Righteous Anger: A frantic hunt for a child killer (DCI Rob Miller Book 3)

by BL Pearce

  Her father, tall and proud at the back, his hand resting on Jo’s shoulder. Next to him stood her mother, resplendent in a white bathing suit with a sarong wrapped around her waist and a wide-brimmed hat. She was dressed for the south of France, not Brighton. And between them was Rachel. Tall, leggy, beautiful. Her long brown hair catching the breeze, a serene smile on her face.

  Looking at these, Jo couldn’t believe what had become of them. Rachel was dead. Her father was too. And her mother was in a home, pumped full of tranquilisers, too afraid to feel.

  She was the only real one left.

  Jo shook her head. She bought a small bottle of wine from the drinks trolley. As she watched the dark countryside flash by, she made two decisions. One, she was going to find out who killed her sister, and two, when all this was over, she was going to track down her Uncle Hubert and make him pay for destroying her family.

  Rob jumped at the sound of Trigger’s high-pitched bark. He’d just dozed off in his favourite chair and was floating somewhere between reality and dreamland. The voice of the television presenter. Studio laughter. Shadowy faces. A girl screaming.

  He sat up, his pulse racing. Trigger darted to the door, then back again.

  “What’s up, boy?” That was his excited bark.

  A moment later, the doorbell rang.

  Rob saw Jo’s blurry outline through the frosted glass panels.

  He eased himself off the chair and went to get the door.

  “This is a nice surprise.” He stood aside to let her enter. “What are you doing back so soon?”

  She moved silently into his arms and he held her for a long moment savouring her warmth, the feel of her. “Is everything alright,” he murmured into her hair.

  “It is now,” she breathed. Slowly, she detangled herself. “I didn’t feel like staying in Manchester overnight.”

  He grinned. “Well, you’re always welcome here.”

  She followed him into the living room. “Still working, I see?”

  A pile of case files lay on the floor.

  “Until I dozed off.”

  She laughed.

  “How was your trip?”

  “Awful. Mum was like a zombie, but she did tell me the truth about Rachel.”

  He studied her. “And?”

  She sighed. “It’s a long story.”

  “Would a glass of wine help?” Rob asked. “I’ve got a bottle of red on the go.”

  “Sure.”

  He poured her a glass while she started her story.

  “Poor kid,” he said when she’d finished. “It’s a pity she didn’t report him. She could have got him locked away.”

  “At fourteen you don’t think about that.” Rob had moved to the couch and she sat beside him, cradling her wine glass, her legs curled up beneath her. “At that age, you’re just terrified someone’s going to find out.”

  “These are people in a position of trust,” Rob muttered. “Fathers, uncles, step-fathers. It’s shocking how they abuse it.”

  “And how their partners are oblivious or turn a blind eye.”

  Rob shook his head.

  “The worst part is, my Uncle Hubert’s still out there. God only knows what he’s been up to since, how many young lives he’s ruined.”

  Rob told her that Angie Nolan’s father’s DNA was found under her fingernails. “At least we can prosecute him,” he said. “That’s one more predator off the street.”

  “That’s good.” She gazed at him. “When this case is over, I might just look up my uncle and make sure he’s behaving himself.”

  Her mouth was set in a grim line. He knew that look. Uncle Hubert better watch out.

  “I need to trace this Michael Robertson,” she told him. “He’s the last person to see Rachel alive. He might be able to tell us something.”

  “I’ve got Celeste working on it.” He recognised the name. “But twenty years is a long time. He could be anywhere by now. He could have left the country, be living in America. He could be dead for all we know.”

  “I know it’s a long shot,” she said. “But it’s the only lead I have.”

  “Not the only one…”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Have you been keeping something from me, DCI Miller?”

  He grinned. “No, but I was mulling over it before you arrived.”

  “Do tell.”

