by BL Pearce
What a crock of shit. He only hoped the Commissioner bought it.
Placing his folder under his arm, he walked back into the police station, Jo at his side.
“That was a waste of a perfectly good silk blouse,” she murmured, as they pushed their way through the revolving doors. “And I take offense at being the token female.”
“Bloody politics,” he grumbled, heading straight for the stairs. “But if it gets the press, the Commissioner and Major Crimes off our back, it’ll be worth it.”
She sighed. “I suppose you have a point. Let’s just hope we haven’t raised expectations unrealistically. We don’t know anything about this guy, yet.”
“Well, we’ve given him fair warning we’re coming for him.”
The Shepherd stared at the television. Where had he seen that woman before? There was something about her confident glare, cocky walk. Usually he was good with faces, but he couldn’t place her. It wasn’t recent, he knew that much. She was a figure from his past. From long ago.
He wasn’t bothered by what DCI Miller had said. The man was an idiot. He might look like he knew what he was doing, but they were way off the mark on this one. There was nothing linking the girls back to him. No DNA. No witnesses. No trail. He’d made sure of that. They hadn’t even questioned him.
In custody soon. What a joke.
“I hope they catch him,” commented his partner. “A man like that should be locked up.”
He turned around, pasting a smile on his face.
“Couldn’t agree more. The police seem to have it in hand. Shall we go out for dinner this evening or would you rather order a take-away?”
“Do you mind terribly if we order in? I’m knackered.”
She was a primary school teacher in Hammersmith, west London. Before he met her, he had no idea teachers worked so hard. Six weeks off in the summer. How bad could it be?
But the stories she’d told about difficult children, staffing shortages, inadequate facilities. The endless preparation, marking and grading… And for what? Most of her class couldn’t speak English anyway.
They only saw each other a few nights a week. Neither of them had the time for anything more.
“No worries, love. Indian okay?”
“Lovely.”
She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.
That’s it!
She was Rachel’s sister. The tomboy.
Wow, she’d certainly blossomed. A late bloomer. Back in the day she’d been a grubby little thing with messy hair and scrapes on her knees. What was her name again? Something boyish. Jack? Jules? Jo! That was it.
So, little Jo had become a copper. Given what had happened to her sister, perhaps it wasn’t all that surprising. People needed answers. It was a pity she’d never find them.
“I’ll give The Curry Garden a ring,” he said, getting out his phone.
He put Jo out of his mind. He wasn’t interested in her.
She was one of the lucky ones.
50
“Paul Daley is a licenced independent social worker,” said Jenny. “He works for the charity on a part-time basis.”
“In what capacity?” asked Rob.
Jenny swallowed. “His job is to listen and respond to young people who have got in touch via phone, online chat or email. He then offers support for whatever is bothering them, whether it’s bullying, abuse, self-harm or family relationships.”
“Jesus,” hissed Rob.
The rest of them stared at her, horrified. A child-killer in that job. It was unthinkable.
“According to the charity spokesperson, he’s really good with the kids. He’s one of their best counsellors.”
“I’ll bet he is,” muttered Mike, his hands curling into fists on the table. The south Londoner had a jagged scar running along his jawline, but Rob had never asked him where he’d got it.
“That’s not all,” said Jenny.
Could it get any worse?
“He also works as an assessor for child protective services.”
“You’ve got to be kidding?” Rob ran a hand through his hair.
“Nope. He’s the one who decides if the child is at risk, and whether measures need to be put in place to protect them. Often, it involves moving the child to a safe place like a relative’s, and if no one’s available, into care.”
“What do they say about him?” Rob was almost afraid to ask.
“Glowing references,” she said.
“If you think about it, it’s the perfect job for someone like him,” said Jo. “He kills these girls because he thinks he’s saving them from a fate worse than death, quite literally. This way he gets to do it legally, too.”
“But why kill them if he has the power to stop it happening anyway?” asked Jenny.
“Maybe those are the ones he can’t save,” said Rob. “We know Angie Nolan denied everything. Said her father hadn't touched her.”
“I thought her parents were divorced,” said Evan, frowning.
“What about visitation rights? Or even worse, what if she was at her father’s mercy every second weekend?”
“I can’t bear to think about it.” Jenny squeezed her eyes shut.
Even Jo was looking rather pale. “So he takes the fear away,” she whispered.
“Did you get a number for him?” asked Rob.
“Yes, and a home address.”
“Great. Let’s get a warrant for his phone records and tomorrow we’ll pay him a little visit.”
“You’re not going to bring him in?” asked Jo.
“No, not yet. I don’t want to spook him. He’ll just lawyer up and right now we don’t have anything to charge him with. Even if we connect him to all the girls, there’s no evidence he did anything to them.”
“Then, let’s get that evidence,” Jo said, an edge to her voice.
“How are we going to do that?” asked Jenny.
“Firstly, we need to find a link between Daley and Rosie Hutton, Elise Mitcham, Lucy Chang and Anna Dewbury.”
