Discovering that someone had broken into the theatre had come as a dreadful shock. It bent him double, like a kick in the guts. His breath had come out in a gasp of utter-disbelief.
He'd followed his plan. Kept her there, secured, Friday night and Saturday. Until the police had made their checks. He knew they would. Single man, living alone, overlooking the school. He even took his photograph and treasured magazine to the theatre just in case they looked around. You couldn’t be too careful.
A missing girl, they said. He saw them write his name on their forms. 'Hello, David. Have you seen anything? Do you recognise the girl? Were you on Friday evening? Anyone hanging around?' They'd known him for years, ever since he was a kid. Some of them had even bought him drinks in the White Horse. He left the front door open. They could have walked in if they'd wanted to. In fact, one of them, a plain-clothes man, had a quick peep into his front room. He offered them tea, but they declined, satisfied to ask their questions and get on with it. Fools. They hadn’t got a clue. But after watching them at the allotment, then getting back to the theatre, sweaty and excited, what a fright he got. For a moment his heart stopped. Even in his state of panic he realised the photograph was missing. He had to retreat, think about it. Plan again. The sins of the father shall be visited upon the children unto the third and fourth generation. That was it.
Planning, planning, it was giving him a headache. He'd lost the theatre and in his fantasy the theatre had always played a part. The first act. The place his mother loved. A sort of homage. And, of course, the fall of the drop. The drop curtain was the one they lowered before the final act.
Mother always called him an angel. You’re the angel of mercy, she'd say. You’re my little angel. She called him that right up to the last day. He'd brush the few strands of white hair she had left and she'd call him an angel. My little angel. Not just any angel. Archangel. Then, after a little cough, she stopped breathing. Or rather, she didn’t really stop, because the pause between her breaths and become so long, she just never took her next one. He waited for it. But it never came. Just silence. A strange cold silence. It mad him shiver. Then he went slowly to the telephone and called the doctor. He didn’t panic. He was in full control. Even the doctor was surprised.
Highcliffe Girls' Junior School was much more up market than Barnwall. Opted out, so they got preferential treatment. The kids were smart in their mauve blazers and berets. These kids weren’t from the estate. No, sir. They were from the well off end of town. Jews, managers, directors, police chiefs. But the skirts were similar, pleated, grey. There was something about them that was so provocative they sent goose-pimples along his arms. Loose, that was it. They were all loose so that the wind would catch them. Light-grey summer skirts barely covered their knickers, loose enough to flap upwards and get caught in the breeze and flash bits of knickers. And the girls were young enough to forget to keep their knees together. Sometimes they sat on the kerb, waiting for the bus, knees under their chins, white pouches covering their tiny snatches for all to see. Their tight legs were tanned and smooth, athletic, without an ounce of fat. They moved easily, throwing their school bags around, skipping the occasional step as they forgot they were no longer little girls. How old were they? Nine? Ten? These days, who could tell? The school entrance was common to both junior and senior. And the uniforms were identical, just filled out a bit more on the older girls. But they weren’t kids, not in the old-fashioned sense. They were turning it on, attracting the boys. They knew all right.
From his position, just twenty yards from the bus-stop, he watched one girl in particular. He thought of the bony pubis not yet sullied, by hair. Definitely no hair. That wouldn’t do. Hair was full of woodlice and those crab things. Hair was the mark of old women, used and smelly. It was put there to hide the filthy cunt beneath. That’s why young girls didn’t need it. They had nothing to hide. He'd worked it out.
He watched the flow of traffic from the school; teachers retreating, parents picking up the younger kids.
It was time.
Strong white light illuminated the heavy block lettering above the quiet glass entrance: METROPOLITAN POLICE, SHEERHAM, DIVISIONAL AND AREA HEADQUARTERS.
DI Jim Gregory had pulled the night shift, taking over the IR while Baxter and Cole got some sleep. DS Sam Butler noticed his absence during the long early hours. A gut feeling, nothing he could put his finger on, led him down to the car and he motored slowly across to his own address, telling himself throughout the eight-minute drive that he was being foolish and unreasonable. He found DI Gregory in his hall and his wife on the landing. Gregory was peering into the hall mirror, fashioning a Windsor in his blue tie. His wife was forming a bow in the left of her floral-pattered polyester dressing gown.
DI Gregory drove himself to casualty. He needed five stitches on his broken nose. Butler made do with two sticking plasters, one at the side of his eye, the other, a larger one, across the knuckles of his right hand.
A hall window had smashed. A neighbour dialled three nines. Four uniforms, enjoying every minute of it, turned out.
Detective Superintendent Baxter was furious, mostly because he heard about it from John Billingham, his uniformed counterpart, whose chilly sarcasm did not go down well, and because he knew without doubt that Billingham would be giving the full story to the old man as soon as he arrived. Butler was sent home to sort his life out. Gregory was called into the office and left the station half an hour later looking somewhat tense over the wide dressing that covered his nose. There was an unwritten rule - don’t get -caught - and he had broken it. Shagging the wife of a fellow officer was well out of order but shagging her when you were on duty and manning a murder inquiry was something that couldn’t be forgiven. At the very least it meant suspension while disciplinary procedures took their course. Gregory’s career was on the line.
At 08:00, Baxter attended the joint management briefing given by DS Scot and Inspector Knight in the parade room. Even without Gregory’s stupidity, mornings were not his favourite time of the day. He was like a reptile, he supposed. It took some hours of daylight, the warmth of the sun, before his benevolence was stirred. He sat beside a stiff-backed Superintendent Billingham beneath the target criminal board, which showed photographs or names and details of CRO men (men with criminal records) who were not wanted, but who were probably up to no good. Billingham wasn’t happy either, but for different reasons. As far as he was concerned, CID was trespassing again. Marsh’s insistence that they persevered with joint meetings was now beyond a joke. Innovation was one thing, it might look good when he wrote his next article for the Gazette, but the meetings were running into the time when officers should have been on the beat. He listened while the priorities for the day unfolded. Back to the beginning, the estate, the allotments, the victim’s face flashed at everything in sight. Jane West’s photograph was hitting the television again later, along with the usual appeals. A dozen officers were standing by to take any calls. They went over the details that had come back from Huntingdon, confirmation of the fibres and a few prints found on the body. Nothing relevant, at least not yet. Aldermaston had come back with the analysis of the dirt found in the victim’s hair and under her fingernails. The silica was the local stuff widely used in buildings in the area; the lead was something called 206, used in old pipework and protective coverings. There was also a trace of mucor, a phycomycete which includes many common moulds; a class of fungi, a saprophytic whose thallus was a simple protoplasmic mass.
‘What the hell does that mean?' Baxter snapped.
DS Barry Scott, who was standing in for Cole, cleared his throat and said rather coyly, 'It’s a growth of fungi, Guv, that lives in moist warm air and absorbs non-living organic matter rather than being parasitic.’
‘And?’
‘The mould grows in dark places, attaches itself to damp brick and so forth. We could be looking for a cellar or a brick outhouse or garage.’
‘Why didn’t you say that, then?’
Baxter’s mood was even worse than they'd anticipated.
On his way back to the office, Baxter paused at the drinks machine to pick up some plastic coffee.
‘Worst thing ever invented,' he muttered irritably to DC McLintock as she waited in line.
Hazel flashed him a sympathetic smile. She appreciated that he was under pressure. With all the top brass in and out, the flak from the top floor was getting unbearable. The fracas involving Butler and Gregory hadn’t helped.
Baxter spilt some coffee in the corridor and carried the rest into his office. On his desk were the series of SOC photographs. They caught his eye and drew him across. He had studied the pictures a dozen times, but familiarity made no difference to the feeling of revulsion that swept over him. He thought of his own daughter, very nearly the same age, and glanced at her photograph on his desk. He shook his head despairingly.
‘A ritual,' he muttered, as he lifted his drink. Perhaps it was. Steam misted his spectacles, took him by surprise and as he put the plastic cup back on his desk in a hurry, he spilt coffee onto the photographs. 'Damn it! Sodding damn it!’
He took out a tissue and wiped the photographs but some of the emulsion rubbed off, leaving a brown mess. He was only vaguely aware that his door had opened and a figure stood framed in the doorway. He looked up and saw Rick Cole and interpreted the reproving look.
‘You think this is funny?’
Cole raised his hands in mock surrender. 'Who me?’
‘You look like something the cat dragged in.’
‘I was late to bed and I had an early call. Counselling duties.’
‘Sam?’
‘Yes, Sam. You know he’s on the verge of a breakdown, Guv?’
Baxter frowned. Cole wasn’t forthcoming. 'Go on?’
‘I've noticed it for a while. He suspected that something was going on for a few weeks. The pressure’s been building. His close involvement with the Wests tipped the balance. His reaction was out of character.’
‘He doesn’t need you to defend him, Rick. He assaulted a senior officer. No matter what the provocation, there is no defence. That’s official. Unofficially, I'd have belted the bastard, too. Did you know about it?’
Cole drew up a chair. 'I didn’t know about Jim. Frankly, I'm surprised. He always speaks highly of his wife and kids. I wouldn’t have put him in the frame.’
‘Me neither,' Baxter said, and sipped his coffee. 'I want a doctor’s report on Sam before he comes back.’
‘Then we might not see him for a while, and that’s a shame.’
‘Meaning?’
‘In his situation work might be therapeutic. Getting back on the bike after a fall, all that.’
Baxter nodded reluctantly. 'It’s going to make us shorthanded. Gregory’s out of it for the foreseeable future. You’re going to have to pass some work up to me.’
‘That'll make a change, Guv.’
‘You have an endearing quality, Rick. I've only just noticed it.’
‘Most people see it immediately.' Cole placed a brown envelope on the desk and slipped it across.
‘What’s this?’
‘It came in the morning post. I didn’t come in here to discuss staffing problems.’
Baxter gave him a sharp look and picked up the envelope. He had never learned to read Cole at all. Sarcasm, humour, he couldn’t work it out. It left him mildly irritated. Carefully, he withdrew the crumpled black and white photograph.
‘It’s already been dusted. It’s clean.’
‘What’s this?' Baxter adjusted his spectacles. 'Porn?' He turned to over and read the back. 'Carrington?’
‘The old theatre. There was a serious incident there on Saturday night. A tramp was stabbed on the steps. The local nick dealt with it. But that’s not the point, Guv. Notice the girls' uniform, the school uniform?’
Baxter turned the photograph again and studied the picture. Much of the uniform was obscured by the girl’s raised legs, but there was enough for him to recognise. He looked up. 'My God!’
‘Barnwall School. Jane West’s school. That girl looks a couple of years older.’
‘Right, Rick, what’s your plan?’
‘Check out the theatre first. It’s been closed for months. Then a visit to the school.’
‘I agree. For the moment we'll keep it to ourselves.' He tapped the photograph. ’this might just be the break. And by Christ, we need something.’
‘Right. I'll get on with it.’
He watched Cole leave, then tipped the rest of his coffee into the flowerpot on his four-drawer. The spiky cactus was thriving. He gave Cole a few minutes, then followed him into the IR.
DS Barry Scot had a forbidden kettle on the boil. Since the installation of the hated coffee machines they had been banned. A little rule that the chief super had dreamt up. Perhaps he had nothing better to do. Baxter found a mug next to Scot’s filing-cabinet and helped himself to coffee and milk. 'Bloody life-saver, son.’
Scot nodded but remained slightly concerned as he watched Baxter lift the mug. The old man’s habit of leaving a trail of coffee to his door was well known.
DS Scot was a lanky six-footer in his late twenties. Fair hair, clean features, the son every mother wanted.
Cole called to him across the room, 'Barry, you’re with me.’
‘Right, Guv,' Scot said and stood from the desk. He gave Baxter’s wavering mug a final glance, then followed Cole out.
Baxter finished his coffee and turned to DC McLintock. 'Give me a minute, will you, Hazel?’
The others in the room, a mix of DCs and DSs, glanced up curiously and wondered whether DC McLintock was in trouble. Hazel dithered before she reached for her jacket and followed the super from the room.
She had spent the last hour on the screen: records, all insertions to the person, impalements, wounding with spikes, spears, skewers, lances, bayonets, ritual murders, black magic, occult, devil worship. She had run out of ’search' titles. Her eyes were sunken and dark, her head reeling. Before the briefing she had spent half on hour on the collator’s records, informal scraps of information kept on a card index system. The database was accessible to anyone listed on it. That wouldn’t do at all. The information on the cards came from various sources: the National Intelligence Bureau sent the Notification of Convictions, other stations within the division sent messages that might be of interest, and local coppers picked up rumours and gossip. Some information was even lifted from the local rags. It was all there.