  “Well, Anna Dewbury had a social worker, so did Angie Nolan. Tessa told me she brought home a flyer for a children’s charity, but it went missing. She thought her husband had destroyed it. I was wondering if Arina hadn’t found it and decided to contact a helpline to tell them what was happening.”

  Jo studied him intently. “Go on…”

  “Arina didn’t have a mobile phone, she was only twelve, but she could have used the landline in the house.”

  “And–?” She raised her eyebrows.

  “I went through their phone records in the weeks before Arina disappeared and there is one call to a free number. I Googled it and it belongs to Homestead, a registered children’s charity.”

  Jo crinkled her forehead. “So, she called a helpline. Do you think that’s how he’s targeting them?”

  “I’m not sure yet, but it could be via the social care system. Daisy, that’s Chrissy Macdonald’s friend, told me Chrissy called a helpline too. That’s four out of the seven victims who reached out to a social worker or a helpline. More than just a coincidence, don’t you think?”

  “Is it the same charity?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. Haven’t got much farther than that.”

  “It’s definitely worth exploring,” she acknowledged. “Have you checked the other girls’ phone records for the same number?”

  “No, I haven’t had time. We’ll get on it first thing.”

  Jo stifled a yawn. It was nearly midnight.

  “Come on, let’s go to bed.” Rob took her hand and pulled her to her feet. “You look done in.”

  “I feel it,” she said, following him out.

  They switched off the lights and traipsed upstairs, Trigger at their heels.

  48

  Loose and casual, that’s the way she wanted it. He thought that’s the way he wanted it too, but something had changed since she’d got back from Manchester. This morning, she’d held him a little tighter, kissed him a little longer, and made love to him more tenderly than ever before. Now, as they walked to work together, their fingers loosely entwined, Rob had never felt so content.

  As soon as they reached the austere brick building, Jo released his hand. He winked at her and let her go up the stairs ahead of him. They walked in one at a time, mentally switching into work mode.

  “Today, I want us to focus on finding out as much information as we can about the social workers that Anna Dewbury and Angie Nolan spoke to. Find out which agency they’re from, how they got in touch with the girls, and where they’ve worked before.”

  Jenny and Will nodded.

  Rob told the team what he’d discovered. “It’s just a theory at this point, but I want us all to focus on it. Celeste, I know you’re off to the mortuary again today, please keep me updated.”

  “Will do, guv.”

  “Evan, Harry, go through the phone records and look for any calls to children’s helplines. If we don’t have the relevant call logs, get them. I’m happy to sign off on any warrants needed. That means landlines and mobile phones for all members of the family, including siblings, if there are any.”

  “Yes, boss,” they said in unison.

  Now Harry was calling him boss too.

  “Should we carry on looking for other victims?” Mike motioned to himself and Jeff.

  “Please. We still have an unidentified girl in the morgue. She must have come from somewhere. Let’s find out who she is so her mother can rest easy. Also, it’s possible our killer’s been active for nearly twenty years, so look into unsolved cold cases as well as those where a conviction was secured.”

  He’d had a situation before
where a man had been wrongfully imprisoned for the murder of his girlfriend. Ron Studley, his name was. Rob would never forget it. The false conviction had led them to believe the murdered girl wasn’t a victim of their serial killer when, in fact, she was his first. The poor guy had served six years of a life sentence before the outcome of their investigation had given him grounds for an appeal. Now he was a free man.

  There was a lesson to be learned there. Rob wouldn’t make the same mistake again.

  “I’m going to try to find this boy my sister knew, Michael Robertson.” Jo glanced around the room. “If anyone comes across that name, or any variation of it, let me know.”

  They nodded. Everybody liked Jo. Her management style was relaxed and efficient, kind of like she was. Even the Chief Superintendent didn’t mind her bouncing back and forth between the National Crime Agency and here. She’d proved her worth.

  He smiled at her now, then glanced down at his phone as it began vibrating in his hand.

  “Excuse me.”

  “Tony, about time.”

