Dying Breath: Unputdownable serial killer fiction (Detective Lucy Harwin crime thriller series Book 2)

by Helen Phifer

  Catherine smiled at Lucy, making her feel a whole lot better. If the doctor thought she was on to something, there was a good chance she really was. She didn’t often agree with anyone.

  Catherine was immersed in her preliminary observation of the body when she turned and picked up a magnifying glass. Bending down, she stared at a bright blue fibre, turning the instrument one way and then the other. ‘Bingo.’

  Lucy stepped closer as Catherine picked up the tiny piece of trace evidence with a pair of tweezers and placed it onto a microscope slide. She examined it through the lens and Lucy found that she was holding her breath waiting for the doctor to speak.

  ‘Well, it’s not for me to say for definite – that’s down to the trace evidence examiner.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But I would say that this fibre is a pretty good match for the ones I found on Melanie Benson. They will be able to say whether or not they’ve come from a common environment; one with which the killer and the victims have all been in contact. This common environment will repeat in the killer’s world. I’d say that these fibres are more than likely from a rug, his car or a carpet. What this does demonstrate is that both victims have had contact with the same offender. I don’t need to explain Locard’s principle to you; I’m sure you know it better than I do. “Every contact leaves a trace.”’

  ‘So he’s clever, but he’s not as clever as he thinks he is?’

  Catherine nodded. ‘No one is ever as clever as they think they are.’

  ‘Did he think changing his MO would fool us? Or is he working to some sort of plan, and it’s all part of the big picture?’

  ‘Now that is definitely your department, Lucy, but I’d say unofficially that you’re looking for the same man for both murders.’

  Lucy shook her head in concern. Whoever it was might be planning his next move this very moment. This was excellent forensic evidence for court; however, there was now the huge problem of finding the killer before he made his next move. She looked at Mattie and knew exactly what he was thinking: they had to figure out who he was, otherwise more bodies would turn up.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Lewis Waite knew that he had to find somewhere better than this to hide. It was far too cold; the sea wind blew through all the gaps in the rotting wooden planks covering the facade of the building. It had once been a bingo hall at the end of the pier but now it was a boarded-up wreck. The ‘No Trespassing’ sign did very little to keep out the local youths, drug users and homeless people who needed somewhere to stay as a last resort. Tonight he was the only person in here, as far as he could tell – he wasn’t going to go looking to see if there was anyone else because he didn’t give a shit if there was.

  He was trembling and needed something, but he didn’t have a phone. The bastards had taken it from him at the station. In fact, he had nothing except the stolen clothes he was wearing, which were far too big for him. He felt in the front pockets, then the back pockets. His fingers caressed the edges of a small rectangle of plastic and he smiled for the first time in hours. Please, please be contactless. He pulled out the bankcard and gave a sigh of relief at the sight of the white logo in the corner. He could go to Asda and get some food, see if there were some cheap clothes and a bottle of whisky. It would get him through until tomorrow.

  He peered through a crack between the planks; the sky was dusky. It was dark enough now. He climbed through a window whose board had fallen off and walked as fast as he could in the direction of Asda. Keeping his head lowered, he maintained a tight grip on the waistband of the trousers to stop them from falling down. His stomach was grumbling so loud that he could hear it despite the noise of the traffic. He couldn’t remember when he’d last eaten a proper meal. It must have been yesterday.

  He saw the noticeboard outside the newsagent’s – the headlines screamed at him. ‘Woman Found Murdered in Backstreet’. Stacey was dead. His eyes filled with tears. He’d been too scared and worried about his own situation to give her a second thought earlier. Not that he didn’t care, because he did. Out of all the women he’d ever had a relationship with, she’d been the one he thought he could stay with forever. Until he’d started back on the gear, that is, and it had taken over his life. He felt a hot tear leak from his eye and he lifted his sleeve to wipe it away. Stacey had been the only person from his old life who still had time for him, and he’d been so horrible to her because she wouldn’t give him any money. He’d hurt her, then left her, and now she was dead. Murdered in the backstreet outside the rear gate of her flat while he slept on her sofa in a drug-induced haze.