In his office, Baxter said, ’sit down a minute.’
Hazel did so, formally, clamping her knees together. The concern stayed on her face.
‘What’s the matter, Hazel? Have you fallen out with the job?’
She frowned, bit her lip and took her time. 'Well, the serious side is getting to be a bit of a joke, isn’t it?’
Baxter knew exactly where she was coming from. Cut-backs. Police murder files were overflowing with unsolved cases. Rates for domestics were cleared up at around eighty per cent, but what were known as ’stranger killings' were way down. The years of Tory rule had left manpower, cash and resources below the critical point. It was going to take years to correct the balance. Now if a crime wasn’t solved in the first few days, it was put at the back of the pile, effectively forgotten. Limits to the number of officers used on a case, the overtime allowed, the mileage allowances and so on, were decided by the existing area budgets before the inquiry had even begun. But there were exceptions, to a degree. And child murder was one of those.
She went on, 'But really, the job’s not changed. Since my transfer it’s gone very well, better than I expected. I've enjoyed it. I actually like my work.’
‘I noticed you in before time. Work isn’t everything. Especially our work. At the end of the day, it’s just a job. You do your work and you walk away.’
‘That’s just it though, Guv. It’s not just a job, is it? It takes over your life.’
‘Only if you let it. There has to be some place you can wind down. It’s essential. Stop me if I'm teaching you to suck eggs. But if you haven’t got somewhere to relax it'll break you.’
Embarrassment replaced the worry and she blushed.
He continued, 'You get hard, cynical. Hard things shatter easily. You've got to stay loose. I'm not prying, God forbid, just offering some fatherly advice. The job is full of knocks, you’re in a no-win situation; you need something to balance it all.’
‘I hear you, Guv.' She thought of Butler and his problems.
As if reading her mind Baxter said, 'I know you've been working closely with Sam recently. I don’t want his situation getting to you, understand? How are thinks on the home front with you?’
She hesitated a moment too long. 'My husband’s away at the moment, on a course. But things are all right.’
She wondered whether he gave the same advice to her male colleagues. She doubted it, but it didn’t trouble her. Her mind turned to DS Butler. He'd been broken, but it had more to do with his wife than the job. Or had it, she wondered? Whatever, she would miss him and their conversations. She glanced at Baxter. The shuffling, overweight super had taken Butler’s place. She felt perfectly safe with him. She enjoyed the Platonism, the total lack of sexual overtones. He was fatherly. She appreciated it.
‘There’s no problem,' she went on. 'But I take it you've been talking to DI Cole?’
‘About what?’
‘We had a talk yesterday.’
From the look on Baxter’s face she knew she'd mistaken. No one could be that good an actor.
‘He didn’t mention it,' Baxter said, seriously. 'He should have done.’
‘Short of taking a drive back to Ipswich Guv, there weren’t many people I could turn to.’
‘I understand.’
‘Is that all, sir?’
‘Yes. But just keep in mind that I'm here, Hazel. You don’t have to keep your problems to yourself. And you don’t have to drive all the way to Ipswich. Contrary to popular opinion, I won’t bite.’
The theatre rose up from the corner of the busy street, sharply outlined against the bright sky. It looked run-down and deserted. Even though the pavements were crowded with shoppers the old stone produced an almost overpowering atmosphere of depression.
They left the car on double yellows and examined the heavy chain that wrapped around the door handles.
Cole said dryly, 'It might have been a good idea to phone the agents.’
‘Maybe there’s a caretaker knocking about. I'll check the back.’
Cole pointed to the wide steps. ’that’s where the stabbing took place. Saturday night.’
‘I heard,' Scot said, casually, and walked off.
Cole examined the area. If here had been blood, it had been hosed away. Or perhaps the heavy rain had taken care of it. He lit a cigarette and gazed at the building cross the road. There must have been plenty of witnesses.
Two minutes later Scot appeared at the corner. ’this way, Guv,' he said breathlessly. 'No caretaker, but there’s a door been forced.’
Cole followed him along a narrow path leading between the theatre side wall and the brick wall of an alley. They arrived at the rear of the building, skirted a pile of junk, and approached the door.
‘Notice the timber, Guv?’
Protruding from old cardboard boxes and bits of old furniture were various lengths of three-by-three timber. One length, about six feet of it, lay near the door.
Cole nodded, his eyes sparkled. 'I would have, if you'd given me enough time.' His light-heartedness had something to do his mounting excitement. He pushed open the door. One end of the bar handle dragged noisily on the floor. Along the length of the long passage sunlight slanted in from the high windows, holding onto a million specks of dust. Their footsteps seemed loud on the bare wooden floor. Cole paused at the first entrance and pointed to another further along the corridor. 'You take the top end. Find a way to the balconies.’
Cole drew back the curtain on the darkened auditorium. There was a bank of light switches just inside, at the side of the stage. He threw them on, four at a time, and watched the room light up block by stuttering block.
‘Well, well,' he muttered, mildly surprised that the electricity was still on.
His gaze took in the rows of dusty chairs, then rose to the intricately carved balconies. He followed the wall around as the roof slanted down towards the stage and rested finally on the heavy curtains. He climbed the steps to the stage.
Scot’s voice carried down from the balcony with a slight echo. 'An empty stage is eerie. There have been a lot of crimes committed on stage.’
‘I take is you mean the story-lines, and not the inept performances?’
‘Yes, I mean the stories; the crime, the cat and mouse, the red herrings, the copper working out who done it, and the butler never did.’
‘If only it was so simple,' Cole said. 'Find anything?’
‘Nothing. It might help if I know what I'm looking for.’
‘Photographs, anything.’
‘That helps.’
Cole moved to the far side of the stage and climbed down. He started along the passage to the dressing-rooms and pushed open the first door.
He moved in and looked around, faintly disappointed. He leant over the half-full bottle of milk and pulled a face. It was some days old and sour. Faded artwork on an old sectioned screen caught his eye. Scot, breathing hard, moved into the doorway.
‘Nothing here,' Cole said and wandered out to the next room. Save for the drink making equipment, it was almost identical. ’there’s no cups,' he muttered. 'Coffee, milk, kettle, but no cups.’
‘I hadn’t noticed, Guv. That’s probably why I'm still a DS.’
Cole shot him a critical look before moving to the third door along. As it opened, a key fell to the floor. He stepped over it and stopped in the doorway.
‘Jesus, this is it,' Scot said from just behind, pointing to the green mattress.
‘Yeah,' Cole said, as he noticed the lengths of masking tape. 'You’re right.' A shiver, an icy finger, caressed the length of his spine and for a moment, just an instant, all he saw was the green door swing open into darkness.
The scene of crime officers moved into the Carrington. Their preliminary report would be made available in time for the evening briefing, but no one was in any doubt that Jane West’s murder took place in the gloomy theatre dressing-room.
Along with Baxter, Cole was asked to update Chief Superintendent Marsh. Afterwards, he left Baxter with the chief. There were rumours that in the past the old man had been an absolute bastard, a stickler for the rule book; insubordination was a capital offence. It had only been PACE - the Police and Criminal Evidence Act 1984 - that had forced him to mellow. Before that, chief supers upwards, and particularly chief constables, held the force in a dictatorial grip; they didn’t need evidence of misconduct and the officer involved was not always fairly represented. A bad chief copper made life hell. Marsh wasn’t bad, but he wasn’t very good either, not when it came to backing his men.
In the IR, Cole picked on DS Barry Scot again. The other wondered if it was favouritsm. 'Get over to Hinckley nick. They dealt with the stabbing on Saturday night. Pull all the details. I want witnesses. If necessary, put our own door-to-door on the flats opposite. Then get across to the hospital and talk to the victim.’
Cole glanced at DC James at his side. 'You go with him,' he said. He turned to DC MCLintock. 'You’re with me, Hazel.’
She was waiting for it, but she held back. She didn’t want to appear too enthusiastic, even though her heart missed a beat. She slowly pushed some papers aside, picked up her bag and slung her jacket across her arm.
In the car, Hazel turned to the DI. 'Baxter saw me.’
He was pleased she'd brought it up. He'd heard about it on the grapevine but hadn’t known how to get around to it. 'What about?’
‘He was worried about me.’
‘He never mentioned it.’
She struggled with her words. 'I thought you'd told him about me turning up last night.’
‘Why should I do that?' he asked, tentatively.
She shrugged. 'It just crossed my mind.’
‘As far as I'm concerned, last night remains between us. You needed to talk. I was there. That’s the end of it.' He glanced across at her, then nodded towards the dashboard. ’there’s an envelope in there. Have a look.’
Her movements were almost formal, as though she was nervous. She reached for the envelope and took out the photograph.
‘I see.' She felt uneasy, even embarrassed. The thought annoyed her.
‘No, I don’t think you do. That arrived in my in-tray this morning. Read the back.’
She flipped it over. ’the Carrington. So this is…Who sent it?’
‘Good question.’
‘I can’t make out the postcode.’
‘Already checked. South-west one. Victoria.’
‘Who is she?’
‘Another good question. The uniform belongs to—’
‘Barnwall School.’
‘Right. How old would you make her?’
Hazel examined the photograph. 'Fourteen, fifteen. It doesn’t look a though she'd being forced into posing, though. But there’s something there. Petulance, insolence.' Her gaze fell to the girls' raised legs and she couldn’t control another slight blush. She slipped the photograph back into the envelope and looked out of the side window, hoping the DI hadn’t noticed. He had, and it tickled him.
Fifteen minutes later they met Betty Baldick, the head teacher of Barnwell School. She was a slim, mid-forties blonde, short and slightly stooped. She wore a flared, brightly patterned dress with shoulder pads and a wide black belt.
While Hazel showed her the top half of the photograph, Cole looked out at the playground. The younger kids were running wild, the long summer holiday still not worn off. The older kids, trying to find a non-conformist look in slightly altered uniforms - skirts too short, trousers too baggy - lolled about the edges in little groups. Some of the older kids were known to him. When he and DC McLintock had walked through the playground they had eyed him suspiciously.
‘Well, now, I don’t recognise the face,' Betty Baldick said, in a business-like tone. 'Are you quite certain it’s recent?' She shook her head in sudden exasperation and glanced up. 'Of course it’s not. Look, the badge. For goodness sake, we haven’t seen a badge like that in years!' Her dark eyes fixed on Cole. 'I think we'd better ask some of the longer-serving members of staff. They might remember her. She’s a very pretty girl.’
‘Good idea,' Cole said.
‘Shall I take the photograph?’
Hazel held it firmly. 'No. If you don’t mind, I'll hold onto it.’
Betty Baldick shrugged. 'Well, follow me. If we hurry, we'll catch most of them in the staff room.’
They got lucky. The science teacher, Keith Graham, vaguely remembered the girl, and turned up an old form photograph to confirm it. It was eight years old. Her name was Helen Klincewicz.
‘That’s a Polish name,' Cole said.
‘I think it is, Graham said, then raised his finger and stabbed the air. 'No, no, tell a lie. I do remember her. She was Irish.’
‘Have you got an address?’
‘Records, Inspector; archives, in the office next door.’
The address was on the other side of the estate and it led them further afield, to Hendon. Helen had married and moved out of the family home five years previously. Cole parked his car in front of a smart detached house and they walked side-by-side up a path winding between rockery to the door.
Helen Klincewicz had changed her name to Guest. She looked puzzled as Cole held out his ID. She was still in her dressing-gown, a spotted towelling robe with a loose belt. She clasped the soft material tightly to her chest.
‘You better come in,' she said, nervously, as she checked the neighbouring drives.
Cole picked up two bottles of semi-skimmed from the step and carried them through behind Hazel. They were led into a spacious hall where a couple of chairs were arranged around a telephone table. Helen Guest let go of the gown to take the bottles and it fell slightly open to reveal she wore nothing beneath. As she carried the bottles into the kitchen her bare feet flapped on the parquet floor.
‘You enjoy the job, don’t you, Guv.' Hazel said, with a touch of sarcasm. She sat down in one of the upright chairs, her back still and formal.
‘Yeah, I enjoy the job,' Cole said. ’sometimes it’s rewarding.’
She came back. She was twenty-three, dark-haired and very attractive, even without make-up. A flash of her green eyes could down a man at twenty yards.
Cole noticed Hazel’s narrow-eyed look.
‘How can I help you?' The Irish accent and a slightly breathless quality gave a tilt to her voice.
