That’s got to be Markham, Rae thought. She continued around the rear of the property. A low, pink light glowed out from behind a curtained window, but Rae could neither hear nor see anything. She waited for a while, and then gave up. She was almost at the gate when she ran up against something soft and heard a young woman’s voice uttering an exclamation. It sounded Greek. She saw a dark figure turn and hurry away. The scared face glancing back at her was that of Hattie’s spiky-haired friend. She must have followed Hattie and stayed by the gate, watching and waiting. Was she spying on Hattie? What was going on? Rae watched her until she was out of sight, then crossed the road and slid into the driver’s seat of her car. She might be in for a long wait. Better to be out of the wind and rain.
An hour passed, and then another. A nearby church bell struck ten o’clock, its sound muffled slightly by the dampness in the air. How much longer should she wait? Maybe Hattie would stay the night. Rae needed to find something to eat before returning to her bed and breakfast hotel. Then she became aware of movement at Markham’s flat. A familiar tall figure emerged through the door. What was she doing? Illuminated by the overhead light, Hattie bent down. Of course. She was removing her high-heeled boots. She took a pair of shoes from her capacious shoulder bag, put them on and continued on her way, silent now in her new footwear. Thank goodness for that. At last Rae could think about getting warm, getting some food and then getting into bed. Luxury. And then she realised that Hattie was heading directly away from the campus. Rae got out of the car and crossed the road. Luckily the wind had picked up, covering the sound of her footfalls.
Less than five minutes after she’d left Markham’s flat, Hattie stopped outside a detached house in a secluded side street, her outline almost merging with that of a tall gatepost. She stood watching the house for a while, then opened the gate and slipped inside. Rae hurried the few yards to the entrance, moving silently and keeping to the shadows. She stood still, listening. Just above the sound of the breeze, she heard movement in the undergrowth. The clouds cleared momentarily and in the moonlight Rae made out the figure of Hattie in the act of flinging a handful of something towards one of the upstairs windows. She turned back towards the gate as the rattle of gravel hitting glass sounded across the small garden. Rae shrank back into the shadows as Hattie hurried out of the gate and walked quickly away, this time heading in the direction of the campus. Rae saw a light go on inside. A curtain was drawn back and two faces appeared at the window, peering out into the gloom. Could the one on the left be the professor she’d briefly spoken to in the late afternoon? The recipient of Hattie’s envelope, Paul Murey? The other must be his wife. This was getting more and more intriguing.
Maybe Markham wasn’t the target of Hattie’s current campaign after all. Could it be Murey?
She walked back to her car and climbed in wearily. Tomorrow was Friday, which gave her the daytime hours before her boyfriend, Craig, joined her in Exeter for the evening. He would be staying over until Saturday afternoon, when they would both return to Dorset. She and Craig would be off clubbing on Friday night, if she could identify Hattie’s favourite haunts in time. With Craig there, Rae wouldn’t look out of place, and she wouldn’t feel vulnerable, something that was still a problem for her when visiting a club alone, late at night.
‘Your job is to stay out of trouble,’ Rae had told Craig. ‘Not that I’m expecting any.’
Chapter 20: Predator
Caroline McLelland, Lawrence Jackson’s first wife, was almost the exact opposite of Rachel, her successor. She was shorter than average, dark haired, olive skinned and more heavily built, almost matronly. She invited the two detectives into her small terraced house and showed them into a tiny lounge. She cleared a small table and asked them to sit down.
‘You’re about five years too late, aren’t you? What’s this all about?’
‘It’s a bit difficult to explain, Mrs McLelland. It’s a new investigation but it might touch upon your ex-husband’s death. We won’t know until we find out more about him. What we do know is that he told no one that Rachel was his second wife.’
Caroline gave a sardonic laugh. ‘Well, isn’t that a surprise? When it came to relationships, he was a devious schemer. He had every reason for keeping quiet about his background, believe me. It’s no wonder he reinvented himself when he moved to Bridgeford with her.’
