They were gathered in Alcott’s office, Paget, Tregalles, and the superintendent himself. It was ten past six; the snow was beginning to thicken on the ledge outside the window, but no one had given a thought to going home, listening in silence as Paget recounted what he remembered of the case.
“I find it hard to believe that Mary Carr is behind these killings,” he concluded. “Certainly the voice I heard bore no resemblance to that of the woman I remember. When was she released?”
“Last April,” Tregalles told him. “Apparently she could have been paroled after eight years, but the board asked for a psychiatric evaluation, and she was held back for another couple of years.”
“Which means we probably have a nutcase on our hands,” Alcott observed grimly.
“Even so, she has to have a motive that makes sense to her if not to anyone else, and if something did happen to her daughter while
Mary was in prison, she may have transferred the blame to those who put her there.”
“Was there ever any doubt about her guilt?” asked Alcott.
Paget blew out his cheeks and shrugged. “Everything we had pointed to Mary as the one who killed her husband, but the evidence was all circumstantial, and I can’t say I’m ever very happy about presenting a case based on that alone. But you know how it works: we gather the evidence and present it to the CPS, and they put it under their legal microscopes and decide whether or not to proceed. In this case, they felt the case was strong enough to go ahead.”
Alcott eyed him narrowly. “Tell me this,” he said. “If you’d been on the jury, would you have voted to convict on the evidence?”
“I don’t know. As I say, everything pointed to her guilt, but there was always a bit of a question mark in my mind about what did happen there that night. The one thing that did bother me was how Mary could have killed Carr, then left the house again while the children were still upstairs.”
“Perhaps they knew. Perhaps she coached them—or at least the daughter—to say she’d heard a man in the house.”
“Perhaps,” said Paget neutrally as he turned to Tregalles. “Do we have anything on the children?” he asked. “Anything on where they are now or what happened to them? The one thing I do remember about Mary Carr is that she seemed to be far more concerned about their fate—especially that of Gillanne—than she was about herself. She wanted them to go to their grandmother, but there was some reason why that couldn’t be done; the grandmother was ill or something, so they were sent to a foster home. I don’t remember the details, but I do remember Mary was most upset when she found out what had happened to them.”
“I don’t have anything,” Tregalles said, “but I can check to see if the Met has anything on them.”
Paget nodded. “Especially Michael. If we are dealing with Mary Carr, she had an accomplice, and that could be Michael. But no matter
who it is, the sooner we find Mary, the better, and one of the first things we must do is contact Dr. Braun and Lionel Driscoll and ask them to dig up everything they have on the case. Also, Theresa White may be able to help us, because one of the things she mentioned when I spoke to her was that she had worked in Holloway for several years, which may prove to be the connection there. So tomorrow, we should—”
But Alcott cut him off with an impatient wave of the hand. “We will take care of it tomorrow,” he said firmly. “You are still on sick leave, and you wouldn’t be here now if it weren’t for the fact that we needed your input. For which,” he continued as Paget started to protest, “we are very grateful. But this is not your case, so the sooner you go back home and get some proper rest, the sooner you’ll be back to work. In the meantime, we—”
The phone rang. He glanced at the time and scowled as he scooped it up. “Alcott,” he said tersely. He listened for a couple of moments, then said, “He’s here now, as it happens, but he is still on sick leave, so … Yes, I do understand, but it’s not …”
Alcott looked grim as he placed the palm of his hand over the transmitter.
“It’s Superintendent Bellamy,” he told Paget. “Since you were directly involved in the Mary Carr case, he wants you to come to London to assist with the investigation. Personally, I don’t think you should go. You’ve been pushing yourself too hard already, and your doctor—”
“My doctor told me I could do whatever I felt comfortable doing,” Paget interjected, “and I think you will agree I’ve managed to cope so far. I’ll admit I’m not completely up to par, but if it will help in any way, I’m quite prepared to go.”
Alcott eyed him for a long moment, then sighed resignedly. Even as he had warned Paget to stay home and rest, he’d known very well that the DCI would not be content to stay there. So why not give in gracefully, give the man his blessing and be done with it? Besides, it
wouldn’t hurt to have someone in the Met indebted to him, someone with a bit of pull like Bellamy. You never knew when you might want a favour in return.
He put the telephone to his ear. “He’ll be there,” he told the superintendent. “I’ll put him on, and you can tell him where and when.”