Hazel slipped the photograph from the envelope and watched Helen’s eyes widen. Her slender hand flew to her lips.
‘Oh, Jesus,' she said. Embarrassment flared on her cheeks.
Hazel said coldly, ’that is you, isn’t it?’
Behind her hand the woman nodded.
‘Who was the photographer, Mrs Guest?’
Helen shook her head, gripped her gown and shot a glance towards the staircase. She said, 'No, no. Where did you get it?’
‘That doesn’t matter,' Hazel continued.
‘It matters to me.’
‘We’re interested in who took it.’
Helen pointed at the photograph. ’tell me, is that against the law?' She looked at Cole. 'Is it?’
‘No. Mrs Guest, it’s not against any law that I know of. There was a time when it might have been. But nowadays it’s pretty tame. When it was taken, and I'm guessing about eight or nine years ago, then you were probably under age. If that’s the case, then the photographer could be liable to a number of charges, but frankly, that’s not why we’re interested. The photograph was found at the scene of a murder.’
‘Oh Jesus, not the little girl?’
Cole nodded.
Helen’s face lost its colour. 'I'll tell you what I'll do.' She paused, reached out and touched his arm, a gesture that momentarily delighted him, then went on quietly, 'Can I get back to you?’
Cole looked at the stairs, then at the curiosity on Hazel’s face, then nodded.
‘Right. Do you know Sheerham police station?’
‘I do.’
‘I'll expect you at four. Please don’t be late.’
She gave him a quick little nod of gratitude. 'I'll be there,' she said and sighed relief. It emerged like a catch of hot breath. ’thank you for your understanding.’
‘It goes with the job,' he murmured.
Hazel looked on, perplexed.
Helen opened the door and repeated, 'I'll be there. Four o'clock'. Her gaze lingered on the car.
As Hazel walked past, Cole noticed her tight expression. As he climbed into the car Hazel said sternly, 'What was all that about, Guv?’
‘Christ, Hazel, we interrupted her, them, whatever. She wasn’t going to tell us a bloody thing with someone listening in from the top of the stairs. And I doubt very much whether it was her husband or he would have been down.’
Hazel was shocked. She shook her head. 'I didn’t realise,' she uttered.
‘Why would you?' Cole said. 'You were too busy giving her the evil eye.’
‘What’s that suppose to mean?’
‘Nothing, nothing at all.’
He wasn’t going to get into the female competitive bit. Not a chance. But he was still surprised that Hazel hadn’t noticed the glow on Helen’s face, that secret glow of sex. To Cole’s mind, there was nothing more beautiful.
Back at the office, Barry Scot reported that the stabbing victim hadn’t seen his attacker or anyone hanging around the theatre and the doctors had refused him permission to upset the patient with further questions. He was now working down a list of possible witnesses supplied by Hinckley nick. Reports came back from the agents who were dealing with the Carrington. Cost-cutting meant that security was limited to checking the exterior of the building only. The door at the back was only checked once a week. It meant that whoever used the place before the forced entry had a key. The SOCOs had already issued a prelim. Damage to the door was recent, at the best guess no more than sixty hours old, which put it at some time on Saturday night. The rusting process on the bare metal of the broken bar handle, not yet visible to the naked eye, along with mud from the garden and the alley carried into the passage on two sets of shoes, had given them that estimate. The milk was older than that, three or four days, and the dried blood about the same. The blood matched Jane West’s. There was more to come, but he'd have to wait.
Cole issued more instructions. He wanted the security people interviewed, the whereabouts of all keys to the building obtained, and the holders TIED. Fingerprints were numerous; those on the kettle and other recent imports were given priority. So far the results were negative. He spent half an hour updating the HOLMES team before he was called to the front desk. Helen Guest had arrived promptly at four and was causing something of a stir in reception. Cole was still finding the arm of his jacket as he reached the front desk.
Helen Guest wore a pinstripe suite; the skirt was the shortest he'd ever seen. Her crossed legs and the navy-blue high-heel that tapped the air drew eyes like pins to a magnet. Half the uniforms on site had made excuses to talk to Sergeant Mike Collier. Her green eyes lit up a she recognised Cole.
Cole shook a sad head as he glanced from the PCs to the sergeant. Turning to the woman she said, ’there’s an interview room along here. You'll find it a little less crowded.’
One or two of the constables made suggestive noises. Helen Guest knew exactly what was happening and seemed to be enjoying it. She flashed Irish eyes at the watching uniforms and followed Cole along the corridor. The policemen leaned over the desk to get a final glimpse.
Cole closed the door to the small room. Hazel McLintock was already waiting. 'You remember DC McLintock, don’t you? Please have a seat, Mrs Guest.’
‘Call me Helen, please. I'm sorry about this morning.' She looked at Hazel to Cole.
He flicked her a no-problem smile and raised his hand in a throwaway gesture. 'Don’t worry about it.' He tried to clear his mind of the image of her draped in the dressing-gown and went on, ’the photograph.’
Hazel too it out and lay it on the desk.
‘Yes, the photograph. It’s really embarrassing. I never thought I'd see it again. I wish I hadn’t. I was so young.’
‘Can you tell us about it?’
She looked at Hazel, her expression inviting sympathy. 'I was at school, obviously, Fifteen. I did something very stupid.’
‘Go on?' Hazel said.
‘Before he retired, my father was a GP. Dr Klincewicz, from the Richmond Park surgery.’
‘I know it. But your father was before my time. It’s Dr Carter now.’
‘That’s right. Anyway, foolishly, and I have no excuse, I took one of his prescription pads and copied his signature. Then---’
‘You sold them?’
She looked worried. 'Not really sold. More like swaps, really.’
Cole smiled. For what?’
‘A little weed, you know?’
He agreed. 'I know.’
Hazel sighed, irritated. 'And whoever you gave them to filled in drugs like temazepam and other tranquillisers?’
‘Yeah, I suppose he did.' Helen said.
‘Do you know what they use them for?' Hazel pressed, coldly. ’they call them jellies or wobbly eggs and mix them with heroin. ’
‘It was a long time ago. It was a silly thing to do, I know.’
‘So what happened?’
Helen smoothed out her sleeve then raised her hand to the neckline of her jacket, running her fingers slowly up and down. Cole found the movement quite disconcerting. She glanced at him. Her easy smile promised him the world and anything in it.
Sternly, Hazel repeated, ’so what happened, Mrs Guest?’
‘What happened? Yes, I'll tell you what happened. I was nicked, that’s what. One of your lot nicked me outside the school. Someone must have grassed on me.’
‘A uniformed officer?' Cole asked, fidgeting uncomfortably.
‘Yeah, in a car.’
‘A panda.’
‘No, no, it wasn’t a panda. But it was a police car. It had a radio.’
‘Did he arrest you?’
‘Not exactly. We were going to find my parents. He was going to pull my father out of evening surgery.' She paused and lowered her eyes. 'We never got there. I begged him not to. My father would have killed me. He took me over the lakes. You know?’
‘Fairland Lakes?' Hazel confirmed.
‘Yeah.’
‘What happened exactly, Helen?' she asked, a little less severely.
‘He said he wouldn’t touch me. All he wanted was some pictures, like that.’
‘Did he touch you?’
‘No. I'll give him that. He kept his word. He talked dirty, but that was all.’
‘So, he got you to climb in the back and he took pictures. Is that it?’
‘That’s it.’
‘He didn’t touch you?’
‘No. With hindsight that was a surprise.’
Hazel took a deep breath.
Cole cut in. 'Mrs Guest, would you recognise the officer again?’
‘It was a long time ago, but yeah, I think so. He wasn’t your average copper.’
‘Why?’
‘He was very thin, and his features were sallow. I remember thinking that. Coppers are usually well-built and they have more confidence than he did. I can’t see your average copper letting me off so lightly, can you?' Her eyes melted him again. 'It has been my experience with coppers that they like to go all the way.’
Cole tried to suppress a grin.
‘See,' she said to him.' 'You know, don’t you?’
‘I'm sure I don’t, Mrs Guest.’
‘Call me Helen,' she said. 'In fact, you can call me any time.’
Trying to compose himself, Cole said, 'DC McLintock will take you along to records. She'll show you some mug shots. Let’s try and put a face to the uniform.’
Helen glanced at her watch. 'Fine.’
‘Have you ever seen him since?’
She shook her head.
‘What about before the incident?’
‘No, never. I'd have remembered him.’
‘Did you mention it to your school mates?’
‘Some of them, of course.’
‘You never heard of anything like that happening to any of them?’
‘No at all. Listen, this won’t go any further, will it? I mean, I won’t end up in court as a witness?’
Cole shook his head. ’that’s an awfully long way off. Let’s find the man first. Worry about that later.' He turned to Hazel. 'Right, I'll leave her in your capables.’
Hazel nodded and said, curtly, 'If you'd like to follow me, Mrs Guest.’
As Hazel led the woman further along the passage the corridor filled up again. Hazel shook her head in despair and ushered Helen quickly into records.
‘A copper!' Baxter erupted. ’that’s all we need.’
‘She’s spent two hours going through the PITs. If he’s in the job, he’s not at Sheerham.’
‘It could be anywhere. Hinckley’s favourite. Try there, then pass her over to records. Eight years is a long time. Eight years ago my hair was mostly dark. Find him and we've got ourselves a prime suspect. I'm on my way to Marsh. I'll give him the news. He won’t be happy.’
‘I've sent a copy of the photograph to FO. I'm hoping they'll come up with something on the car. With a little luck the back window will be unique.’
Baxter grunted.
‘We've had some more in from the theatre. No trace of lead or damage to brickwork. The crap under her fingernails didn’t come from the Carrington.’
‘So she was some place else first?’
‘Or after. There’s more. No trace of perfume on the mattress and there would have been if she'd been on it.’
The pathologist’s report had mentioned perfume on the body. Lots of it. Its identity remained a mystery.
‘So he snatches her, he takes her to the theatre, then somewhere else, then the allotments?’
‘Maybe. We'll see.’
Baxter nodded slowly, and headed wearily for the stairs.
When Cole applied to join the police force, the medical involved placing his feet on footprints marked on the floor, and touching his toes while three stern members of the examining board, sitting behind a table looked up his bare arse. At the time he thought the procedure was to keep gays out of the job; anyone with a winking arsehole didn’t even get to sit the written examination. Later, he found out that it was part of the indoctrination; people who wouldn’t totally submit to the system were kept out. After he'd been in the job a while he promised himself that he'd never submit to that sort of indignity again.
Cole knocked off late and called on Sam Butler before driving home.
Over a scotch, Buster said, 'Janet’s staying with her mother for a couple of nights. We'll see.’
Cole nodded reflectively. As far as he was concerned, that was a mistake. If they had any chance of a future, then togetherness had to be part of it from the start. The idea of needing time to think was just putting off the inevitable.
Butler changed the subject. 'I've been thinking about Connors and who leaked the information. The whisper came in mid-morning, remember? And who was there at the same time, who came in to say cheerio to Russell?’
‘Gregory.’
‘That’s the man. He left almost immediately.’
‘Forget it, Sam. You’re clutching at straws. It’s not important at the moment. You and Janet are. Anyway, Gregory’s history. The best we can hope for is a transfer.’
Cole spent half an hour with his grounded colleague before motoring home for a restless night going over the day’s events and making mental notes for the next. At one stage he glanced at the telephone and half wished that the DC would phone him again. She'd moved closer. He'd noticed the spark of jealousy in her eye during the interview with Helen Guest and he'd enjoyed it. She was on his mind when he when to sleep and still there when the dawn woke him.
The briefing on Wednesday morning concentrated on SOCO information . In prominent position on the board was the photofit, or rather, the computer image, of Helen Guest’s photographer. The personal identity photographs, the PITs, kept in records, had been a waste of time. A copper, she had said. A uniform. But it was eight years ago and he could have come from any number of districts. But this information regarding the prescription pad indicated local knowledge, and therefore Sheerham nick. Finding him became the main objective. There was still a lot of work to do.
Jane West had been held in the Carrington dressing-room before being moved, tied up, sexually abused and slaughtered. Finding a match on the fingerprints had so far proved fruitless.
