’s the pretty boy with you?”
“This is DC Kinnear,” Blake said. “We’ve come to pick your brains, Jimmy.”
“I’m honoured,” Leech said and pointed at the sofa on the other side of the room. “Sit down, why don’t you?”
Blake perched himself on the edge of the sofa, not wanting to get too comfortable and Kinnear did likewise. Display cases full of books and plates lined the edge of the room and the carpet was thick and plush. Jimmy Leech exuded a malign presence that made even this innocuous domestic setting feel threatening. A thin beam of weak light forced its way through the crack in the curtains. “Cameron Lock, Jimmy,” Blake said. “What d’you remember?”
Leech looked down at the magazine and then lifted it up to show them a young woman in stripy knee-high socks, red stilettos and nothing else, lying, legs apart on a sheepskin rug. “Just look at that,” Leech said. “What I wouldn’t give for a piece.” He grinned at Kinnear. “How about you, Detective?”
“Put it down, Jimmy,” Blake said. “You wouldn’t remember what to do anyway.”
Jimmy lowered the magazine into his lap and narrowed his eyes. “I bet I would. It’s like ridin’ a bike. It’d probably kill me though, now.” A phlegmy laugh bubbled up from his throat and he leaned over to pull a cigarette from one of the boxes piled on the arm of his chair.
Blake ignored him. “You want to be careful leaving your front door open like that. Anyone could walk in.”
Leech’s mouth tightened into a grimace. “Anyone can. I’m not afraid." He looked at Kinnear. “Has he told you he was a TV star, son?”
Kinnear suppressed a grin but said nothing.
“All right, Jimmy, that’ll do…”
“What was it? Spotlight… no… Searchlight. That was you wasn’t it, Blake? Standing there in your shiny uniform all fresh faced. Easy on the eye. One for the Mums. Cracking crime. Keeping Joe Public safe. How come you’re not on the telly anymore?”
“Cameron Lock, Jimmy,” Blake said. “What do you remember?”
“DC Kinnear, is it?” Leech said, licking his cracked lips with a nicotine tongue. “What drew you to the force, Mr Kinnear? Was it the uniform?”
Kinnear narrowed his eyes but said nothing.
Good lad, Blake thought. “Cameron Lock.”
“Yeah, yeah, I heard you,” Jimmy said, puffing blue smoke all over them as he lit up. He coughed violently, almost doubling up and then straightened out, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “That’s better. Cameron Lock. That fat wanker. What do you want to know? He killed a little kid and got his
come-uppance in jail. Didn’t lose any sleep over that nonce.”
“He was guilty then?” Blake said.
Jimmy took a long drag from his cigarette and gave Blake a sly smile. “Caught bang to rights. Found that Bradshaw kid’s smalls in Lock’s bag.”
“What about Lock’s mother? Did she get her come-uppence too?”
“Can’t you read the files, Blake? Is the print too small for you or something?” Jimmy said. “Couldn’t get to the bottom of that one. But again, anyone who’d cover for a child killer, even if it was their own flesh and blood, deserves short shrift, if you ask me.”
“Thanks for the moral guidance, Jimmy,” Blake said. “I can rely on you to keep me on the straight and narrow.”
Jimmy gave a hacking laugh and sucked up another lungful of smoke. “I like you Blake. You’re old enough to know what proper policing was all about back in the day.” He turned to Kinnear. “Has he told you about the Hilbre Island affair?”
Kinnear frowned, trying to understand the mind games Leech was playing.
Blake watched Jimmy warily. “All right, Jimmy, that’s enough.”
“What was that fella’s name?” Leech said, clicking his fingers as if struggling to remember. Old though the man was, he still had a cast iron memory.
“It doesn’t matter,” Blake said, keeping his voice level and trying to control his breath. “We aren’t here to talk about him.”
“No,” Leech said, staring straight at Kinnear. “We never talk about Hilbre Island. Anyway, Kinnear, you just made DC? All excited? Full of vim and vigour?”
Kinnear’s jaw made a slight cracking noise and Blake saw him clench his fists. Jimmy Leech could get under anyone’s skin, Blake knew that more than anyone. “All right, Jimmy. You’ve had your fun. Back to Cameron Lock. You ever seen these boots before?”