Someone had tipped off the press, and despite the cautious wording of the official press release the following morning, the headlines came out screaming: SLASHER TERRORIZES COUNTRY, WOMEN STALKED BY SERIAL KILLER, RAZOR RAMPAGE, and more.
Superintendent Bellamy went on national television at noon to assure everyone that the police had matters well in hand, that there was no danger to the general public, and he was confident that an early arrest would be made. He answered questions in measured tones, and made sure the cameras did not see his fingers crossed beneath the table.
Although he’d allowed himself ample time, it was midafternoon by the time Paget arrived in London. He had turned south at Burford after hearing reports of mile-long tailbacks on the M40 due to fog, but between patches of wet snow and ice-slick hills around Wantage, he’d made no better time. And when at last he managed to make his way over to the M4, the traffic was so heavy he began to wonder if the entire population of the West Country had decided to migrate to London.
He reported to Superintendent Bellamy at his office in Scotland Yard, where the superintendent greeted him by looking at his watch and saying, “You cut it a bit fine, I must say, Paget. The others are already here, so the sooner we get on with it, the better.”
“The others?” Paget queried.
“Dr. Braun, Driscoll, and Dr. White. They’re waiting for us in the conference room. I have the court records of the trial of Mary Carr,
but not her prison records or progress reports. They should be here later on today. Between us, I’m hoping we can work up some sort of profile that will help us find her. Do you have any ideas?”
“Just one thing. Do you have anything on the whereabouts of the children? Michael would be about twenty-four or -five by now, and Gillanne would be a year younger.”
“No. Anything else before we go in?”
“Just that I think we should warn anyone else who might have been involved in Mary Carr’s conviction. Driscoll was leading the defence, but what about her solicitor, and whoever it was that led the prosecution?”
“Gordon Billingsley was her solicitor. He’d done quite a bit of work for the printing firm over the years, and was a good friend of her first husband, Trevor Lawrence. He still works out of the same office in Finchley Road. He’s been contacted, but says he hasn’t heard from Mrs. Carr, and isn’t particularly worried. He says he always got on well with her, and can’t believe that she’s behind the killings.”
Paget grimaced. “I’d have been inclined to say the same thing about her until recently,” he said.
“Brendan Carrington, QC, led the prosecution,” Bellamy continued. “Died three years ago. I don’t see any danger there, but the family has been warned just in case.”
“What about Mary’s relatives?” asked Paget. “We might get a lead through them. I believe her mother lives somewhere in North London, at least she did then, and there may be others.”
“Golders Green,” Bellamy confirmed. “A Mrs. Edith Chambers. DI Wallace is out there now. Perhaps he’ll get lucky and find Mary Carr out there, but I’m not counting on it.”
Edith Chambers looked older than her seventy-five years. Her hair was white and her face deeply lined, and her skin was dry and yellowed like the colour of ancient parchment. She looked and sounded frail, but DI Wallace detected a stubborn streak beneath the surface.
While others searched the small house for anything that might lead them to her daughter, Mrs. Chambers sat quietly beside the electric fire, seemingly detached from the activity around her.
Wallace leaned forward in his chair. “Look, Mrs. Chambers,” he said earnestly, “we know that Mary spent several days here with you when she came out. We also know that you withdrew six thousand pounds from your account three days after Mary’s release. Did you give that money to Mary?”
“So what if I did?” the woman said defiantly. “It was my money; I can do what I like with it. After all she’s been through, she needed it to get a fresh start.”
“And what sort of start would that be, Mrs. Chambers?”
The woman sighed heavily. “Not that it’s any of your business, but an old friend of hers offered her a job when she came out. She’s got a little shop up north somewhere. Sheffield or Leeds, I don’t remember exactly, and she told Mary that if she could bring a bit of money into the business, she’d expand the shop and Mary could come to work as a partner.”
“What’s the name of this friend?”
“I don’t know,” the woman said irritably. “She did tell me, but my memory’s that poor since my husband died and I’ve been living on my own. I can’t remember things like I used to.”
“What kind of shop?”
“Hairdressing salon. One of them unisex places. Not that she should have to start all over again at her age, but she had to sell her shops to pay the lawyers. She still had her share of the print shop, but it went bankrupt six years ago, and she was left with nothing.”
“When did you last hear from her?”
“She’s been very busy, I expect,” the woman hedged. “I mean, it stands to reason. There’ll be work to do on the shop, and she’ll need time to get her hand in again. She’ll ring when she’s ready.”