Catchem, the national database on sex crimes and killings of girls and young women, had come up with an offender profile. They hadn’t yet been told of Helen Guests’s police connection. Police investigators, especially the older men, treated psychologists' profiles with more than a little disdain. They were just exercises in probabilities and speculation, hardly worth the paper they were written on, and certainly not worth the expense. Baxter was an old-fashioned copper; he hated psychologists with their university degrees and self-importance almost as much as he hated computers. He knew what was coming even before Margaret Domey, the resident police psychologist, stood up with the Catchem report. The killer would have trouble with his mother, the father would be either absent or abused him. His mother might have laid him. He'll be between twenty and forty and be a lorry driver, or a van driver, or a rep - someone with transport. The child-murderer Robert Black had used a van to snatch his little victims: everyone else would so the same. The killer knows the area well, at some stage he lived or worked here. His sex life is inhibited. He wanks himself silly watching porn, in this case, schoolgirl porn. We'll find a stack of it at the back of his wardrobe. He might be disfigured - cross-eyed, acne, scarred, burned - this is his way of getting back. Maybe the young girls laughed at him. It would take them three sheets of A4 to get there, but that’s it. As far as he was concerned, profiles often gave negative value; even though everyone knew they were just an assist, the details remained in the mind, and suspects were sometimes excluded because they didn’t fit.
Margaret Domey knew about Baxter’s reservations and shot him a dark look before she began. She was in her thirties, dressed in a trouser suit, with short hair and little make-up. ’the killer is a resident with a lot of local knowledge. And he must have access to a vehicle.’
Yes, yes, Baxter thought irritably. Do get on with it, woman, and let us get on with the police work. There was something about Domey that put him on edge and raised his shoulders. She had a way of talking down to people in a voice that came straight from her well-stacked, tightly buttoned chest. It seemed to miss her mouth altogether.
She went on, 'He is organised, prepared, precise and systematic. He sticks rigidly to his plan. Even the sexual abuse was almost ritualised, one thing at a time, building in tempo, and this after keeping her alive and feeding her on chocolate and pizza for over two days. So, for two days he barely touched her. And then, once she was dead, he destroyed her sex organs and then bludgeoned her feet until they were unrecognisable.’
Baxter sat a little more upright. What he was hearing wasn’t new. But the way in which Margaret set it out was quite emotionless. He had seen her in action before, but never so controlled.
‘Here, a grotesque fantasy had been played out. He’s imagined it many times, getting off, refining the plan, the selection of victim, the abduction and the attack, and then his manipulation of the authorities, the police, in parading his results. The whole thing from beginning to end has been thoroughly planned. He firmly believes that he is beyond our reach. Getting caught is not a possibility. That means, in all likelihood, that he hasn’t been caught before. He won’t show up on any past offender files. Organised killers like this tend to fall into the older age group, around thirty-five to forty-five. And almost certainly he’s done it before. No one starts with this kind of experienced attack. He’s worked up to it with other, lesser, offences. Jane West was taken in broad daylight, with lots of people around, and yet we have no witnesses. Proof enough of the killer’s efficiency. She was murdered in a systematic way and then hung in a place guaranteed to be found. The sequence of events suggests preparation and practice. It suggests experience in planning and organisation - perhaps through his work. But he won’t be a team member. He’s very definitely a loner.’
She turned over a sheet then glanced again at Baxter. 'How am I doing?’
He was shaken, suddenly embarrassed. A murmur of derision, especially from the uniforms, went around the room. Baxter’s views were well know. He smiled awkwardly and nodded.
She went on, 'We’re looking for someone who lives alone, or with his parents, not married. On the surface he seems intelligent but slightly reticent, especially when dealing with women. He finds it difficult to speak to them. Young girls are different. With them there is no threat; older girls shy away from him, perhaps because if a scar or acne, that sort of thing. With regard to relationships, he is immature. I know my next point will be scoffed at, but indulge me. His family are probably lower-middle-class, and his mother overbearing. His father is a strict disciplinarian and keen to criticise, and has probably rejected him. His humiliation at the hands of his father has led to an almost unbearable desire to dominate. The only things available for him to dominate are the weak and innocent. A lot of his time is spent alone, indulging in his own fantasies. It wouldn’t surprise me to find that he is a church-goer. For him, ritual is important. And there is very definite religious connection. It’s one of Catchem’s major points. The legend of Tammuz, the sacred king sacrificed annually in the temple at Jerusalem. A Jewish month is still named after Tammuz. The chosen victim was generally a holy man who was stripped and impaled between heaven and earth, crucified for the sake of the earth’s fertility. It was a tradition. The surrogate king sacrifice. The cross, the allotment, fertility. Get it?’
Baxter cut in, 'Am I looking for a Manson figure, them? Someone who believes he’s the Messiah?’
Margaret didn’t like being sidetracked. She half turned to address the superintendent.
‘The ritual factors, the virgin, the insertion - for that read impalement - and the body tied to the cross, certainly lend themselves to that idea.' She turned back to the main gathering. ’this is a ritual, not a one off. Mistakes have been ironed out by practice. After the attack his behaviour patterns undergo a change. There might be some anxiety. He would work this off, perhaps in the garden or decorating, or with some other physical activity. The insertion of the dildo, if indeed that’s what it was, and the destruction of her sex organs after she was already dead, was again planned in advance and features in his sick fantasy. The concept of insertion is tied up with male dominance. The bigger the tool used the more dominant the male. We'll probably find that the killer has an abnormally small erect penis. This goes some way to explain his use of a substitute. Two other things. Everything points to the fact that Jane West knew her killer. That she got into his car et cetera without being seen.’
If he was a copper, Baxter thought, getting Jane into the car would have been the easiest thing in the world.
Margaret continued, ’she was selected, certainly, but she knew him. The second thing is the smashing of her feet after she had died. We think that it was not part of the attack. That perhaps he went into a rage when she died before he had finished, picked up a weapon and hit out, crushing her feet. Perhaps the rage was a sudden expression of terrible guilt. It has been suggested that the killer might be crippled, and this final act was in some way a revenge against nature itself, the destruction of something perfect. The final point is that he may have killed before and he'll kill again.’
Baxter’s jaw took up some slack from under the chin. ’so we've got ourselves a serial killer?’
She glanced across and said, tersely, 'Did I say four? You need four bodies before you have a serial.' She collected her papers together and sat down.
Baxter adjusted spectacles and said, 'When? When will he strike again?’
‘You've actually taken notice of me, Superintendent?’
‘Don’t let it go to your head, Margaret, but I always take note of what you say.’
‘There'll be some kind of cycle, conscious or otherwise. If it’s conscious, then it will be to do with the moon, the month, the year, some event, probably some astral, quasi religious event. If it’s unconscious, then it will be after the wind down, and the necessary time to build up again. At that stage he'll start planning, watching speculating. It won’t be days, but it could be weeks, and going by experience, more likely months. Unless something triggers him. There’s always that. But this is no opportunist.’
Baxter nodded thoughtfully. ’so we might be looking for some mad messiah. But why did he lead us to Jane West?’
‘He’s confident,' she replied. 'He’s toying with you. He’s enjoyed watching people from a distance. He’s getting a kick out of it. He’s making it personal.’
‘Watching us?’
‘I'll guarantee it. From an upstairs window or a car or event wandering by on foot. Perhaps he’s got binoculars.' She nodded absently and flicked him a worried smile. 'He'll be watching and enjoying every minute of it.’
Baxter and Cole watched the psychologist’s trim behind as she walked away.
‘Something’s upset her,' Baxter said. 'I don’t think it was me, but with women who can tell?’
‘She didn’t mention it at the briefing, Guv, but she’s not happy.’
‘That much is plain for all to see. I don’t dare think what her problem might be.’
Cole smiled. 'With the case, Guv. She’s not happy with the case.’
‘Not her old man, then?' Baxter grunted.
‘Some of if doesn’t fit. Modus operandi. All that shit. This one’s not following a pattern.’
‘Go on?’
‘Some of the injuries put there after death. It’s almost as if the killer is trying to make it look even worse than it is.’
‘Is that possible, Rick? It already seems pretty fucking nasty to me.’
‘I know, but that’s what concerns Ms Domey. It’s almost as if there’s another motive beside the sex attack and murder.’
‘If, if, if,' Baxter groaned. 'It’s all if, isn’t it? If the profile had come up with an area, say, the houses, overlooking the school, or the allotments, or even the Carrington, then we could consider amass DNA screening. At least we'd be moving. We'd be doing something.’
Cole nodded glumly. 'With each test costing forty-five quid and the present deficit running into millions, the accountants would frown at even a moderate screening. I can’t see the chief standing up to them. There’s a maniac out there killing kids but he hasn’t put the mileage back up yet. It’s still fifty miles a shift. Can you see him standing for a screening programme?’
‘You’re getting cynical, Rick. We've got something in common.’
‘I've been cynical for a long time.’
‘If the worst comes to the worst we could even try a Warwickshire.’
Warwickshire was jargon for the threat of a mass DNA screening when there was no fragment that samples could be tested against. It was a bluff. The idea was that the killer would panic, move out of the area, thereby revealing himself.
Cole knew it was just talk. There were plenty of enquiries still to be made before they started grasping at straws. Baxter was just having a bad day.
Baxter made a contemptuous noise. 'Marsh wants to call in the experts from Bramshill. Coppers, yes, but they've been brainwashed by the psychologists. The place is swarming with them. Bloody deer grazing in the grounds, bowling-green lawns. The place costs a fortune and our mileage allowance has been cut. You know what it amounts to? A holiday, a piss-up for the boys.’
Cole pulled a disbelieving face. 'I've read through Scot’s report on the stabbing, I'm not satisfied. This low-life, Pullin, must have seen something. I think we ought to have another go. I find it quite incredible that a man can park his vehicle, open the doors to the theatre and carry out the girl, wrapped or otherwise, without being seen. It’s not acceptable.’
‘I was thinking along those lines myself.’
‘I'll have a go personally. Scot can carry on with the witnesses. House-to-house in this weather will teach him to do better.’
Baxter saw what DI meant. Sheets of rain pelted at the office window. It was the first rain since the weekend storms.
‘There’s one other thing,' Cole said. ’the mould under the girls fingers. The condition for it to grow - dark, moist, warm air - are found in a heated outhouse of garage, or more likely, a cellar. If it’s a cellar that rules out the estate. The newer houses just don’t have them. Chas is having a look at the town plans, coming up with a list. You never know.’
Baxter nodded thoughtfully. 'I'll be in my office,' he said and shuffled off down the corridor.
Guessed you'd be back,' Pullin said from his hospital bed as he glanced at Cole’s ID. 'Big guns, this time, is it?' He was in a private room.
Cole guessed that the man was in his sixties. His face glowed with the boozer’s blush; patches on his cheeks were chapped and flaky. Long white hair hung in damp clumps from an uneven centre parting. A tube ran from his chest and curled to a container under the bed. He had a temperature, but that wasn’t surprising. The hospital heating was full on. Everybody had a temperature.
‘Mr Pullin, did DS Scot tell you why were showing such an interest in you?’
‘He mentioned that a young girl was imprisoned in the theatre before being murdered. Is that what you mean?’
Cole nodded. 'Living on the steps you must have seen a lot comings and goings. I doubt that much happened that you didn’t notice.’
‘So you’re not interested in who stuck a knife in me, then?’
‘That’s true. I couldn’t give a fuck. If you don’t want to help us on that score then why should we care? That’s unofficial. Officially, we’re speaking to witnesses, but unless you tell us what happened, then we’re wasting our time. The murder of a schoolgirl is a different matter. Surely you can see that?’
Pullin sighed. 'I've been thinking about it. Saw the news on the tele. It’s a terrible thing, all too familiar. They bring a portable in now and again but we have to share it. If you were to slip them a few quid I could have it full time.’
Cole smiled vaguely. 'I'll give it some thought. I went over your interview with DS Scot. You weren’t very helpful.’
‘I wasn’t. That’s true. He looked a nice enough sort but, well, I didn’t care for his attitude. I might be homeless and living rough, I might drink a little too much, and to be honest, I don’t pay any taxes, but that doesn’t mean that I should be treated with any less respect than your average Tory voter. Do we agree on that?’
‘Yes, we do. In fact, I'd give you a lot more respect than I'd give the average Tory voter. Having said that, there aren’t many of them left, are there? But I didn’t come here to discuss politics. You were a school teacher. What made you give it up?’
‘On the contrary, it gave me up. The children, more specifically one boy’s unruly behaviour, made me snap. It didn’t turn me into a child killer, though.’
‘I never thought it did. What happened?’
‘He was disrupting the class for weeks, totally out of control, and I was given absolutely no back-up from either the governors or the head teacher. They were terrified of parent power and complaints. In the end I thumped him, loosened some teeth. Of course, it was all swept under the extensive carpet. The boy stayed. I left.’