  If he ever got his hands on the sick bastard who had touched her, he’d rip them apart limb from limb. He knew that he had to find the killer before the coppers found him, otherwise they’d pin it all on him and he’d spend the rest of his life inside for a crime he didn’t commit. How many times had he seen it happen on the news or read the same story in a paper? There was no way he was going to spend fifteen years in prison for not killing someone. It wasn’t fair. He wasn’t a bad person – just a completely fucked-up one.

  He kept his head down whilst getting what he needed; the supermarket was busy but luckily for him no one gave him a second glance. He picked up a copy of the local paper. The headlines in bold black type made his stomach churn. He felt a rush of bile and had to fold the paper over so he couldn’t see the headline. The article had been written before he’d done his vanishing act from the hospital. Tomorrow he knew his face would be plastered all over the same front page. The thought of it made him clench his fists; he hadn’t done it. There was no way he was taking the blame for it.

  As he passed the men’s sale rail there was a smartly dressed man leaning on his shopping trolley, reading the front page of the same paper. He twisted away, trying to keep the burning rage of injustice from taking over. He picked up a pair of jogging trousers, a t-shirt and a hooded sweatshirt, stuffing them into his basket. As he turned back, he slammed into the trolley of the man, who lifted his head and looked directly at Lewis.

  ‘Sorry, mate.’

  For a moment they both stared at each other, a flash of recognition sparking inside their memories. Lewis couldn’t figure out where he knew him from and, judging by the confused expression on the bloke’s face, he felt the same. Lewis sloped off, eager to get away in case he was one of the coppers from this morning. God, it felt as if that were a lifetime ago. He made his way to the discounted food cabinet, where he was in luck. The shelf stacker was throwing in packs of sandwiches with bright-yellow ‘Reduced’ stickers on. Lewis scraped as many of them into his basket as he could; for a couple of quid these would see him through for a couple of days. He picked up some chocolate bars that were also on offer, then went to find a cheap bottle of whisky.

  Lewis saw the man again in the alcohol aisle. He obviously had much more money than he did, judging by the bottle of expensive champagne he was holding and the big bouquet of flowers in his trolley. It was driving him mad; where did he know him from? He can’t have been a copper or he’d have arrested him there and then; even when they were off duty they still had to arrest criminals. Lewis went to the self-serve till and paid for his items, pocketing the debit card after tapping it against the reader. He picked up his carrier bag and, still keeping his head down, left the store, grateful that no shoplifter had decided to try their luck and ended up getting themselves arrested.

  He walked across to the trolley bay and scanned the car park. Considering the pricey contents of that man’s shopping trolley, he would no doubt have a tidy car. There were lots of vehicles he might own; he picked out two BMWs, a top-of-the-range Land Rover, a brand-new VW Golf and a nice Mercedes E-Class in white. Intrigued now, he had to know which car the man owned. He had a feeling it might come in useful.

  He spotted the man coming out of the sliding doors and almost colliding with a woman. He apologised, and as she walked off he turned around and watched her for a couple of seconds. Then he turned and headed towards t
he Golf. Lewis didn’t have a pen to write down the number plate so he started repeating the last three digits over and over again. At one time he’d had an excellent memory; not now, though, after years of substance abuse. He watched the guy put his carrier bags in the boot of his car and drive away.

  Lewis began the walk back to the pier – he needed the food and whisky. Then he would huddle under the pieces of discarded cardboard that he’d stacked up back at the bingo hall and sleep. Maybe when he woke up this would all have been a nightmare.

  A police car shot past him at speed, the sirens blaring, and he pulled himself further into the shadows. They’d be busy searching all his mates’ flats and bedsits; they would think he was hiding out at one of them. He doubted very much that they would credit him with more intelligence than doing something so obvious. He would show them he wasn’t your average addict. That he had a better survival instinct than most men and he would use it to keep his head above water. They could search all they wanted for him, but there was no way he would give himself up to them until he’d found the man who’d killed Stacey.