“Are you telling me she hasn’t contacted you since last April? Not even a letter or phone call?”
Edith Chambers lifted her chin. “Like I said, she’ll ring when she’s ready.”
Wallace shook his head. “Frankly, Mrs. Chambers, I have trouble believing that. You say you loaned her a substantial sum of money to help her get started again, and yet she’s never so much as spoken to you since then? Nobody is that busy. Now tell me, where is Mary, really? We have to talk to her.”
“So’s you can put her back inside? That’s all you want, isn’t it? Don’t you think you’ve done enough? She’s done her time, and paid dearly for something she didn’t do, so leave the girl alone.”
A constable entered the room. “Excuse me, sir,” he said, “but I think you might like to see this.” He held up a clear plastic bag with what looked like letters inside.
“No! No! You’ve no right! They’re mine!” Mrs. Chambers protested as she pushed herself out of her chair and started forward. But Wallace was there before her.
“Where did you find these?” he asked.
“Hidden beneath some underwear at the bottom of a drawer in the bedroom. They appear to be letters from Mrs. Carr to her mother. There are seven of them, and one of them was posted in Poole, September eighth. Right next door, you might say, to Bournemouth, where Penny Crofton was killed September tenth.”
“You leave them be. They’re mine!” the woman cried again as she tried to snatch the letters, but Wallace easily fended her off. “Leeds, eh?” he said. “Or maybe Sheffield? I think you’d better get your coat, Mrs. Chambers. My super’s going to want to have a chat with you.”
Superintendent Bellamy sat at the head of a long rectangular table. He was fiftyish, narrow-faced and lean; his deep-set eyes reminded Paget of a watchful bird as he looked at each of them in turn.
Seated on the superintendent’s left was Dr. Braun, crisp and
businesslike in tweeds, plain white blouse, dark stockings, and sensible shoes. A slim leather pouch lay on the table in front of her. Next to her was Lionel Driscoll in his dark blue business suit, still looking slightly red in the face after lugging a heavy briefcase up the stairs—his one and only concession of the day to his doctor’s advice to get more exercise.
Paget sat on Bellamy’s right, and next to him was Theresa White. Short and heavyset, she wore an oatmeal-coloured pullover, dark brown corduroy trousers, and thick-soled boots.
She spoke now with bitterness. “The woman should never have been let out onto the streets,” she said flatly. “I found Mary Carr to be one of the most recalcitrant people I’ve ever had to deal with. Stubborn, sullen, hard to handle. She showed no remorse for what she’d done, and flatly refused to accept responsibility for her crime. Right to the very last she maintained that someone else had killed her husband, and she’d been imprisoned falsely. And that was what I told the parole board on both occasions when her application came up. I told them I believed she was mentally unstable, and couldn’t be trusted. I managed to persuade them to have her sent for psychiatric assessment the first time round, but not the second. Mary could be very cunning, and she managed to fool them all the second time, and what with a favourable psychiatrist’s report, and playing on the sympathies of some of the bleeding hearts on the board with that voice of hers, she persuaded them to let her go, and it was my Gerald who paid the price.”
“That voice of hers?” said Paget sharply. “What do you mean by that, exactly, Doctor? I don’t recall your mentioning that when we spoke a few days ago.”
“I had no reason to, did I, Chief Inspector? We didn’t know at that time that it was Mary behind these killings, did we? You asked me about a telephone call, and I told you it was a man’s voice. Mary wouldn’t have dared ring me herself, I would have recognized her voice immediately.”
It was true. When Paget had asked her about the phone call, she
had told him she had been extremely distraught at the time, and all she could tell him was that she believed it was a man who called. She had become quite emotional while telling him, and he had not pursued it further.
“How would you describe Mary’s voice?”
“Hoarse and rasping like that of a heavy smoker,” she told him. “Most unpleasant.”
“She certainly didn’t sound like that when I knew her,” he said. “What happened, Doctor?”
“It’s in her record,” she said impatiently. “I should have thought you’d have those details at your fingertips, Chief Inspector.”
“If you mean her prison records,” Bellamy broke in, “we don’t have those yet, so please tell us what you know.”
“Oh, very well,” the doctor said, and sighed resignedly. “It happened when she tried to hang herself after her daughter committed suicide. I wasn’t there then, of course, but I’ve read my predecessor’s notes. Personally, knowing Mary, I doubt if she really meant to kill herself at all. I think it was just another pathetic attempt to gain sympathy. Pity she didn’t complete the job, if you ask me. At least my son would be alive.”
