by Sally Rigby
‘I didn’t have a choice.’ The woman was dressed a lot smarter than when they’d last seen her, in a pink blouse buttoned up to the top and a grey cardigan. A gold cross hung around her neck.
‘We have a few more questions to ask you,’ Whitney said.
‘When can I have Kelvin’s body? I want to arrange the funeral.’
‘The coroner’s office will let you know; it’s not in my jurisdiction. We’d like to ask you about Justice Hunters.’
‘Why?’ The woman’s lips pressed together.
‘Our investigation has led us to the group. We discovered you’re a member. Would you like to tell us more about it?’
Beryl shifted in her seat and kept her gaze averted from Whitney’s. ‘There’s nothing to tell. I joined last year after reading an article about them. I wish they’d been around when my husband was doing his thing. I’d have set them onto him.’
George and Whitney exchanged a glance.
‘What about Kelvin?’ she asked. ‘Did you tell them about him?’
‘No. I didn’t know what he was up to.’
‘If it’s true, why didn’t you seem surprised when I told you? You must have had your suspicions,’ she pushed.
‘He spent a lot of time on his phone and on his computer. But I don’t know how to work them, so I couldn’t check what he was doing. Okay, yes. It did cross my mind he might be like his father, but until I knew for sure, I kept it from the group. It turned out I was right. It doesn’t matter now. Someone beat me to it.’ She took hold of the cross around her neck and twisted it in her fingers.
‘You approve of what happened to him?’
‘He was murdered and mutilated. That’s all I know.’
Whitney pulled out a photo of Kelvin and slid it across the table. ‘This is what was done to him.’
The woman glanced at the photograph and she paled. ‘God help him,’ she muttered.
‘The other victim, Russell Atkins, was mutilated in the same way.’
‘Do you know the other victim?’ George asked.
‘Um… um…’
‘It’s a simple question,’ Whitney said. ‘Do you know him?’
‘Yes.’
Whitney’s heart pumped in her chest. They had a connection between the two victims. But was it enough? Forensics hadn’t come up with anything they could use. Certainly the carpet in the woman’s house wasn’t good quality, like Claire had found in the fibres.
‘In what capacity?’
‘I used to clean at the Atkins’ house.’
‘Maidenwell is miles away from where you live. Why didn’t they employ someone more local?’
‘It’s half an hour on the bus. There’s a shortage of cleaners out there. All the posh people want someone in to clean for them.’
‘How long were you there for?’
‘Six months, five years ago.’
‘Why did you leave?’
The woman bit down on her bottom lip. ‘They let me go. Accused me of stealing.’
‘And did you?’ Whitney locked eyes with her, and she visibly squirmed. ‘The gold carriage clock?’
‘Yes,’ the woman said as she lowered her eyes.
‘We’re not interested in whether you stole it. I want to know about you and Russell Atkins. When was the last time you saw him?’
‘Not since they sacked me.’
Whitney drew in a breath. There wasn’t a lot more they could do. They needed to investigate the woman further.
‘We may wish to speak to you again, so don’t leave the area. For now, we have no further questions. I’ll call DC Baines and ask him to take you back home.’
Whitney and George left the interview room.
‘How did you know to ask about Atkins?’ she said to George once they were in the corridor.
‘Gut instinct,’ George said, shaking her head. ‘Yes, I know that’s your territory, but I had this feeling and was correct.’
‘But does it mean she murdered the two of them? Or is it a coincidence?’
‘That’s what we need to investigate. Have you decided whether you’re going to put a tail on O’Brien?’ George asked.
‘We’ll check his alibi first.’
She didn’t trust O’Brien as far as she could throw him. If he was their killer she’d nail him for it.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The next one’s lined up, and everything’s coming along nicely. It’s so easy. All I had to do was log into SnapMate and create a fake profile. No one bothers to check. It’s ridiculous. But good for me.
I found a list of dos and don’ts online, to make sure my intended target won’t guess he’s being set up. To protect my identity, I go through a special network which keeps everything I do private by creating a multi-layered encryption. No one will find me. It never ceases to amaze me; there’s nothing that can’t be done on the Internet these days.
This latest pervert has already started asking questions with sexual undertones. I act innocent and naïve, pretending I don’t understand.
But I do.
He’s going to suffer. Big time.
I told him I was only thirteen, and he responded by saying what a perfect age it was. That I should be treated like a flower in bud. And he wanted to be the one to help this flower bloom.
He’ll get more than a blooming flower from me, the sick, perverted bastard.
I didn’t respond. Just told him how easy he was to talk to, and how I wished I had someone like him in my life because everything was so hard at the moment. I told him school sucks, my best friend has fallen out with me, and my parents treat me like a child instead of an adult.
He swallowed the whole lot. The stupid prick.
Even though he hinted, I didn’t send him photos of me naked. I sent one of a young, fully-clothed teenage girl.
He sent a photo of himself and told me it was him when he was younger and then admitted to being in his late teens. Of course I know that’s not the truth, as I know what he really looks like. He told me his real name, and I googled him. What an idiot. I found out for sure he’s a disgusting pervert. He’s at least thirty-five.