‘Would you mind if I checked that story?’
‘I wouldn’t mind at all. Chances are you'll check it whether I do or don’t.’
‘Perhaps you'd give the details to the PC, later. Getting back to the present, did you ever go inside the theatre?’
‘No. Not even when it was a theatre.’
‘You didn’t shelter when the weather got bad?’
‘I said, no. Watch my lips if you have a problem with that.’
‘Did you ever notice the security checks?’
‘Some. If you can call then checks. They tried the front door, kicked my gear off the steps, and sometimes me, too, and left. Is that security?’
‘When was the last one?’
‘They turned up about once a week on average. I couldn’t be specific about the day. On the streets one day is pretty much like another. You tend to lose touch with time.’
‘Did they ever go down the side of the building, by the alley?’
‘I never saw them.’
‘Did you see anyone going that way?’
‘Are you kidding? That, dear boy, is where everyone takes a piss.’
‘So you haven’t seen anything suspicious?’
‘On the street everything is suspicious. But I know what you mean, and the answer is no. I really can’t help you.’
‘On the night you were stabbed someone broke into the theatre. Not the killer, or at least, we don’t think it was the killer. He was using it well before the break-in. We think the killer had a key. But someone else got through the back, and one way to the back is down that alley. Witnesses tell us that a man in his twenties, after doing what he could for you, went after your attacker down the alley. Who helped you?’
‘I don’t know, I'm sorry. I must have passed out. I didn’t see anyone help me.’
‘OK. Like I said, we think the murderer used a key to get into the theatre. Did you see anyone use a key?’
‘I did, some weeks ago. They came in through the front. Cleared me off for over an hour.’
‘Who were they?’
‘The owners, or the agents, I assume. A man and a woman. He was in a suit, very young, a schoolboy really. She was older, dressed like an executive.' He chuckled. ’she didn’t think much of me camping on the doorstep. Promised me the police.’
‘How did they arrive?’
‘In a car. The lad was driving. He parked over the road, on a meter. All the way over, and even on the steps, he was using his mobile. Funny that, I always get the feeling that people are showing off when I see them with a mobile.’
‘So they had a key? Anyone else?’
‘I imagine the security guys did. But I never saw them use it. No. There was no one else that I saw.’
‘From where you camped you wouldn’t see the side door, would you?’
‘The stage door? No, that was well down the road. I wouldn’t see that at all.’
‘That’s it. Thanks for talking to me. I take it you’re still not interested in talking about your injury?’
Cole smiled and left. On his way out he paid for a week’s TV rental, then kicked himself back to the office.
Hazel McLintock met him in the IR, full of enthusiasm. 'Fingerprints have turned up a match. On the kettle. A Jason Hackett. And what’s more, there’s form. Plenty of it.’
Cole rubbed concentration into his forehead, then said, 'I know Hackett. A tealeaf. I sent him down a couple of times. Burglary, yeah, that’s it. I seem to remember we threw in possession at the same time. We turned his place over. Have you got an address?’
‘We had an old address and they gave us the new. Guess where it is?’
‘I don’t like games.’
‘So I've been told. It’s right opposite---’
‘Carrington theatre?’
‘See, you do like them.’
Cole broke into a sudden smile. He punched the air. 'Barry’s already over there doing a house-to-house. Pick him up, Hazel, and go have a look. He'll be glad to get out of the rain. Ask John Knight for a couple of uniforms to back you. And make sure somebody’s got a key!’
The key was what the coppers called the two handed ram that could smash open almost any door.
‘Right sir.’
He liked the sir. It tickled him. He narrowed his eyes slightly, on purpose, and said, 'I'm going to turn the car around and have another word in Mr Pullin’s ear.’
‘The low-life?’
‘You'd be surprised. He’s an ex-teacher, and there but for the odd bottle of Sainsbury’s blended…’
‘It’s a sad world. In any case, you drink Teacher’s.’
‘Talking of which, are we having a drink after?’
‘The White Horse?’
Cole nodded.
‘I'll see you there,' she said.
Pullin paused for an instant too long. He tried to turn it into a grimace, but realised it didn’t wash.
‘So, Jason Hackett helped you out,' Cole said, ’then took off down the alley after your assailant.’
‘Was it Jason? I didn’t recognise him in the dark. It is awfully dark on those steps. He’s not in trouble, is he? I'd hate to think he’s in trouble.’
‘Not that I know of. He might have seen something. I just wanted it confirmed that he was the one that went down the alley on Saturday night. You've just done done that and I'm grateful.’
The old man shook his head. 'I must have done it without moving my lips. It’s quite amazing the number of skills you possess that you’re not even aware of.’
Cole had reached the door when Pullin said, 'If you see Jason, perhaps you'd thank him on my behalf. Meanwhile, I should thank you for the tele. But I won’t. Bollocks to that.’
The policeman turned back and flashed a smile. ’that wouldn’t do at all.’
Pullin nodded and returned the smile. ’that’s what I thought.’
In the White Horse they were given the odd speculative glance from the uniforms, a sort of what-have-we-got-here look, half jealousy, half disapproval. Cole carried the drinks to a table in the corner, as far away from the uniforms as he could get.
Hazel had seen the glances and felt mildly uncomfortable. The last time they had been with DS Butler, at least for part of the time, and that had made it safe, above suspicion. Now tongues would begin to wag. To hell with them, she thought, and lit a cigarette.
‘After tonight, I've got two more days of freedom,' she said,' Nigel comes home on Saturday.’
‘How have you found it?’
She laughed. 'Not a lot different. With the hours I've put in I've barely been home. But I've enjoyed the space, if that’s what you mean.' She exhaled smoke and tapped her ash delicately into an ashtray. 'Ever since he told me he had a place on a course, I looked forward to him going. Can you understand that? I actually wanted to have the house to myself. Making decisions, silly things, like what I watch on TV, or even whether the TV is turned on at all, what time I eat and go to bed. Little things that get lost when you live with someone.’
‘I know.’
‘But somehow it hasn’t worked out. I haven’t missed him, not that, but I don’t seem to have done my own thing. It’s almost as though the week’s been wasted. I need another without a major, when the hours are regular.’
‘Perhaps it’s you that needs to get away.’
‘Maybe you’re right,' she said, softly. He glanced up with a question in her eyes.
‘Go on?’
‘No, it’s not my business.’
‘What isn’t?’
‘I wondered what went wrong with your marriage?’
He sighed. 'Who can answer a question like that?' He paused, then said, lugubriously, 'With hindsight it was probably just another case of marriage fatigue.’
‘Do you still see her?’
‘She moved out of town. I haven’t seen her for a few months.’
Hazel nodded somberly. Another question tightened her lips.
Cole smiled and waited.
‘Listen, Guv, I don’t want to pressure you…’
‘For Christ’s sake, Hazel.’
She gulped a breath and said quickly, 'If all things stay even, I knock off early on Friday. I don’t suppose you'd like to drive out somewhere, have dinner?’
He didn’t hesitate. 'I'd love to. What time?’
‘I finish at four.’
‘OK, if nothing breaks, lets say seven. I'll pick you up.’
Suddenly she felt easier, as though a weight had been removed from her shoulders. She finished her drink and in a flourish said, 'I'll get these. Is that ordinary bitter?’
Cole’s gaze followed her to the bar. He watched the slight movement of her wide hips fighting the tight skirt, and for a moment he was captivated. He saw her eyes in the bar mirror, and saw the speculative look in them. He realised she'd seen him staring and for a moment he felt a little embarrassed. He averted his gaze and looked at the other men in the bar. Some of them stood alone, leaning against the bar over a pint-pot, others were in small, quiet groups. They weren’t all in the job, not by any means. There were a couple of suits, managers, civil servants with nicotine-stained fingers, and a few council workers, some of whom he recognised. He wondered what their day involved; paperwork, finances, decorating or building. Not murder of children, that was for sure. On the other hand, he could have been looking at the killer. Who would know? Most of the killers he'd known or read about showed no obvious signs, nothing strange or psychopathic, no sickness, no different to the average man. Looking at them you'd say most were perfectly normal - they'd help an old lady across the road, cut their grass at the weekend, sit down to Sunday lunch with the family.
Cole sighed.
What he didn’t know was that standing next to Hazel, looking at her through the huger mirror at the back of the bar, was Jane West’s killer.
Police work had led Cole to the altar.
There had been a break-in in the early hours. The house owners had heard the alley door open and gone to investigate. Their shed door had been forced; tools, bicycle and freezer food were either missing or scattered along the alley. He arrived with another PC. While her parents gave them details in the front room, Jenny had made some coffee and carried it in. Even her dressing-gown and without make-up he recognised her. He'd admired her through the windows of the Prudential Building Society where she worked. She responded to his smile. They went out. A year later they were married. A year after that he made CID and she made deputy manager.
Up until then he'd been a copper pounding a North London beat, picking and choosing like they all did. Getting a result was too easy; toms and ponces and dealers, even illegal street traders, were easy game. And if things were quiet you could always visit the parks near the gents' toilets and stamp on the winking arses of the cottaging fraternity. If you didn’t want a mountain of paperwork, looking the other way was an important lesson to learn. You approached them, warned them, gave them an occasional dead leg or a shove in the kidneys, and you let them go. As long as it was off your patch for the rest of the shift. They'd be back tomorrow, then it would start again. You only took it seriously if they started mouthing off or if the skipper was on the warpath.
And the lowlife has wised up too. They didn’t upset you. Only the ethnics made a noise, shouted race while they blew sweet smoke in your face, forced you to take action.
Later, out of uniform, transferred to HQ, he was still on his own. It wasn’t that he was antisocial, just that he found most of his immediate colleagues in CID bigger villains than the people they collared. He didn’t join in, and was given the treatment. When the trouble started, half his colleagues were against his stand because of misplaced loyalty, and the other half through animosity. Even Jenny thought he was making a mistake. 'Walk away from it,' she had said. 'No matter what you do they'll never go down, you know that. 'What’s the point in sticking your neck out?’
She had been right, of course.
There had been a number of resignations, golden hand-shakes, but no successful prosecution. Since then he had wised up. He knew now that you couldn’t beat the old school tie or the thumb-dominated handshake. But in those days he was still a dreamer. He thought he could make a difference. He stuck out his neck; he took on the system. He lost in more ways than one.
By Thursday morning, the theory that a policeman was involved had been all but exhausted. Helen Guest had been through photographs of every officer serving with the Metropolitan, City of London, Thames Valley and Hertfordshire forces. She'd looked at regulars and special constables both past and present. It was a thankless task and even she was beginning to question her own memory.
As Baxter surveyed the stack of files in the incident room - statements, interviews and reports from security, residents, passers-by, allotment holders, Jane West’s friends and teachers, neighbours, relatives, you name it - he knew in his heart that there wouldn’t be a quick result. It was almost a week since Jane had gone missing. Before long, finances would dictate a scaling down of the inquiry.
He called Cole. 'If it’s not a copper, we’re still looking for a uniform: security guards, British Rail for Christ’s sake, fancy dress hire.’
Security, especially the company with the Carrington, had already been carefully examined. But Cole knew what he meant. It was back to the beginning, checking again to find out if they'd missed something. The slightest contradiction. Anything. He couldn’t help feeling that they were being sidetracked by Helen’s information. The photograph, supposedly found at the scene by an unknown person, was certainly damning, but there were too many questions left unanswered. Who found it? Why did he or she post it the police. Why was a photograph taken eight years ago there in the first place? It was almost as if they were being manipulated. That was the word Margaret Domey had used. Manipulation. He’s playing with you, she had said. Perhaps the photograph and the idea that it was taken by a copper was a false lead. If that was the case, then Helen Guest had been misled too. Both Baxter and Cole were sure that Jason Hackett was the key to the inquiry. They could place him at the scene of the crime. He had disappeared. And he had form. Not for sex-related crime, but form nonetheless. For the moment that was quite enough.
Scot’s report about Hackett’s bedsit lay on the nearest pile, waiting for HOLMES to action. The door had been forced, signs of violence, used sticky tape, traces of blood - not Jane West’s - on the bed, spilt milk by the door, and heroin on the carpet by the window. Along with Helen Guest’s policeman, Hackett was a major suspect. Ports, stations and airports were on alert and every one of the forty-three forces in Great Britain was keeping an eye open for his face. Baxter was still undecided about giving it to the media. There was a negative side to posting a face in the papers. It could drive the man underground, take away the possibility of a beat copper turning him up. Still, if they hadn’t found him in the next twenty-fours hours, that would be the next step.