‘Do you feel animosity towards Rachel?’ Sophie asked.
Caroline responded with a deep sigh. ‘No, not for a long time now, if I ever did. When we all first met I thought she was a lovely girl, a young innocent. I realised afterwards that he’d planned it all from the moment he first set eyes on her, when she first turned up for organ lessons. She was a dream for someone like him. Slim, blonde, blue eyes. Really angelic.’
‘When you say "someone like him,” what do you mean exactly, Caroline?’
‘He was a predator. He had a thing about teenage girls but he hid it so well that we, his victims, had no idea what was going on.’
‘Did the same thing happen to you?’
‘Pretty well. But we were a bit closer in age. I was fourteen when we first met, and he was twenty-two. Same method though, through church organ lessons. I hate the bloody things now. Never go near a church if I can help it, not if it’s likely to have an organ playing.’
‘What are your circumstances now? Are you single?’
‘God, no. Though it took me a while to get over what happened. I’ve been with Graham for ten years and we got married three years ago. He’s a really decent guy, with no airs or graces like you-know-who. And no twisted kinks either.’
‘Did Lawrence’s behaviour go deeper than just wanting to be with younger women?’
‘Yeah, in a way. He liked me to dress up as a teenager. I didn’t mind. In fact I quite enjoyed it and didn’t see any harm in it. I still don’t. The trouble was, he was also out looking for the real thing — chatting to young girls, suggesting things to them. I told him to stop but obviously he couldn’t. I don’t think anything happened with any of them until Rachel came along.’
‘How old were you when you first had sex with him?’
Caroline didn’t answer immediately. ‘This was all long before Jimmy Savile. It wasn’t the big thing it is today.’ She sighed. ‘It was on my fifteenth birthday. He invited me over to his flat. He cooked a meal for me. We drank some wine. I felt so mature, so grown up. I suppose I knew what might happen and I sort of wanted it. I dressed up in a sexy way and acted a bit provocative. It made me feel sort of in control. I didn’t see at the time how he’d manipulated me into behaving like that. Anyway, the sex was really great. He wasn’t a dirty old man in the traditional sense. He could be really romantic and he was good-looking. We had sex fairly regularly until we got married when I was eighteen.’
‘What did your parents think? Didn’t they realise what was going on?’
Caroline shook her head. ‘My dad died when I was young and my mum really struggled. She had a new boyfriend about that time and I didn’t like him. Meeting Lawrence gave me a way out, and getting married to him gave Mum the freedom to do whatever she wanted. It was win-win all round. Or so I thought.’
‘Do you think the same kind of thing happened with Rachel? What was it, six years later?’
‘I’m sure of it. He arranged a weekend break for me to go and visit my mum in Derby. I found out later that it coincided with Rachel’s sixteenth birthday. This time he made sure she was legal. Whether they’d had sex before then I could never tell. It wouldn’t surprise me. Anyway, what’s to gain from knowing? He’s long dead and good riddance. I breathed a sigh of relief when I heard, I can tell you.’ She paused. ‘Had he done it again? Is that why he killed himself? Was someone going to spill the beans on him? He couldn’t have coped with that, particularly once he got a higher profile in his work. The thought of being humiliated terrified him. That became clear to me once we’d split up.’
‘We don’t know for sure. If it did happen that wa
y, then he chose the wrong victim.’ Sophie paused. ‘Did he continue your maintenance payments right up to when he died?’
‘It’s funny you should mention that. They stopped a couple of months before his death. I briefly contacted Rachel about it after his funeral, but she didn’t seem to know what I was talking about. I remember her saying that more money was going out of their account than ever, so how could my payments have stopped? I decided to let it drop. She was in a right state and I was worried for their children. Thank God I never had any by him.’
* * *
Sophie and Barry sat in the car. ‘That was all very interesting, ma’am, but it doesn’t really get us anywhere, does it?’ Barry said.