When he asked to meet, I said I couldn’t get out in the evenings. He suggested I skip school. After pretending to deliberate for a while, I said yes but would have to meet somewhere close to school.
Of course he agreed, and we arranged to meet in a quiet spot I know very well.
And that’s as far as I am with this arsehole.
Knife sharpened, sedative ready for the syringe, and I have everything ready to carry out the deed.
I’ll arrive half an hour before him so I can set up and make sure he doesn’t get away. I hope he enjoys his breakfast because it’s the last meal he’s going to have.
Apart from the special dinner I’m going to prepare for him.
He certainly won’t be enjoying that.
But I’ll enjoy watching. I’ll also enjoy the look on his face when I take out my knife and he realises exactly what’s going to happen. He won’t be able to scream because his mouth will be taped up. He won’t be able to do anything while he’s being subjected to everything he deserves.
I really should take photos to show my other victims so they know what’s going to happen to them. But where’s the fun? It’s better to let them think I’m just a silly woman who’s eventually going to let them go.
But we all know how wrong they are.
Chapter Twenty-Six
George sat at the table in the university café, her hands wrapped around a steaming mug of hot chocolate. It wasn’t what she usually drank, but she fancied something sweet and warm. The case was a puzzle. It seemed most likely they’d find the murderer in a vigilante group. Then again, this was at odds with what Vera said about it being far better to leave the men suffering the consequences of their actions, rather than being dead. In which case, who wrote the note to the radio station? It certainly wasn’t Jimmy, so either he was working with someone else or he wasn’t involved.
&
nbsp; In the mix was Beryl Murphy. But was she too obvious, because of the connection between her and the Atkins’? Would she have been capable of writing the note? The language was very feminine. The person who wrote it was articulate, intelligent, and well read. They were fully aware of the political implications of what they were doing and what was happening in the country. Was that Beryl Murphy? On the face of it, no. But they needed to know more about her.
As to the nature of the deaths, you couldn’t get more personal than mutilating the genital area. The fact the murderer suffocated the victims, pointed to the death itself not being as important as what happened beforehand. The murderer got off on the mutilation, so the victims could no longer groom young girls. Grooming was key. And if they didn’t solve it, there would be more bodies. The letter told them there were more to come.
‘George.’ She glanced up at the sound of her name and smiled as she saw Tiffany standing beside her, holding a can of drink.
‘Are you on your own?’ she asked.
‘I’m meant to be meeting some friends, but they haven’t arrived yet.’
‘Join me.’ George gestured to the empty seat opposite her at the table.
Tiffany placed her drink on the table and pulled out the chair. George noticed how relaxed she seemed, unlike the previous times they’d spoken when she was permanently agitated.
‘Are you working with Mum on the two murders?’
‘Yes. Just mulling over the evidence we have. Which isn’t much. Not that I’m allowed to talk about it. How are you doing? You seem a little better. Are you?’
‘It’s helped seeing the counsellor you suggested. We’ve gone from weekly to fortnightly. She’s really happy with my progress.’
‘Excellent. What about the nightmares?’
‘I haven’t had one for a while.’ She smiled, and it lit up her whole face. She’d inherited Whitney’s striking good looks, with curly dark hair and arresting chocolate brown eyes.
Without thinking, George reached over and covered Tiffany’s hand with hers. ‘I’m proud of you.’
Tiffany blushed. ‘Thanks, George. I couldn’t have done it without you and Mum.’
‘We did it together,’ she said.
There was an easy silence for a few moments.
‘Do you have a minute?’ George turned to see Yvonne, a professor in her department, holding a mug in one hand and a plate with a Danish pastry in the other.
She looked back at Tiffany.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ the young woman said. ‘My friends are over there now.’ She pointed in the direction of a group of students sitting at one of the large circular tables.
‘If you’re sure?’
‘Of course.’ She picked up her can, smiled, and left.
‘Is it important?’ George asked Yvonne.
‘I wanted to know how you’re holding up,’ her colleague replied.
‘What do you mean?’
‘After the interview, and with Greg Barnes getting the position. It can’t have been easy, especially as we all thought you were a dead cert.’
‘Put it this way, I’ve felt better. But there’s not a lot I can do about it.’
‘Have you spoken to Robin and asked him why?’
‘You mean you haven’t heard?’ George said, her body tense. ‘Because you must be the only one.’
‘No one said anything to me. I’m sure I would’ve heard if it was common knowledge.’
‘The university isn’t happy with the amount of time I’m working with police. Not only the “university”,’ she said, making quote marks with her fingers. ‘It seems my colleagues aren’t happy about it either. At least that’s what I’ve been led to believe. Feedback from all sides was I lack focus. Me, lack focus? Have you ever heard such crap? When I look at the amount of time many of our colleagues spend in the staffroom ducking out of work when they can, I want to scream. But I’m the one without focus.’ Her fists were tightly balled.