Helen Guest looked at Hackett’s mug-shot and shook her head. ’that’s not him,' she said. 'No way. But the face is familiar. Did he used to hang out? Juggle a little dope?' She glanced up and added quickly, 'Eight years ago, I mean?’
Cole smiled his indifference. ‘When you were off-loading your prescriptions?’
‘Yeah.’
‘If I know anything about him, he still does.’
‘That’s probably where I know him from, then.’
‘So he’s out of the frame?' Baxter muttered.
‘No, he’s not,' Cole insisted. ’there’s too much emphasis being placed on the photograph. Whoever dropped it in the Carrington probably bought the damn thing. A shop, by post, who knows?’
Helen threw up her hands. 'Oh my God,' she said. 'You mean they’re on sale?’
‘No, I don’t mean that. We know sex offenders like to get off on porn. But we’re jumping the gun. This might not have belonged to the killer at all. Hackett’s still very much in the frame.’
‘It’s a bloody big coincidence,' Baxter said. He glanced down at Helen. 'You sure that face doesn’t fit?’
‘That’s not the copper that took my picture.’
He glanced up at Cole again. 'Copper,' he muttered and sighed. ’that’s where we came in.’
Margaret Domey’s telephone rang three times before she set her Parker aside and carefully lifted the receiver.
‘Ms Domey?' she heard.
‘Yes?’
‘Ms Margaret Domey?’
‘Yes?’
‘My name’s Geoff Maynard. I'm from HOPE in Green Park. You might not have heard of us.' His voice was low pitched with a slight northern accent. His name rang a bell. ’the Home Office Psychological Experimental Unit. Somewhere along the line the unit part was dropped.’
‘I read something,' she said. 'A paper.’
‘I looked at the Catchmen report along with your comments regarding the Jane West murder. It’s still on-going I take it?’
‘Yes.' Margaret felt a little defensive.
‘They’re getting pushed through to us on E-mail. We tend to pick and choose. I wonder if I could come up to see you.’
‘What do you have in mind?’
‘Like I said, Margaret - can I call you Margaret?’
‘No problem, Geoff.’
‘We've been working along American lines with regard to profiling, and we’re coming up with some quite different results. At the moment they've been one hundred percent successful. The thing is that the Home Office is quite keen for us to expand, so to speak, and the present inquiry seems right up our street. We've already been given the go ahead, so I suppose, really, this is just a courtesy call, to let you know I'm on my way.’
‘Does the chief know about this?’
‘I understand he’s being informed now.’
‘I see.' She sounded deflated. Baxter was going to love this, she thought.
‘I look forward to meeting you.’
‘Likewise,' she said and put the phone down.
‘Have you heard of an organisation called HOPE?' Chief Superintendent Marsh asked, while Margaret Domey hovered, tight-lipped, in the background.
‘It sounds like some kind of charity,' Baxter snapped, irritated at being called to the top floor from the middle of a brain-storming session.
‘Yes, I suppose it does. It actually stands for Home Office Psychological Experimental Unit. Don’t ask me what the devil it means. One of their chaps, Geoff Maynard, is on his way. We've been asked to accommodate him.’
‘Who’s asked?’
‘Well, my chief has asked me, and his chief has asked him. Enough said?’
Baxter shook his head.
‘We've been given no choice. It’s not a request.’
The shaking continued.
‘Perhaps you'd pass that on. He’s to be given every assistance.’
Baxter shook his head all the way to the door. There he paused and glanced back. 'I'm not happy about this.’
‘That much is obvious,' Marsh said. 'As it happens, I'm not either, and nor is Margaret.’
That upset Baxter even more - the thought that he had something in common with Marsh and Margaret Domey. He closed the door behind him with rather a heavy hand.
Marsh was dismayed by Baxter’s attitude, but he was used to it and shrugged it off, 'What do we have on this Maynard chap?’
Margaret pulled a face. ‘I had a word with Catchem. Jim knows him. He was regarded as exceptionally talented. By the time he was thirty he'd already held top clinical and forensic psychologist posts in Staffordshire and the West Midlands. He moved south two years ago. He wrote a book on cognitive behavioural techniques. Do you want more?’
‘Is there more?’
‘He’s a prominent member of the gay rights movement and until he took over HOPE at the beginning of this year, he was working with section fifty-three kids. You could say he switched from those doing the damage to the damaged. HOPE turned back the clock, put him back on his old trail.’
Mash nodded. 'Well, Margaret, I don’t know how long he’s going to be with us, but I'll leave it to you to ensure he’s looked after. And do try to keep Baxter happy.’
‘With respect, sir, there’s nothing that will keep the super happy. He has made tetchiness an art form. It probably has more to do with itchy haemorrhoids than dissatisfaction with his subordinates or peers. I have no intention of keeping the super happy. It’s not in my job description and, anyway, happiness and the thought of being pleasant would destroy his image. And image is quite important to him. I think he sees himself as Jack Frost, David what’s his name? Del Boy.’
‘Get out of here, Margaret, before you start to get personal. Go and put out the welcome mat.’
She offered him her sweetest smile, which he accepted with the faintest of nods.
Sergeant Mike Collier thought he'd got a piece of low-life at the front desk. He sensed trouble. The man in front of him was confident and his smile a little too knowing.
‘What can I do for you?' he asked.
‘Geoff Maynard. I'm here to see Ms Domey.’
‘Is that right? Take a seat sir. I'll let her know.’
As the man turned to the row of seats the sergeant wondered what his business was with the diminutive psychologist from hell. Ms, he'd said. Not Miss or Mrs. Obviously a Guardian reader. One of the fucked-up liberals who believed in legalised shit and the banning of blood sports. Collier shook his head in exasperation.
He was big-boned, about six one or two, tanned, weathered face, firm chin covered with a grey stubble, greying, short hair, early forties. His eyes were faintly bloodshot and sleepless, brown and warm. They seemed to need spectacles - they had that distant look of the short-sighted. It was the face of a man who'd lived rough, burned too many at both ends, been there, and now wanted to be left alone. There was wisdom, a laid back philosophy, an easiness in both features and movement. He'd come to terms with himself, looked in the mirror and was content with what he saw.
Without so much as an introduction, Baxter felt that he could trust him. The thought was rare and unnerved him, made him feel slightly inadequate.
The man’s clothes were comfortable and worn: faded jeans, wide black belt, checked cotton short rolled up beyond the elbows and hard-wearing brown shoes with thick soles and laces. He wore a gold watch and a dog chain.
He looked like a bloody cowboy, Baxter thought and self-consciously glanced down at his own working clothes - his dark-grey suite and tie, white shirt and polished slip-ons, the uniform that tied him to the system and the establishment, and again he felt a twinge of envy.
Against him, Margaret seemed to have shrunk. ’this is Geoff Maynard from HOPE. Superintendent Tony Baxter. He’s SIO on the inquiry.’
Maynard’s hand moved out. Baxter hesitated for a moment before shaking it and was surprised to find the grip slightly loose.
‘I'm glad to meet you. Is Margaret taking care of you?’
‘Fine, thanks. I'd like to follow the trail from the beginning to end, if that’s all right with you. I don’t want to be gettin' in the way.’
He even sounded like a cowboy. One from the Midlands.
‘The trail?’
‘I'd like to start with the school, then the theatre, then the allotment. I'll come back and work through the files tonight.’
Baxter firmed up his spectacles. 'Whatever, Margaret will take care of it. If you need anything just shout.’
Once they had gone Cole knocked.
‘Did you see him?’
‘Yeah, Guv, I was introduced. Geoff Maynard.’
‘A bloody cowboy.’
Cole grinned. ’the psychologists are taking over. We'll soon be redundant.’
‘That'll be the day.’
‘We've just had a call. The girl’s clothes have been found on the allotment.’
Baxter balled his fist and hit the palm of his other hand. After a moment he said 'How the hell did the search miss them first time around?’
‘It’s not quite like that. They've been hung out, like on a washing-line. In plain view. They weren’t there last night.’
‘Go on?’
‘They were put there to be found this morning. Forensics are on their way.’
Baxter remembered Margaret’s words and said, 'He’s playing with us, Rick. The bastard’s playing with us again. Could it be someone in the job?’
‘Taking us on, you mean?’
That was too equivocal. 'Come again?’
‘An ex-job, or someone who didn’t make the grade, taking us on at our own game. Proving a point.' Cole sighed. 'I don’t think so. My money’s still on Jason Hackett. Find him and we'll wrap it up.’
‘I hope you’re right. I could do without these early morning briefings. So could the wife. When she doesn’t get her eight hours sleep we all suffer.’
Baxter followed Cole back to the IR. At her desk, Hazel McLintock toyed with a pen and watched them enter. She exchanged a quick glance with Cole. The impending date was producing a curious chemistry between them. Scot brought up the rear.
‘The clothes have been confirmed,' he said. ’school uniform, shirt, underwear, socks and shoes, even her bag. Everything but the underwear was put under the row of runner beans. Knickers were tied to the top. On show. Does that mean something?
‘Yeah, absolutely,' Baxter said. 'It means we’re dealing with one sick son of a bitch.’
Friday arrived with a buzz of excitement. Jim Gregory had agreed to a transfer, Sam Butler and his wife agreed to give their marriage another go, the doctor had agreed to pass Butler fit for duty, and the top brass had agreed, for the sake of the job, to sweep the whole thing under the carpet. DS Butler arrived back to the sounds of applause and a nod of approval from Baxter. Before he was shunted into Cole’s office, with Baxter right behind, Hazel gave him the best shot at a welcome home smile.
‘We've basically run out of ideas,' Cole told him. 'HOLMES is still throwing out on-going inquiries and the search for Hackett is being stepped up. His mug-shot hit the papers this morning.’
Butler confirmed, 'I saw it.’
‘Bits and pieces are still coming in from forensics, but basically, the results are disappointing. The labs have come back on tests on the girl’s underwear. There was more than a trace of semen. The bastard had jacked off on it. I'm on my way to the Carrington. Apparently the SOCOs have come up with another entrance. They’re convinced the killer used it to remove the body. He didn’t need a key, after all. You and Hazel can tag along. I'd like you to update yourself.’
Baxter nodded his agreement. He and Cole had already discussed it.
In the theatre’s gloomy dressing-room Margaret Domey was on her stomach on the floor in a chalked position that had once been occupied by the mattress. Her dark trouser-suit had picked up dust on the elbows and knees. The tall rangy figure of Geoff Maynard bent over her. A young uniformed policeman, standing on one side, coughed to tell them they had visitors. Maynard looked over his shoulder at the astonished faces and smiled.
‘Now, this might seem a little odd, but it’s not quite what it seems.' He pointed to the pile of A4 notes on the floor beside him. 'Come on in. It might interest you.’
Cole caught on and let the way. Butler and Hazel were still uncertain. They remained at the door.
Margaret moved beneath him. Her voice was tight as she said, 'Right, so you've buggered me, what’s next?’
‘That rape has caused the drops of blood here and there. Not much, Next, I turn you over and move to a position over your head, facing your feet, pressing your arms here and here. The finger bruises on your arms face that way. My penis goes into your mouth and down your throat. You suffocate.’
She snapped. 'I'll bite it off before I suffocate!’
‘No, you won’t. That’s the whole point. You’re terrified. He’s got that far. All you can think of is to get it out of your throat. Not retaliation. You’re unconscious before you can really think about it. He’s probably not even aware that you’re choking. So now, you’re dead. Stay put.' Maynard moved his legs against her head. ’so, what’s the bruise on the right side of your neck? When did I do that?’
‘You gripped my neck when you raped me?’
‘No, I didn’t. I didn’t have to. You weren’t fighting me then. All the damage came after death. The threat of something, a knife maybe, or death, kept you quiet. No, something was sticking into your neck, perhaps while the oral sex took place.' He shook his head, then said to the uniform. 'You take my place for a moment.’
The uniform looked horrified. 'Not me, pal,' he said.
‘Oh, get on with it,' Maynard snapped. Tiredness had sharpened his mood.
The policeman shrugged and reluctantly bent over Margaret’s head. He was self-conscious and awkward.
‘Move up,' Maynard insisted. You’re supposed to be---’
‘OK. OK.' He moved his knees either side of her head.
Maynard walked around, studying them from every angle. He stopped abruptly. 'Bend lower,' he said. 'Your penis is as far down her throat as it will go. So far, in fact, that I imagine your testicles are blocking her nose.’
The young PC reddened up.