“I can help with that last one.” Evan chose the perfect moment to stride back into the room. “Alan Simpson does know Paul Daley. Daley used to cover for him.”
“Yes!” Rob punched the air.
“Did he cover for him when he was seeing Anna Dewbury?” asked Jo.
“Simpson can’t say for sure, but he might have done. He can’t remember that far back. But they definitely know each other.”
Rob exhaled, slowly. “I think we can assume that’s how he made contact with Anna. He either covered for Simpson or vice versa. He must have been working for child protective services then, since her case was referred to them by the school.”
“Yeah, CPS confirmed that much, but that’s all they would tell me.”
“Okay, good work. Thanks Evan. That leaves Rosie, Elise and Lucy. But that can wait until tomorrow. Let’s go home and get some rest.”
“I want to question Daley,” Jo said when everyone had gone.
There was a long pause.
“Are you sure?”
“Rob, this could be the man who killed my sister. I’ve been waiting my whole life for this moment. Of course, I’m sure.”
There was a determined glint in her eye.
“Can you be impartial?”
“I’m a professional. I know what I have to do.”
“It’ll be different when you’re sitting there facing him. Trust me, I know.” He’d been suspended a few years ago for losing control when apprehending a suspect. Luckily, the review had found in his favour, but he knew first-hand what happened when a case got personal.
“I can control myself.”
“I thought I could too.”
She sighed. “I’ll be fine, Rob. Please. I have to do this. For my sister. I have to know.”
He was silent. Sure, she was a professional, but who wouldn’t be affected when facing their sister’s killer?
“Besides, I might recognise him. He could be Michael Robertson.”
/> “You think he changed his name?”
“I don’t know. He could have. There were too many Michael Robertson’s to go through. Bloody thousands. So, I tried Paul Daley, but I couldn’t find any records for him going back further than fifteen years.”
“That is odd,” agreed Rob.
“According to his Linkedin profile, he studied social work at the University of Hertfordshire and then got a job at a children’s charity based in Watford. He was with them for three years before moving to CPS, also based in north west London.”
“That’s when he met Anna Dewbury,” Rob said.
“Right. There’s no mention of which school he went to, he doesn’t appear to be on social media and he’s not on any sixth form register.”
“Have you checked with the UK Deed Poll Office?”
“Yeah, nothing. If he did change his name, he didn’t do it legally.”
It did sound very much like this could be Michael Robertson.
“Okay, fine,” he said. “You can lead the interview. Let’s catch him early. Say seven o’clock?”
“Yes! Thank you.” She leaned forward and gave him an unexpected kiss.
He slipped an arm around her waist. “Are you coming back to mine tonight?”
She shook her head. “I’d love to, but I haven’t been home yet and I’m desperate for a long hot bath and a change of clothes. Meet you here at six tomorrow? We can drive through together.”
“Sure, sounds great.”
51
The red brick townhouse where Paul Daley lived was just like any other in the street. Ex-council, functional, uninspiring.
As Rob pulled up outside, Jo tried to still her frantic heart. In a few moments she could be face to face with her sister’s killer.
“You okay?” he asked.
She exhaled slowly, pushing the fear aside. It was the moment of truth. “I’m good. Let’s do this.”
They walked up the short path to the front door. It fed four apartments, two on each side.
Rob rang the doorbell. It sounded like a death toll.
Footsteps, then a feminine voice called out, “I’ll get it.”
Jo glanced at Rob. Had they got the right apartment?
It was too late to do anything but say hello, as a woman with a round face and tired eyes opened the door. She was dressed for work in smart, practical clothes and flat shoes. Waitress? Teacher?
“Can I help you?”
Jo took a small step forward. “I’m DCI Maguire and this is DCI Miller from Richmond Police Station. Is Paul Daley in?”
She nodded. “Just a minute, he’s upstairs.”
“Paul! There are two policemen here to see you.” She glanced at Jo. “Sorry, policewoman.”
“And you are?” asked Jo.
“Dessie, Dessie Barton.” She gave an apologetic grimace. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, but I have to dash. I’m late for class.”
They watched as she picked up her bag and an armful of files and carried them out to a car parked further up the road.
“Teacher,” muttered Rob, as the battered blue Ford chugged off towards the school day.
“I’m Paul Daley,” said a voice from within.
They both turned as an older version of the man in the Linkedin profile picture came down the stairs.
Jo’s heart sank. He didn’t look like the Michael Robertson she remembered. That boy had been skinny, nerdy, with big glasses. This guy had a stocky build, a little soft around the edges, with understanding eyes and a full, non-judgemental mouth.
“What can I do for you?” he said.
Jo cleared her voice. “I’m DI Maguire and this is DCI Miller. We understand Angie Nolan was one of your clients?”
He didn’t pretend he didn’t know who she was. “Yes, I read her body had been found on the heath in Bisley. So tragic.”
Jo narrowed her eyes. “Yes, it was. Do you mind if we come in and ask you a few questions? It shouldn’t take long.”