‘It’s ridiculous. I think part of it stems from jealousy.’
‘Why would anyone be jealous of me?’ George frowned.
‘Try because you’re so successful at what you do. You don’t need the validation of other people. You don’t take part in petty office politics, and I guess some of our narrow-minded colleagues thought they’d take the opportunity to stick the boot in.’
‘Well, they’ve succeeded. I hope they feel good about it.’
‘So, now what? Are you thinking of leaving?’ Yvonne asked.
‘Where would I go? I’m settled here. I have my house and a job I enjoy. And I’m putting all the theory into practice working with Whitney.’
‘That’s another thing they’re jealous of, because you’re getting involved in something exciting, whereas they’re stuck here in their own little cocoons.’
George laughed. Yvonne was right. Even if she wasn’t going to be associate professor, she had so much more going on. Not to mention the plaudits when she produced her research paper on working with the police and the murderous twins.
‘I should listen to you more. I’m going to get on with my work as normal and keep my connections with Whitney.’
‘Are you working with her at the moment?’ Yvonne asked.
‘Yes, the two murders where the men were mutilated. It’s not an easy case.’
‘I’m not surprised. I guess the public aren’t keen to get involved. They were paedophiles. Why would anyone want to help?’
‘The trouble is, we can’t let people get away with murder because we don’t like their victims. It’s important justice is brought against sexual offenders, but it doesn’t mean allowing them to be murdered.’
‘You’re right, of course. Did you actually see the bodies?’
‘I did, and it was not a pleasant sight. Pretty gruesome really.’
George’s phone rang and she glanced at the screen. Whitney. ‘I’m going to have to get this.’
‘Hello.’
‘Where are you?’ Whitney asked.
‘At work. Where do you think?’
‘We’ve got another body. How soon can you get here?’
Crap. An additional body meant more evidence for the profile, but she wished another person hadn’t lost his life. She glanced at her watch. She had a class in thirty minutes. It was only for an hour and then she’d be free.
‘A couple of hours. Are you at the scene?’
‘Yes, I’m here with Claire. It’s the same MO. Why don’t you meet me at the morgue, and we’ll go over everything with Claire? In the meantime, I’ll get back to station. I need to sort out putting a tail on O’Brien. Turns out his alibi isn’t watertight. According to the chap he worked for, he was there at the start of the shift but then disappeared, which is why he hasn’t been employed since.’
‘Are you going to bring him in?’
‘Not yet. We don’t have any evidence linking him to it.’
‘What about Vera?’
‘Her alibis checked out, and from her interview I’m not convinced she’s involved, but nothing’s certain and she remains on our radar. And then, of course, there’s Beryl Murphy.’ Whitney sighed. ‘Lots of possibilities but nothing concrete.’
‘We’ll work it out together. I’ll see you later.’
George finished the call and placed her phone back on the table. She glanced up at Yvonne.
‘No wonder you continue working with the police. It’s so exciting. When you were talking, your whole demeanour changed. You love being part of it, don’t you?’
‘This is only our second case together, but it makes such a change from being stuck in academia.’
‘Have you thought about going into private practice and working full-time with them?’
‘It’s crossed my mind, but I love my research, my students, and the lecturing. I could do without the petty politics surrounding the place, but, that aside, I want to stay. It’s perfect as it is. One foot in each camp.’
After articulating it to Yvonne, George real
ised she didn’t want the associate professorship. If she’d been given the position, it would have severely impacted on her work with Whitney and the police. She would’ve been given more responsibility at the university and been a lot more involved with the higher echelons. Losing out was for the best. Her pride had been dented, but she could live with it.
‘I, for one, am glad you’re staying. You’re the sanest person I know around here. If you left, I’d miss not having your take on things. The way you don’t allow emotions to cloud your judgement.’
George smiled to herself. At one time she’d prided herself on her ability to detach from her emotions. Now, after working with Whitney, she wasn’t so sure she wanted to be like that all the time.
She picked up her mug of chocolate and finished it.
‘I’d better go and get ready for my next class,’ she said.
Two hours later, George was in her car driving to the morgue. After pulling into the hospital car park and parking around the back, she walked into the building and down the corridor. Pushing open the door, she heard voices coming from Claire’s office area.
‘You can’t blame yourself,’ Claire said.
‘Well, I do. She desperately wanted the job. But instead of supporting her, I constantly contacted her, assuming she’d drop everything and be at my beck and call,’ Whitney said.
‘Has she blamed you?’
‘Of course not. You know what George’s like. So typically stiff upper lip English with that posh upbringing of hers. She takes it on the chin. But whatever she says, we all know it was down to me.’
George couldn’t allow this conversation to continue, so she walked into the office. ‘Have you finished discussing me?’
‘What are you doing here? I wasn’t expecting you for another twenty minutes.’ Whitney’s face was flushed. Guilt?
‘I managed to get away sooner than I thought. Anyway, back to your conversation. I don’t appreciate being discussed. What happens at work is my business. No one is to blame except me, and that’s that. Do you understand?’