Hazel felt a mixture of nervousness and embarrassment. It was cold and clinical. Maynard was oblivious to the horror. She exchanged a glance with Butler. He seemed to share her worries. She looked across at Cole. His expression was equally firm, but out of interest. He was almost as detached as Maynard.
The PC bent lower. Margaret had to turn her head so that she could breathe. She let out a cry and the PC immediately backed up.
‘Perhaps it was that,' she said, freeing her hand so that she could point to his baton. It was angled away, but the side-handle had caught her.
Maynard said thoughtfully, 'Yes, it’s possible.
‘So’s the end of a milk bottle, if he shoved it in her face,' Cole said, derisively.
Margaret struggled to sit up. She ignored him and looked at Maynard. 'My God,' she uttered, if he used a truncheon instead of these new extended batons, it could easily have pushed into my neck. As he bent lower’
Cole felt a rush of blood a thought came at him from all sides. His earlier depreciation forgotten, he said, ’there was a trace of linseed oil found inside the girl. We thought it might be some kind of lubrication he'd used, but think about it. The bloody truncheon.’
Their gazes moved back to the PC who held up the end of the twenty-two-inch baton, still clipped to his belt.
Cole went on, ’some of the older uniforms still carry the old ones. Some of them are dinosaurs, made of wood.' He glanced from Maynard to Margaret. ’some of them used linseed oil to keep them from splitting.’
The PC shrugged. 'My old man was in the job. He had one of those.’
Cole nodded and turned back to Maynard. The man smiled, not smugly, and said to Margaret, ’so, we’re agreed it might not have been a dildo? Right, back in position. You’re dead. Remember? Now I'm angry. Or am I?’
Cole said, 'Maybe not. Maybe killing her then was your intention.’
‘To save her from suffering, you mean? As Robert Black did?’
Maynard looked mildly surprised and glanced at Margaret. 'You remember Black? He maintained that he didn’t want to hurt the children, so he killed them in order to save them suffering during the assault.’
‘It’s possible.’
‘If it hadn’t been for the way Jane West suffocated, I'd agree with you. Using his penis as a murder weapon would have been a first, and bloody dangerous for him. No, this was accidental. She was supposed to die later.’
‘She didn’t die here,' Cole said.
‘What makes you say that?’
‘It’s in the notes. She'd been bathed, there was soap on her body and shit in her fingernails that wasn’t picked up here. There was perfume on her body that wasn’t on the mattress. Is that enough?’
‘Is there more?’
‘There was one tiny trace of semen on the mattress, perhaps a jerk off. But semen covered the girl from head to toe. There would have been more on the mattress.’
Maynard nodded. 'Didn’t it cross your mind that he might have taken the body some place else after she died? That he still went ahead with his plan even though she'd died on him?’
‘Getting off with the corpse, you mean? Necrophilia? That’s pretty bloody far-fetched, isn’t it?’
‘You think so? Dennis Nilsen kept bodies hidden under his floorboards and brought them out occasionally to keep him company while he watched TV. A woman named Natasha Brauchitsch from the former East Germany dug up the corpse of her husband and used the humerus bone from his arm as an artificial penis.’
‘OK, point taken. There’re some mad bastards about. But since when do dead bodies scratch at brick walls? That’s what she was doing. That’s where she picked up the crap, the lead, the brick, the mould. And that was after leaving here.’
‘I can’t answer that at the moment. But give me time and I will.’
Maynard turned back to Margaret. 'OK. For DI Cole’s benefit we'll make out that we are somewhere else. Same set up, you still die but we've moved. You've died on me too soon. Too soon for what? What else had I got in mind? Nothing, I've done it all. So you dying didn’t matter. Unless I wanted to kill you with the truncheon? I'm going to wait a couple of hours now before taking you to the allotment. I've had two days to anticipate, do whatever I wanted, but I've waited until now, until the last few hours. OK. Now, here comes the curious bit I'm going to put some marks on you. Rope burns. A little more damage. Make it look like you went through even more hell while you were alive. You've already got bruising to the wrists where I tied you up. Now I'm going to put bruises on top of bruises. Why? Am I trying to conceal that I tied you up? No. That’s nonsense. Let’s go ahead.’
He knelt beside Margaret again and went through the motions of tying her wrists. 'Now I tighten the ropes until the skin comes off. Now I take away the ropes. I'm still mad as hell at you for dying. That’s just it, isn’t it? You died. I was supposed to do all this while you were alive. Your death was an accident. Of course it was. When I come back in two or three hours you’re supposed to be alive. Why? I move you, where? Is there a plastic sheet on the floor? Here somewhere? There has to be. I was going to tape up your mouth to keep you quiet. But now I don’t need it. I leave it on the floor. Now, let’s move forward to the allotment. We'll go over there and go through it, but bear with me for a moment. I'm at the allotment. I smash your feet. So many blows. Stringing you to the cross and smashing your feet until they’re unrecognisable, just stumps of meat. Why am I doing this? If I'm so mad at you for dying on me I would have done it at the theatre or wherever. I wouldn’t have waited until now. And why don’t I hit you somewhere else? No, that’s just it. I'm in control or I would have done. I'm not mad. I'm not angry. It’s part of it. You’re dead. But you weren’t supposed to die until now. You were supposed to die on the cross. But I go through with it anyway. I smash your feet and then I insert the truncheon to kill you. That was the idea.' Maynard’s eyes moved back to the PC and down to the baton. He reached out his hand and said,' Gimme.’
The uniform’s frown looked painful He released his baton and handed it across. Maynard smacked it against the palm of his hand then let it fall onto Margaret’s thighs. There was no pressure but she flinched. Fear widened her eyes.
‘Something like this. An old wooden one. You’re hanging on the post. I ram it into your vagina. I destroy your sexual organs. Why? Am I trying to get rid of the evidence? Am I so horrified at what I've done I try to destroy all signs?' He shook his head. ’then I move down and I smash your feet. Or do I smash your feet first? It doesn’t matter. It’s done.’
Maynard inhaled deeply and stood back. The PC helped Margaret to her feet. She began to dust her suit. Cole noticed her slender hands shaking, her wedding ring a golden blur.
She stuttered. ’so? Have I got it right so far?’
Geoff Maynard didn’t acknowledge her distress. 'At first glance you were right. Most people would agree with you.’
Her voice still thick, she said, 'You’re going to add a but, aren’t you?’
Maynard grinned easily. 'Afraid so.’
‘Go on?’
‘On the face of it, it’s a sex crime, we all know that. But I'm afraid sex isn’t the main factor. It might even have been an afterthought. What’s more, he hasn’t done it before. You were wrong. There’s too much experimentation. This was his first attack, and it went horribly wrong. This is no serial killer, Margaret. There’s an ulterior motive.’
Cole growled, 'You’re not making sense.’
Maynard addressed him. 'DI Cole, isn’t it?’
Cole nodded.
‘You want a motive, Inspector, don’t be blinded by the sexual connection. The whole thing has been an act, the ritual, the performance, the additional injuries which weren’t caused in the attack. An act. A performance to be discovered and understood. Whoever did this wanted someone to know exactly what the girl had gone through. It might be the girl’s parents. Perhaps one or both of them had an enemy with a big enough grudge to do something like this. But I doubt it. I think you’re looking for a policeman, one with a huge grudge. What’s more, he wants you to know he’s on the job. It’s almost a game. The police angle ties in with your other enquiries. All this is as personal as it can get. But believe me, it has been an act. A show, designed specifically so that someone will know exactly what to expect when---’
‘When?’
Maynard met Cole’s steady gaze. 'When it happens again. That’s my guess. If the vengeance isn’t directed against Jane West’s parents, and I doubt that it will be - too easy to trace back - then the main act is still to come. It’s ironic,' he waived his hand about, the theatre. An act. A stage show. This has been planned down to every last detail. This is personal. He’s going to take another child and enjoy the spectacle of seeing the parents go through the agony, knowing what is happening moment by moment. The whole fucking thing has been about revenge.’
Cole narrowed his eyes in concentration. He didn’t like it. It was pure speculation. ‘What’s the police connection?’
Maynard rubbed his stubble. ‘You’re looking for a copper. There’s one in the frame. Helen Guest’s photographer.’
Cole nodded muttered gloomily, ‘I wish we could find him.' He gave Maynard a thoughtful look, then joined Hazel and Butler and went to find the SOCOs.
The SOCOs were still working at the of the passage. One of them turned. 'It’s where they used to bring in the larger stage equipment.' He pulled back a large section of chipboard and revealed a row of concrete steps that rose to a flat ceiling of what looked like concrete slabs. They peered after him as he climbed to the ceiling and pressed upwards with both hands. Very gradually, the slab gave way and bits of sludge fell in with a streak of daylight. 'It’s at the back, near to the door that was forced.' the officer explained. 'Move just one slab from above and you've got yourself a ready-made entrance. A thick plastic sheet stopped any water seeping through, but that was moved. The entrance has been used recently.’
Hazel said, 'Not many people would know about this, Guv. Contractors, members of the theatre. I'll find out when these slabs were laid.’
Cole nodded.
She turned to face him. ‘What do you think about ?' She indicated the dressing-rooms. 'He seems pretty convincing.’
Cole shook his head. 'I'm not convinced. Not by a long shot. That wasn’t police work. It was theatre, or rather a circus, and Geoff Maynard’s a bloody clown. But just in case, when we get back organise another visit to Mr and Mrs West. Find out whether they've upset anyone.’
Butler cut in. ‘It crossed my mind that if he’s right, and it’s not a grudge against the Wests, the final act will throw up the injured party. Getting his satisfaction, his revenge, will lead us to his door. We'll know who upset him.’
Cole flared, 'And while we wait to find out, another youngster will be snatched. I don’t want that,' he pointed back to the dressing-room, ’to happen again. I don’t want to see another broken little body hanging on some fucking make-shift cross.’
‘The point I'm trying to make is that if he follows the exact same pattern that chummy in there seems to think, then we'll have a couple of days. He'll use the same format, the same time-span. He'll want whoever it is to know the fate of his daughter right down to the last second. We'll have from a Friday night to a Sunday night to catch him.’
Hazel said, ’that’s very mercenary, Sam. I'm surprised at you. Today’s Friday, isn’t it?’
Cole gave her a sideways glance. 'It hadn’t escaped me,' he said murmured.
The equivocation tugged her lips into a gentle smile.
They made their way back to the car. Cole climbed into the front passenger seat. Butler drove. From the back Hazel said, 'Did you see Margaret shaking? She was upset.’
‘She has every right to be,' Sam Butler said. 'I've never seen a performance like it.’
‘What do you think, Sam?' she said.
‘It sounded quite credible, in parts.’
‘I wonder what the super will make of it. You know his views regarding psychologists.’
Cole nodded thoughtfully. 'On the other hand,' he put in, 'he'll be quite happy to hear that Margaret was distressed. As far as the super’s concerned, that'll be a feather in Maynard’s cap.’
At four Hazel McLintock began to pack up. Short of something breaking she was off until morning. She caught Cole’s eye and threw him a tiny smile, just a slight widening of the lips, and their date was confirmed. Seven o'clock. The prospect made her nervous. She had decided the day before that if he asked nicely, if the opportunity to sleep with him arose, she would play it by ear. The decision was a milestone and she had not reached it lightly. Being unfaithful was something she'd never even contemplated before. In her dreams perhaps, but that was all, and certainly not with Cole. The whole idea left her breathless and strangely high. It had happened so quickly. A week ago she had found him aloof and conceited, and suddenly her feelings were turned upside down. She wondered whether her disapproval, even dislike, had been a conscious barrier to her unconscious feelings. Some kind of protective shield. Perhaps she had found him attractive but fought against it, misinterpreting it as a sign of danger. Keep away. You don’t like him. He is not a nice person. She watched him move into his office and enjoyed his movement. She found it difficult to keep her eyes off him.
There was a general feeling of disappointment and frustration in the office. They were a week into the investigation, five days into the murder but apart from the on-going search for Jason Hackett and Helen Guest’s photographer, everything else had drawn a blank. The actions from HOLMES had become fewer as the weekend drew closer, and now they were left grasping at straws, waiting for a public response to the mug-shot of Hackett and the computer image of the photographer. Baxter was even considering Crime watch and when that happened you knew the inquiry was in trouble. Fuck Jill Dando. They'd all like to do that. For the kozzers over twenty-five she'd become the locker-room pin-up.
The super was stealing coffee from Barry Scot’s desk when Sam Butler waved a telephone at him and said, 'It’s your wife, Guv.’