One corner of Theresa White’s mouth lifted upward in a twisted smile. “Broke her larynx doing it, though, and she never could talk properly again.”
Paget was staring in stunned amazement at this bitter woman. A dozen questions crowded into his mind, but all he could say was, “Gillanne committed suicide? When was this, Doctor?”
“About six weeks after her mother was sent down. But you must have known. You were the arresting officer. I don’t see how it could have escaped your attention.”
Paget cast his mind back, conscious of everyone’s eyes upon him as they waited for an explanation. Six weeks after … Suddenly it was clear why he had never known of Gillanne’s suicide.
He turned to Bellamy. “That was the time of the IRA bombing in the West End,” he said. “If you recall, every available officer was
brought in to aid in the search. I was one of them, and I had nothing to do with the case from that point on. My assignment went on for weeks, twelve to sixteen hours a day, and when it was over, I was transferred to Brompton to fill a vacancy there.”
Superintendent Bellamy turned to Krista Braun. “What was your assessment of Mrs. Carr at the time of her trial, Doctor?”
The doctor put on her reading glasses and picked up a single sheet of paper. “I must admit I don’t remember the woman well at all,” she said, “but I was reminded of two things when I was going through my notes: first, she steadfastly maintained that she was innocent of any crime, and second, she was more worried about what was going to happen to her children, especially her daughter, than she was about her own fate. I had three sessions with her in all, but by the time we started the third session, she had become so despondent and unresponsive that it was hard to get a straight answer from her. In fact, at one point she accused me of being part of a conspiracy to ‘fit her up’ for the murder of her husband, as she put it, and told me to go to hell. I recommended a psychiatric evaluation at that time, but it was never acted upon to the best of my knowledge.”
Krista Braun took off her glasses and set the paper on the table. “I would have liked to spend more time with her, but there were other pressures, and it wasn’t possible, I’m afraid.”
“Thank you, Doctor.” Bellamy turned to Driscoll, who was nodding. “What can you tell us about Mary Carr, Mr. Driscoll?”
The man smiled grimly as he pulled a file from his briefcase and opened it. “Interesting,” he observed, glancing at Braun, “because Mary Carr said much the same thing to me. She accused me of being on the side of the police, but when I asked her if she wanted someone else to defend her, she said there wasn’t any point, since we were all against her. And I can confirm what Dr. Braun said about the children. I don’t know how many times we would be in the middle of a discussion when she would suddenly break off and say, ‘Gillanne. Where is she? I want to see Gillanne. We’re a family; we should be together.’”
“She didn’t mention Michael?” Paget asked.
“She did, but it was always my impression that it was her daughter she was most concerned about.”
He set the file aside and looked around the table. “I had several sessions with the girl before the trial, because I wanted to be certain in my own mind that her testimony would stand up to cross-examination. She was just a little slip of a thing, but fiercely protective of her mother, and I had a hard time convincing her that all we wanted from her was the simple truth and nothing more. Which was, of course, that she had heard a man enter the house that night.”
Driscoll said, “She did well at first, but when Carrington challenged her on what she claimed to have heard, she began to embellish the story, and it became clear to everyone that the girl would say anything if she thought it might save her mother. I knew then that we’d lost the case, and I think she realized that as well.”
It’s your fault Gillanne is dead! Yours and all the others.
Paget shivered. It was as if an icy finger had touched his spine. There could be little doubt now that it had been Mary Carr who had tried to kill him, blaming him and the others for her daughter’s death.
“You must have known of Gillanne’s suicide,” he said to Driscoll.
“Oh, yes. The girl left a note saying that she had told the truth at the trial; that there was a man in the house, and her mother was innocent. I launched an appeal based on it, but the appeal was denied, I’m afraid.”
“On what grounds?”
“The court was sympathetic, but said the girl’s statement was disjointed and rambling, and simply restated what she had said at the trial, and that testimony had been discredited.”
“Tell me, sir, how did Gillanne die?”
A shadow darkened Driscoll’s face. “She returned to her mother’s house and slashed her wrists. She wasn’t found for several days.”
“I don’t know where Mary is, and even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you,” Edith Chambers said defiantly. “Not after what you did to her.”