  “Sorry, mate,” the profiler said. “I’ve been in a symposium for two days. How are you getting on with your serial offender?”

  “There’ve been some developments,” Rob explained. “I wouldn’t mind running them by you – off the books, of course.”

  “Sure thing.” Tony never minded helping out when he could. “You free for lunch? I'm going to be in your neck of the woods. It’s our ten-year anniversary tomorrow and I’ve got to get Kim something special.”

  “Hey, congrats! That’s amazing.”

  Rob had met Kim several times and both liked and admired her. A paediatric nurse, she was perfect for Tony. Although, how they found time for each other with their busy schedules, he didn’t know. But it worked. Or maybe that’s why it worked.

  “What’s amazing is that she’s stuck with me all this time.” He laughed. “How does one o’clock at the Argentinian sound?”

  “Perfect. See you then.”

  “Angie Nolan’s social worker was employed by a company called The Homestead,” said Jenny. “It’s a children’s charity based out of Woking.”

  A slither of ice slid down his back. “That was the name on the flyer Tessa Parvin brought home.”

  Heads bobbed up.

  “It’s the same one Chrissy Macdonald called,” said Evan quietly.

  “Holy crap, Rob.” Jo stopped typing. “What was his name again?”

  “Paul Daley,” supplied Jenny, wide-eyed.

  Jo typed his name into Google. “According to his Linkedin profile, he’s worked for various charities over the last few years as a social worker and a volunteer counsellor.”

  “The Homestead?” asked Rob.

  Jo looked up and nodded. She turned the laptop around so they could see his profile picture. A man about Rob’s age, with wispy brown hair and a kind, open face with dark eyes stared back at them.

  “He could be our man,” whispered Jenny.

  “He wasn’t Anna Dewbury’s social worker,” pointed out Mike. “That was a guy called Alan Simpson.”

  “That was eight years ago,” pointed out Jo.

  “Mike, call Alan Simpson and ask him if he knows Paul Daley.”

  Mike nodded and pulled out his phone.

  Adrenalin shot through him. They had a lead. A real one. Something he could take to the Chief Superintendent. But would it be enough to keep Major Crimes off their back?

  The 300g ribeye steak sizzled on the board as it was placed in front of him. Rob’s stomach growled.

  “This looks great. I’m ravenous.”

  His friend laughed. “That’s when you know you’re working too hard, when you forget to eat.”

  He wasn’t wrong there.

  “So, tell me what you’ve got?”

  Rob took a bite and savoured the taste for a moment. It was fantastic. Succulent and cooked to perfection. “It seems several of the victims, if not all of them, were sexually assaulted,” he said, once he’d finished chewing.

  Tony started. “By the killer? That doesn’t sound likely.”

  “No, by a person they trusted. Either their father, stepfather or in one case, an uncle. We’ve also discovered three of the girls sought help via a children's charity or helpline. That’s the only link we can find between them.”

  Tony paused for a moment as he ate his steak. Rob could see his brain ticking over. He let him think while he finished his own meal.

  Finally, Tony said, “It makes perfect sense.”

  “It does?”

  “Absolutely. We already know your killer must have had a violent childhood or witnessed extreme violence at some point in his formative years. What if that was sexual abuse? Maybe he suffered at the hands of an abuser, or he watched someone close to him suffer. A sibling or a parent. Think about it. He knows what it’s like. He empathises to the point where he wants to save these girls, protect them.”

  “By killing them?” Rob stared at his friend, his fork poised in the air.

  “In his mind, yes. If he can’t stop the abuse, he might view death as the preferable option.”

  “Jesus.”

  Rob put his knife and fork down. In a weird, fucked-up way, what Tony said made sense.

  “Especially if there’s a religious angle,” continued the profiler. “He might even see the killings as merciful, a mission from God.”

  Rob felt his stomach churn. “That’s messed up.”