  The Golf stopped near the main exit to the car park and its lights and engine were turned off. He knew that man; he just couldn’t place him. He looked like a down-and-out, the way he was dressed in clothes that were too big for him. He had an idea – it just came to him out of nowhere. The best ones always did. If he followed him home, he’d have his next victim lined up. He had a feeling that whoever he was, he had very little money. It was quite obvious from his appearance that he was very good friends with china white; it wouldn’t be too hard to tempt him out of wherever he was living.

  The man passed the car, his hood up, keeping to the shadows. In a flash of clarity, he realised where he knew him from. The ragged-looking man was the same individual who’d been in the club arguing with the girl he’d followed home and murdered. This was a great idea; he was killing two birds with one stone because the police would be searching for him. He would be doing them a favour by killing the junkie and delivering him to their door. He waited until the man was a good distance away and got out of the car. Grabbing his baseball cap from the passenger seat and pulling it down over his eyes, he zipped his jacket up and followed him, needing to see where he was going, yet not wanting to get caught. He was heading towards the promenade, and he wondered if he was sleeping rough in one of the old buildings. Along that stretch of the town, there were plenty of them. If he had to guess, he would have said the Winter Gardens, which had once been Brooklyn Bay’s finest theatre, or the bingo hall on the pier. When they reached the main road, the man scurried across it and glanced around before slipping through a gap in the metal fencing which closed the derelict pier off from the public. He nodded his head: the bingo hall it was. He had so much to do. There was the family to dispose of first, and then he could take care of him.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  May 1991

  He’d lain in bed, his heart thudding so loud under the covers he was sure his mum would hear it. He knew that he had to keep calm, just act as if nothing had happened. He would tell the truth when they asked him if he’d seen Jenny at the shop. He’d have to say yes – that old man behind the counter never missed a trick and then the police would get suspicious. There was more hammering on the front door, even louder than before. He heard his mum swear as her swivel chair scraped across the wooden floorboards in her office. He lay still with his eyes squeezed shut, listening to see who it was.

  ‘Police. We need to talk to you.’

  He smiled as a wave of calm washed over him and he knew exactly what he had to do. He thought about John in prison and how he’d smiled at him when he’d acknowledged that they were both the same. I’ll make you so proud, John, you watch and see. He heard the front door open but he couldn’t quite catch the muffled conversation between the coppers and his mum. He did hear her say, ‘He’s not well; you can’t talk to him for long.’

  Then she came up the stairs and into his bedroom. ‘I need you to come down and speak to these policemen. Then you can go back to bed.’

  He took a deep breath, then climbed out from underneath the covers and went downstairs with her. Catching sight of his reflection in the hall mirror, he made an effort to keep a straight face. His hair was sticking up and his brow was all sweaty; his cheeks were flushed. He looked as if he had some contagious infection. The two coppers stared at him, then glanced at each other, but kept their distance.

  ‘Did you speak to Jenny Burns at the shop earlier?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Did she tell you where she was going?’

  He shook his head. ‘I was going to play outside, but I got the worst stomach cramps and had to run straight home before I had an accident. I don’t feel well.’

  ‘Son, this is really important: did you see anyone hanging around by the shop or in the street when you left? Did you see which direction Jenny went or if anyone was following her?’

  He screwed his eyes up whilst he thought about it, then looked at them and shook his head.

  ‘No, sorry. I came straight home and had to lie down.’

  His mum nodded her head.

  ‘He did – look at the state of him. He’s burning up. He went to bed and hasn’t moved until now.’

  She smiled at him. ‘You get yourself back to bed, lovey.’

  He looked at the two men towering over his mum, but they didn’t object. So he turned around and began to walk up the stairs. He paused to speak to them again. ‘I hope you find Jenny soon – she’s my friend.’