“We have to find her,” Bellamy insisted. “You can see for yourself what she did to Chief Inspector Paget, and there have been others—one a very young woman just starting out in life. She didn’t deserve to die simply because her grandfather was the judge at Mary’s trial.”
Edith Chambers flicked a glance at the raw scar on Paget’s throat, now exposed for all to see. It had been Bellamy’s idea to leave the covering off. Her eyes slid away, but her mouth remained set in a stubborn line.
Paget said, “I didn’t understand what your daughter was saying at the time, Mrs. Chambers, but I realize now that she was telling me it was my fault that Gillanne died. Tell me about Gillanne and her brother. What happened to them after Mary went to prison? There was some reason why they couldn’t stay with you, wasn’t there?”
Edith Chambers looked down at her hands. She remained silent for a long time, then slowly lifted her eyes to meet Paget’s own. Her thin lips quivered, and a tear rolled down her cheek.
“I wanted to have them,” she said, “but they wouldn’t let me. I tried; I really did try. I pleaded with them, but they wouldn’t listen. Took both kids away, they did. Then Dad got worse, and I had to look after him; there was no one else, no one to help. Later, Gilly ran away from the home and came round to help. She loved her gramps, and she wanted to stay, but they came and took her back again, and it didn’t matter what I said or anyone else said, they knew best.”
She took a proffered tissue from Bellamy and wiped her eyes.
More to clarify the record than because there was any doubt in his mind, Bellamy asked, “Who knew best, Mrs. Chambers?”
“The social people.” She sat forward in her chair. “See, Dad had lung cancer, and it was only a matter of time before he died. He didn’t want to be stuck in hospital when his time came, so I was
looking after him at home. It was a full-time job, I can tell you, ’specially near the end, but I didn’t mind. Neither did the kids. Gilly and Michael would have been glad to help, but the Social Services wouldn’t have it. They said I was supposed to be looking after the kids, not the other way round, so they were fostered out. Gilly ran away twice and came to me, but they took her back and put her somewhere else so’s I wouldn’t know where she was. They even told me I could be arrested if I didn’t report her if she came again.”
Edith Chambers shook her head sadly. “Poor child. She was at her wits’ end. Her mother was in jail, and there was talk of moving Michael to another home. I’ve never seen a child as upset as she was. She kept saying, ‘I’ve got to do something, Gran, but I don’t know what to do.’ She and her mother were very close, ’specially after Trevor died. Then, of course, Donald came along and things were a bit different then.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, they just are, aren’t they? Not that it made any real difference. Donald was a lovely man. Oh, I know what they said about him and that tart in court, but she was just out for what she could get. Splashed all over the papers; made a bit of money out of it, and then she was off after someone else, I shouldn’t wonder. Thought the world of the children, Donald did.”
“What did they think of him?” Paget asked. “Coming in to take their father’s place.”
Mrs. Chambers made a face. “Gilly wasn’t all that keen at first, of course. She’d had her mum all to herself for a good while, but she soon got over it. She was a sensible girl.” Her eyes misted over as she looked from Paget to Bellamy and back again, and when she spoke again, her voice was pitched so low they had to strain to hear. “I still wake up in the night and hear her screaming as they dragged her away that first time. Screaming for me to do something. Anything. But what could I do? I was exhausted, what with looking after Dad and everything.”
She fell silent. The tape whispered on, and when she spoke
again, her voice was flat and toneless. “The last time I saw her, alive, was the day of Dad’s funeral. Somehow or other the kids knew, and they both turned up at the house. But the police came round looking for them. Gillanne managed to get away, but they took Michael. Accused me of hiding Gillanne, but I hadn’t.
“Took ’em three days to find her. Back at the house where she grew up. It had been locked up after the police were finished with it, and Mary’s solicitor had the key. But Gilly knew where the spare was, and she went in the back door and locked it behind her. She went upstairs and took out the box of things that belonged to her dad—her real dad, Trevor—things Mary had saved. She found his razor. She must have known it was there.”
Edith Chambers raised her eyes to look beyond the room to a distant time, a distant place. “He always used a straight razor, Trevor did. Real ivory handle, carved with his initials on it. They said Gilly went upstairs to the bathroom, got undressed, laid her clothes all neat and tidy in a pile, then tried to cut her throat. They said there were marks where she’d tried, but when that didn’t work, she ran the bath, then got in and cut both her wrists. First I knew of it was when the police came round and said they wanted me to identify the body. Nice as pie, they were then, of course.” Her eyes hardened. “Bastards!”