  “Indeed, but then so many of these people are. Most serial offenders feel their actions are justified in some way or another. Ridding the world of sex workers, hatred towards women, homosexuals or other marginalised groups, revenge…”

  Rob knew all about that last one.

  “It’s misplaced rage, fuelled by a dysfunctional upbringing. Sometimes there’s mental health issues too, which don’t help. Paranoid schizophrenia, PTSD. But in this case, I’d say your killer is in complete control of his emotions. He strikes me as a thorough, meticulous man, possibly with an obsessive-compulsive disorder.”

  “Why OCD?” Rob wanted to know.

  “The way the bodies were posed. All exactly the same. Precise. Blue hair clips.”

  “What do you think the hair clips mean?” he asked.

  Tony smiled. “I’m glad you asked that. I think the person he watched suffer wore them. With every girl he “saves”, he’s recreating that first kill.”

  Rob shuddered.

  “They like to relive the experience,” Tony told him. “I’ll bet he goes back to the burial site often. He probably keeps souvenirs or trinkets from his victims too. Things to remind him of their final moments.”

  “That’s sick.” Rob knew serial offenders often took mementos of their crimes, but to hear it put like that made his skin crawl.

  Tony met his gaze across the table.

  “Welcome to the mind of a serial killer.”

  49

  “Thank God! Now that’s what I want to hear.”

  DCS Lawrence beamed at him from across the desk. “Great work, Rob, and to your team too. We finally have a suspect.”

  “We’re still trying to tie him to the murders,” Rob pointed out. He didn’t want to give the Chief Superintendent false hope, but at the same time, he needed to give him something to feed to Major Crimes. “But as soon as we do, we’ll bring him in for questioning.”

  “Excellent. Now I know it’s premature, but the public wants to hear we’re making progress. There’s been so much in the media lately about these girls, including the one we’ve yet to identify. Did you see that spread in the Times yesterday?”

  Rob shook his head.

  “I need you to give them an update. Make a splash. Tell them you’re following up on a promising line of enquiry and expect to have a suspect in custody in a few days.”

  Rob opened his mouth.

  The DCS held up a finger. “I know what you’re going to say, that it’s premature, but we’re not actually admitting we’ve got the guy. And, it
’ll keep the Commissioner happy.”

  Rob hated the politics in policing.

  “I’ll get DS–”

  “I want you to do it, Rob. The public has faith in you. You’re a hero in their eyes. Take Jo with you. She looks great on camera and it’ll be good to have a woman up there.”

  Rob barely resisted rolling his eyes.

  “I know, I know,” he said, reading Rob correctly. “I hate it too, but it’s just the hoops we have to jump through.”

  “I’ll let Vicky know.” Rob got to his feet.

  The press accumulated on the pavement outside Richmond Police Station, cameras poised, microphones buzzing. The air crackled with anticipation. The SIO was making an announcement, which meant a major development in the investigation.

  Rob, prepped by Vicky and sporting a tie for the first time in over a year, walked purposely out of the front door and came to a halt in front of a podium, behind which stood an enormous array of bristling microphones.

  Jo, immaculate in one of Vicky’s “you never know when you’re going to need them” white, silk blouses, stood a few yards back.

  Lenses snapped and video cameras began rolling.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, good afternoon,” Rob began. “I’m Detective Chief Inspector Rob Miller from Richmond police. I would like to take this opportunity to give you an update on the ongoing investigation into the deaths of Arina Parvin, Rosie Hutton, Elise Mitcham, Chrissy Macdonald, Angie Nolan, Lucy Chang and Anna Dewbury.”

  He glanced up at the blur of expectant faces.

  “I am pleased to inform you that following a recent breakthrough in the case, we are now looking at one individual in connection with these murders.”

  A murmur spread through the group. Frantic clicking. Then an impatient silence.

  “We can’t divulge the individual’s name, for obvious reasons, but we would like to reassure you that we expect to have this person in custody soon. Thank you.”