He gestured for them to enter. They followed him into a sparse but clean living room and took a seat on the couch. It creaked under their dual weight.
Daley sat down opposite them.
“When did you last see Angie Nolan.” Jo opened her notepad. It was more for show than because she needed it. She had the questions memorised in her head. She’d been through this interview a thousand times.
Now she was here, in his house, it was different.
Had this man really killed Rachel and all those other girls? It was so… normal. But then what did a serial killer’s house look like?
She pushed the self-doubt aside and waited for an answer.
“Gosh, it was some time ago now.” He scratched his head. “I think my last session with her was October last year.”
“So, just before she disappeared,” said Jo.
“I wouldn’t know.”
Jo looked into his dark, empty eyes and she knew. It was him. She didn’t know how she knew. She just did.
She supressed a shiver. “Could you tell us what your sessions were about?”
“That is confidential information. I’m not sure I’m allowed to talk about it.”
“It would be confidential if she were still alive,” Jo pointed out. “But since Angie is deceased, there’s no reason not to tell us.”
His dark gaze flickered. “Still, I should probably check with my employer.”
“We can wait,” she said evenly.
There was a pause.
“You know what, I’m sure you’re right. The poor thing has been dead a year, what difference does it make now.”
Jo smiled benignly.
“She was referred to me by child protective services. Her teacher had reported she’d become withdrawn of late, wouldn’t engage with others, and there were odd markings on her skin.”
Jo nodded for him to go on, grateful for Rob’s solid, reassuring presence beside her.
“At first, she was reluctant to talk, but her mother encouraged it. I think she was worried her husband was physically abusing her daughter.”
“What then?”
“It turned out that Angie’s father had a filthy temper, and when he mixed that with alcohol, he ended up taking it out on his family.”
Jo shook her head. Empathising. She had to act normally or else he’d know. That she knew. Then he’d clam up.
He leaned forward. “But that wasn’t the worst of it. He’d been forcing himself on Angie too.” His voice hardened. “She was ten years old.”
“Did you report him to the authorities?” His anger surprised her. But she couldn’t fault him for that. She wanted to throttle the man herself.
“I tried to persuade Angie to talk to the police, but she wouldn't. She said if she was questioned, she’d lie. She was terrified of her father.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“I only saw her a couple of times, and then I filed my assessment. I recommended removing Angie to a place of safety, but then her mother got divorced.”
“That’s a good thing, right?”
He settled back in his chair. “You’d think so, but her father was appointed joint custody.”
Rob stiffened beside her.
“She was trapped.” Jo studied him, looking for a spark of malice, a twist of the lips, anything that would indicate the monster he was inside.
He nodded sadly. “There was nothing I could do. The case was closed. In order to re-open it we’d need another referral, which wasn’t forthcoming.”
“Did you see Angie after that?”
“No, but I spoke to her on the phone. I called the house to see how she was getting on and her mother let me speak to her. She answered in monosyllables. I could tell she’d given up. She knew help wasn’t coming.”
“And you just left it at that?” Jo asked. “When you knew she was still being abused?”
He met her gaze. “I did my best. As I’m sure you know, detective, we can’t save them all.”
His words t
urned her cold. Was that a reference to Rachel? Was she imagining things now?
She took a deep, steadying breath, surveying the room as she did so. The shiny coffee table, the out-of-date television, the even older computer standing on a worn desk in the corner. Paul Daley wasn’t materialistic.
“Was that your wife we saw leaving when we arrived?” she asked, conversationally.
He laughed. “No, that was my partner, Dessie. We don’t live together.”
Jo nodded. She opened the file on her lap.
“Do you know any of these girls?” She showed him a photograph of Elise Mitcham.
He shook his head.
She held up Lucy Chang.
Another shake.
Finally, Arina Parvin.
“Should I know them?” he asked.
“They were all found buried in the woods with Angie Nolan. I thought they might be clients of yours?”
“I can’t say I recall those girls, but I have seen a large number of teenagers over the years. It’s possible I did see them, or spoke to them over the phone, and don’t remember.”
“Do you speak to a lot of the children on the phone?” she asked.
“Oh, yes. I volunteer for several child hotlines.”
Jo looked at the desk again and saw a modern, cordless landline resting in its cradle. “You work from home?”
“When I’m not doing house calls or centre visits.”
“Centre visits?”
He smiled patiently. A smile reserved for those who were a bit slow or didn’t understand things the first-time round. “Sometimes teenagers prefer to meet in a neutral space rather than at their home. That’s what the centres are for.”
“Where is it?” asked Jo.
“Woking.”
“Mr Daley, can I ask you where you were on the 15th of November 2018.”
His eyes widened. “I’m afraid I don’t have that good a memory. Do you mind if I consult my diary?”
“Go ahead.”
They watched as he got up and walked over the desk. Opening the top right-hand drawer, he pulled out a leather-bound Filofax.
“Luckily, I write down all my appointments,” he said.