‘A couple of things, Barry. Technically, you’re right. We’re not even looking into Jackson’s suicide, not directly. It was all over and done with years ago. But it is relevant to our investigation. I’m not convinced that the latest one, Mark Paterson, was a suicide. What hold did she have over him? None. That’s how she would have manipulated the others, but him? Not possible. He had a two-year research post at Bournemouth University. She’s a student at Exeter. He was under no threat, as far as I can tell. Maybe it was an accident but, if so, why didn’t she report it if it was her the walking group spotted on the coast path? I wonder if she’s crossed a line. Maybe she pushed him in. He wouldn’t have stood a chance in those stormy waters that day. So we need all the information we can glean about the way she’s manipulated past situations. Or been manipulated herself, in the case of this Jackson man.’
Barry looked at her. ‘And? You said a couple of things.’
‘The money, Barry. The payments to Caroline stopped but money was still going out of their account, according to Rachel. I wonder if Hattie was blackmailing him.’
Chapter 21: Weather Report
‘That morning, the Sunday Paterson ended up in the sea, could you find out the exact wind direction, Barry? It’s something I should have thought of sooner. I don’t want a general forecast, just how the wind at Dancing Ledge would have changed direction during the course of that morning. You may need Met Office help.’
Sophie and Barry were having their usual early morning chat, discussing ideas that had occurred to them overnight.
Barry looked at Sophie in surprise. ‘You think it might help?’
Sophie pursed her lips. ‘I’m not sure. But I’ve a feeling the overnight storm moved away in a slightly unexpected direction that morning. It was something one of the rangers at Durlston said when we were chatting about cars in the car park. Maybe the wind direction veered about all over the place, or maybe it changed course more predictably. Anything that might have had a bearing on what happened on the ledge that morning is worth considering.’
‘Leave it with me.’
Sophie picked up a report from her in-tray. It was from the local council, so late in arriving that she’d almost given up hope of it coming at all. It listed the ticket machine transactions for the car parks within walking distance of Dancing Ledge on that fateful morning. She scanned down the list, looking for early morning sales, and spotted one. It was from the machine at Durlston Country Park, where the walking group had assembled for their morning ramble, but it was a good hour or more before their cluster of ticket purchases. Eight forty-five. Pretty early for a Sunday morning. The ticket was for four hours, giving ample time to get to Dancing Ledge and back. Moreover the time of the return walk would fit with Pauline Stopley and Flick Cochrane’s glimpse of the young woman heading back towards Durlston. What was it Pauline had said? That she thought she’d seen a small blue car parked in the top corner of the car park? Well, maybe that needed looking into.
She logged on to the DVLA database and searched to see if Harriet Imber owned a vehicle. No luck. But Imber was such an unusual name that it would be worth looking for other cars belonging to an Imber. She waited. Yes, there it was. A blue Ford, belonging to Mrs Mary Imber of Bridgeford St Paul. Bingo!
Sophie searched the insurance details for that vehicle and discovered two registered drivers, the owner and her daughter, a certain Harriet Imber. The picture was becoming clearer.
Sophie poured herself a coffee and sat pondering. Just how dangerous was this young woman? Sophie cast her mind back to their interview. Hattie had been very focussed on whoever she was talking to. Her gaze was like the beam of a searchlight. Sophie had observed the way she listened to Barry. It was almost as if she, Sophie, didn’t exist. The concentrated gaze was fixed entirely on Barry. Then, when she had interrupted, Hattie had seemed confused for a few seconds before refocussing on her. She had noticed something else too. Hattie had treated her much more warily than she had Barry, almost as if she’d been instantly identified as a threat, but Barry hadn’t been. It had been a bit uncanny.
She looked up and saw Barry approaching.
‘The Met Office’ll get some charts emailed across later this morning, showing how the wind direction and speed changed during the course of that day. They reckoned hourly intervals would be enough. It’ll be the readings for Durlston, but Dancing Ledge is only a mile or two away. I think I can see where you’re going with this, ma’am. It’s all a bit iffy though, isn’t it?’