  ‘So do we.’

  He got upstairs and climbed back into bed. If there were an award for acting he would surely have won first prize. He was bloody amazing. He could hear the muted voices of the two men as they spoke to his mum, but he didn’t care. He had her as his witness, and – what did they call it in the movies? An alibi, that’s right. He had the best alibi in the world because if his mother were one thing, it was stubborn and protective.

  He stayed in bed for two days. It killed him because he so badly wanted to be out in the thick of it with the teams who were searching for Jenny. In a way, it would be good to see what happened if they found her. He knew that they wouldn’t, though; the drainage hole he’d hidden her in was well off the paths. He’d found it the previous year and had used it to put next door’s yapping dog Susie in when she had followed him into the woods one day. He’d strangled her with his bare hands just to see if he was strong enough; then he’d dropped the dog in the hole and covered it back up again. For days after, he’d gone back to see if he could smell it; he’d heard that dead things stank. But he’d never got a whiff of any bad smells; there were so many overgrown bushes surrounding the hole that, unless you knew about it, you wouldn’t ever find it.

  Once they’d stopped searching the woods he’d go back one night and pull her out. He’d bury her in a deep grave that only he knew about. As long as he dragged some weeds, twigs and a couple of rocks across the top they’d never know. He couldn’t wait to see what she looked like now; the weather had cooled down and it had been raining the last two days. He couldn’t move her until it was night-time, though, because she might smell and he didn’t want to risk anyone walking their dog finding him burying a dead body.

  He felt bad about Jake, who wasn’t allowed out to play any more. He missed him; he was his best friend. He’d been to call for him as soon as he’d told his mum that he felt better, but the policewoman who’d answered the door had sent him away. Jenny’s picture was in all the papers. He kind of missed her cheeky smile, even though she’d been a nuisance when she’d followed them everywhere.

  He was sitting at the dining table, staring at her picture, when his mum caught him.

  ‘It’s so sad, isn’t it? Are you okay?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Some pervert has bloody taken her, you mark my words. There’s too many of them wandering the streets and no one has a clue about their dirty little habits and what they get up to. Except me –
I’ve written books about some of the vilest people in this country. I know what humans are capable of; look at what happened to your poor mum.’

  She stopped herself and her hand flew to her mouth as she gasped at the words she’d just spoken out loud. ‘Anyway, what do you fancy for tea?’

  He knew she was hoping he’d misheard her, but he hadn’t. He stared at her.

  ‘What did happen to my mum?’

  To give her credit, she didn’t bother trying to lie to him. She came and sat on a chair opposite him, ashen-faced.

  ‘Your real mum was murdered, by that piece of shit John Carter. He killed three young women, including your mum. All of them were beautiful, beautiful girls with their whole lives ahead of them.’

  He knew everything about John Carter; he’d read her books by now. But they didn’t mention anything about Linda being his mum and he couldn’t tell her he’d read them either because she’d go crazy with him for snooping in her office.

  ‘So who are you?’

  ‘I’m your aunt, your mum’s sister. But you can still call me Mum. I’d like it if you did. I’ve brought you up since the day your mum brought you home from the hospital. That night she went out to the carnival dance and never came home.’

  He got up and crossed the room, bending down to wrap his arms around her and hold her close. She hugged him back and he wondered how she’d feel about him if she knew that he was just like John.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Lucy yawned. She was so damn tired and wasn’t sure if it was because she hadn’t slept properly or if it was the worry of the case weighing heavy on her mind. It was inconceivable to believe that there could be a serial killer roaming the streets of Brooklyn Bay. Yet it was a very real possibility that there was. Both victims were completely different from each other. Melanie was older and blonde; Stacey young and brunette. Whoever it was didn’t have a certain type. It seemed to her that if he were picking victims who fitted some warped ideal, it would be easier. If he stuck to older blondes, they could send out a press release warning all blonde women over the age of thirty not to be out on their own.