Sophie shrugged. ‘The whole thing’s a bit iffy. But it all helps.’
When the detailed weather report for the Durlston coastal strip arrived later in the morning it showed that Sophie had been right to be suspicious. The charts, attached to an email, showed precise wind directions, as Barry had requested. Sophie pointed out the details as they examined the printouts. ‘See, Barry, about the time Paterson was at Dancing Ledge, the wind was coming in from the south. Look here at the figures. It was still blowing at about thirty miles an hour. That would have blown him away from the cliff edge, not over it. I know it doesn’t prove anything, but it adds to the possibility that he either jumped, or he was pushed.’
‘And if she was there,’ said Barry, sounding excited, ‘then she pushed him? It must lead that way, surely? If he fell in, she’d have phoned for help, in a panic. That’s what anyone would have done. Come to mention it, even if he’d jumped, she’d have still phoned it in, surely? Wouldn’t any normal person? Why would you watch someone jump from some rocks or fall in and not do anything about it? So if we can place her there, she’s implicated.’ He stood gazing at the map, frowning. ‘I just don’t get it. Why would a young woman like her do all this? What’s her motive? She doesn’t gain anything from these deaths, not moneywise. So what does she get out of it?’
‘A kick? Maybe a kick like no other. Do you remember Andy Renshaw or whatever his name was? The man who killed Donna Goodenough? He was a psychopath. He liked hurting people. Well, if our suspicions are correct, Hattie is a bit like him. But inflicting pain doesn’t interest her. It’s just their deaths that do it. She has a morbid fascination with causing death, but indirectly. Have they all hurt her in some way? It’s impossible to know, and in the case of Eddie Davis it’s unlikely. Even Hattie herself spoke affectionately about her, if you remember, though she may well have been acting.’
Barry frowned. ‘So she feels nothing?’
‘Exactly. That whole interview was an act, a performance. She only became wary when I started probing about the two books. Then she looked scared. But it went deeper than that. Something changed in her. I could see it in her eyes. Did you notice that she was shaking when she left?’
Barry shook his head.
‘It worries me a bit. I wonder if I should get Rae to change tack, and look at her medical background. I need to think about the best way to go about it though, because she’s only a suspect at the moment. We can’t just demand access to her medical records.’ Sophie frowned.
‘What are you driving at, ma’am?’
‘I wonder if she’s schizophrenic. We think she was abused as a teenager, but maybe it started earlier.’
‘So?’ Barry looked puzzled.
‘Some of the latest research into schizophrenia has shown a link to early chil
dhood abuse in some sufferers. The voices in the head are creations of the sufferer’s own brain. It’s their way of dealing with the mental pain and anguish they experienced as a child. While the abuse was ongoing, they’d mentally shut down but the experiences were still being logged and filed away in some dark recess. Over the years they fester and form the basis of new revenge-seeking personalities, all created by the subconscious. It’s not their fault. They are being told what to do. The “voices” start to whisper violent instructions to the conscious mind, all linked to the suppressed memories. This may not be the case with all schizophrenics, but it’s thought to be for some.’
‘So we try to find out more about her childhood?’
Sophie nodded. ‘Maybe it’s time to see her parents. But it’s a tricky one. We haven’t yet charged her with anything and we don’t have any concrete proof, as you keep reminding me so regularly.’
Barry looked anxious.
‘Don’t worry, Barry. You’re just doing the job I always wanted you to do, keeping me on the straight and narrow. If you weren’t here I’d be making a complete prat of myself all the time.’
* * *
The Imbers’ house in the village of Bridgeford St Paul was a picture postcard thatched cottage, with a small front garden and what looked to be a much larger one at the rear. A gravelled driveway ran along the side of the property towards a rickety timber garage. The front lawn was bordered by flower beds, the blooms all faded at this time of year. Sophie pushed open the small wrought iron gate and led the way to the front door.
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