Baxter took another sip of coffee and carried the mug across to Butler’s desk. 'I'll take it here,' he said. Butler handed him the receiver and moved away to give him privacy.
Everyone in the IR pretended to be doing something, but they were secretly listening. Baxter’s wife calling him at the office was unusual.
‘Hello, love,' Baxter said, easily.
Hazel sat at the next desk and was the first to notice there was something wrong. On the periphery of her vision, while she gathered her papers together, she saw Baxter’s sudden seizure, as though he'd been kicked in the chest. She saw the mug bang down on the desk and the coffee spill, and when she looked up she saw his expression fall to a mix of disbelief and shock. She thought he was having a heart attack and made a sudden move towards him.
The others in the room seemed to freeze; files were suspended above cabinets, pens were held in the air. They saw Hazels move, and then Baxter’s hand rise to stop her approach.
Sam Butler leaned through Cole’s door. 'You better get out here, Guv.' The tone of his voice brought Cole to his feet.
Baxter sank to the chair as Cole made the door. He whispered into the phone, 'Just stay put. I'll be there in five minutes.' He slowly replaced the receiver and looked up at the concerned faces of his colleagues. While he tried to gather his senses, while the freezing hand of panic gripped at his heart and the colour drained from his face, he said quietly, 'My daughter’s missing. She was seen getting into a car with a copper.’
By five, the abduction had still to be confirmed. Sketchy details began to emerge: a uniformed policeman in his late twenties or early thirties, a saloon, car, differing makes and year and colour but certainly not new. Mary-Anne had known him. School friends had seen them chat on numerous occasions. She had been joking when she climbed into his car. There was still time, everyone said, but they secretly doubted it.
‘A copper, a copper,' Cole murmured, as Chief Superintendent Marsh came in with his deputy. He had been with Baxter and organised an immediate response. Every vehicle in the area and some outside where on the alert. Every beat copper had his eyes open and more were sent out.
Marsh spoke in a severe voice. ’the super will be back later. Obviously he needs some time with his family. This is as bad as it gets, Rick.’
‘Yes, sir. It is.’
‘What’s the situation now?’
‘The entire team is out, taking statements from the kids. We need a description of the copper. Helen Guest’s photofit is being flashed about. We’re hoping like hell the kids don’t recognise it. We'll see.’
‘In the event that it’s confirmed,' Marsh said, ’the super will
obviously stay at home. You'll be acting SIO until things are clarified.’
Cole nodded reluctantly. He knew that someone more senior would be appointed quickly. The commissioner would take a personal interest. It would be out of Marsh’s hands. The Yard would be crawling all over them. 'We'll see,' he muttered.
Deighton asked, 'Do you know Mary-Anne?’
Cole shook his head. 'No, I've never met his family.’
‘She’s eleven next month.’
Cole asked, 'Have you spoken to this guy Maynard?’
‘No,' Marsh said, and raised an inquisitive eyebrow. ’should I?’
‘I was with him earlier. To be frank I didn’t give him much credit. He seemed to be playing games. Now I have to admit that he’s got it right. He was pretty certain it was going to happen again. More to the point, he came up with the idea that it was personal, that Jane West was simply a trial run. The real motive was revenge. He was going to take another girl as revenge.’
‘Revenge for what?' Deighton quizzed, a mark of irritation in his voice.
‘He didn’t say. But the parents would know what happened before and therefore what was happening to their daughter. Something like that.’
Marsh said, ’so if Detective Superintendent Baxter’s the target, we might be looking for someone with a grudge against him personally?’
‘That’s the bottom line.’
‘For God’s sake, he’s a thirty-year man. There'll be thousand of them.’
Cole agreed.
Deighton cut in drily. ’there won’t be that many coppers, though.’
Marsh saw his point. ’still a few. He was attached to CIB in the seventies and early eighties. There’re quite a few ex-coppers who might hold a grudge.' He glanced at Cole. 'Where’s this Maynard character now?’
‘I've no idea. He’s not in the office. He and Margaret Domey seem to be doing their own thing. They were at the Carrington earlier.’
Marsh nodded. 'When he comes in, I'd like a word.’
‘Right, sir.’
‘Let me know as soon as anything is confirmed.’
Once they'd left, Cole made his way to Hazel’s desk. She was one of only three people left to man the IR.
‘That’s the end of my early shift,' she said wistfully. The shock of Baxter’s phone call had still not worn off. It left a horrible churning sensation in her stomach. She exhaled smoke and stubbed the end of a cigarette, her seventh since the news came in.
‘And dinner, too, I'm afraid.’
She'd accepted it. She gave him a regretful little smile and glanced at her watch. 'Maybe I've been saved by the bell. Anyway, there’s still time.’
‘It’s been ninety minutes. Mary-Anne’s never done anything like it before. It’s not a quick spin around the block. There is no more time. The son of a bitch, whoever it is, copper or not, sane or insane, has got Baxter’s little girl. And we’re all running around in circles.’
Baxter caught his brother just as he arrived from work. It crossed his mind how odd and yet, how perfectly natural it was, to turn to family when everything else failed.
There was surprise in Henry’s voice when he answered, ‘Tony, what’s happened?’
‘I need your help.’
‘Name it? Anything.’
‘The case I told you about on Saturday. The bastard that took Jane West.’
‘I remember. I saw in the papers that he murdered her. I wouldn’t like your job, Tony. Not a bit of it.’
‘Right. And now I think he’s got Mary-Anne.’
Silence, a long silence, then, 'I'll be with you in ninety minutes. Two hours at the outside. I'll bring June.’
Baxter choked on his next word. ’thanks,' he muttered and replaced the handset.
His wife sat on the sofa, waiting, her face blotchy yet composed. The boys were upstairs, whispering. They had been told, and sensed more than understood the seriousness. Their immediate reaction was that Mary-Anne was going to be for the high jump for getting into someone’s car. Baxter fought his own impulses. The most natural thing in the world was to go rushing out to search for her, even though in his heart he knew that it was a complete waste of time. It was panic. The sudden uncontrollable fear that got in the way of rational thinking. The same could be said about his need to get back to the office. His place was at home. There was nothing he could do that wasn’t being done. In truth, he would probably be in the way. How many times in the past had he insisted an officer went home? An interested party could never be involved in an investigation. And this was only the beginning. If he felt so utterly useless now, the feeling was only going to get worse. He'd shed tears already. When he got home he comforted his wife, then hid in the bathroom and sobbed until there was nothing left but a terrible hole in his heart. Now he had composed himself and gone onto auto. The years in the job had trained him to do that. He had to reason things out logically, sanely, put aside his feelings of panic and despair. He'd go over every action made during the last week, searching for something they'd missed.
‘I can’t believe that Mary-Anne would get in someone’s car,' his wife said, repeating the words she had uttered when he'd first arrived. She seemed amazingly composed.
He could scarcely believe it either. They had drummed in the dangers every since Mary-Anne was old enough to walk.
His wife went on, panicking a little, feeling that terrible fist tighten in her gut, 'I must ring Kay and Julie. They must know’
Baxter steadied her. 'No, sweetheart, not yet. And then not by telephone. I'll deal with that if and when the time comes.’
Kay and Julie were their eldest daughters. God knows how they would take the news. Silly things came to mind. Kay was in the middle of writing a module. How could she be able to complete it once she heard the sickening details?
He heard a car pull up. He glanced from the bay-window and saw Sam Butler climb out.
‘Guv,' Sam said on the doorstep, holding back so that he was out of earshot from anyone inside.
‘Sam,' Baxter said, gravely.
‘Rick asked me to have a word. He talked to you about Geoff Maynard’s idea and thought it might be worth following up.’
‘The revenge business? I'd more or less dismissed it.’
‘The DI hasn’t, Guv. He’s taking it seriously. He wonders whether you'd start to put a list of likely contenders together, keeping the police link in mind. He mentioned your time with CIB.’
Baxter considered the request for some moments. He thought it was a waste of time but at least it was something he could do. He nodded. ’tell him I'll work on it.' He glanced at his watch. 'I'll pop back at about nine. Meanwhile’
‘Don’t worry, Guv. You'll be the first to hear anything.’
Baxter watched the DS down the path and closed the door as he climbed into the car.
Back at the office, the atmosphere was intense. There was an urgency in the voices, a rush to answer the phones. When Sam Butler walked in he recognised immediately that there had been more news. The expressions were even darker than when he'd left. A layer of grey smoke spread out below the strip lights. Hazel told him, ‘Two of the kids identified Helen Guest’s photofit. It’s the same guy. Older, of course, but the same guy.’
‘Shit,' he said. He glanced at the drawn faces in the room. They'd been brooding on the implications.
‘Yeah,' Hazel muttered.
Behind her, Scot came in with some hurried copies of Mary-Anne’s photograph. While he pinned one to the board next to the shot of Jane West he said to no one in particular, 'You know, there’s a likeness between the two girls. Look at this, not at their bodies, one’s tall and one’s short, but their faces. They could easily be taken as sisters.’
Butler said, seriously, ’shall I tell the super it’s the same guy?’
‘No,' Cole said, firmly. 'It'll keep for a while. I'll deal with it when necessary, when he comes in.’
From the theatre the psychologists motored across to the Wests.' While Mrs West poured yet more strong tea, they had gone through every snap that Mr West had ever taken of his family. Jane featured in most of them. From baby shots right up until a few months back, hundreds of them, beach, video of last holiday. A Spanish beach, a red-hot sun. Jane, peeling skin on her shoulders, running up and down a beach, riding a horse, taking part in a talent contest at the hotel. By the time they'd finished they knew the family history. A family photo album was a hidden drawer of secrets. They showed relationships and friends, they caught the unguarded moment. They showed who was close, and who wasn’t, the clothes and decorations, the genuine smiles and those that were forced. They gave details, responses, they told you about the family and even more about the photographer.
From there they went to Barnwall School and parked on the road opposite the bus-stop. They sat in the car taking in the details. Maynard had his eyes half closed, Margaret wondered if he was dozing off.
Eventually she said, slightly disgruntled, 'I've followed in your footsteps or the best part of the day and I'm exhausted. The least you could do is to tell me what you’re trying to achieve here.’
He smiled an apology. ’the killer has left a trail, fleeting it might be, so vague even the dogs couldn’t pick it up, but it’s here, in front of us. We know he took the girl from somewhere in this area, and we know she ended up on the allotments. We know he took her to the theatre and we know he bundled her out again. No one saw a thing. Not her abduction, nothing. If we are to find him, recognise him, then we must do so through reconstructing what Jane West saw. What did she see? Did she see the car pull over, did she struggle or simply get in? See what she saw, Margaret, know the victim a well as you can, go through her emotions, her fears, become her for a while, and see what happens.’
Margaret nodded thoughtfully. She was trying to like Geoff Maynard, but found it difficult. He lived on another planet, as far removed from her cosy world as Buckingham Palace was from a two-bedroomed terrace.
‘Most victims belong to one of three groups - young gays, prostitutes and runaways. What do you think the link is.?’
Margaret coloured slightly. She should have known the answer, but tiredness got in the way. She was going to kick herself.
‘Don’t worry. This isn’t a quiz. The link is their availability. The most difficult thing for the killer, once he’s crossed the line, is to get the victim into a vulnerable position. Prostitutes ask to get in the car, as do runaways - for that read hitch-hikers - and young gays want privacy with a stranger. What made Jane West get in the car?’
‘Right,' she said, through tight lips.
Maynard settled down again.
Jane West had been a likeable girl, that much was established, but she wasn’t pushy. If anything, the opposite was true. Attractive, in a boyish sort of way, yet she was very much a little girl, fragile in both body and mind. She wouldn’t have been led exactly, but she wouldn’t have been the first with an idea. That fell to Jenny, the dominant force in the small group of school friends.
Come with me, Jane. The words went through his mind.
What do you want?
Get in the car.
Please don’t hurt me.
Get in the car or I will.
He didn’t like it. Not on this stretch of the road at that time of day. A struggle would have produced a witness. All she had to do was scream. She knew him. She got in the car out of her own free will.
Once Jane West had been aware that getting in the car had been a terrible mistake, her fear would have let her unable to move. Had the opportunity to escape or call out arisen, Jane would have been incapable of grasping the chance. Two days later, just a few hours before her death, she had been able to eat a small meal. Perhaps it had been the first meal offered to her. Somehow, Maynard doubted it. Until that time, she had been able to eat. The killer had talked to her, had, to some little degree, gained her confidence. That’s why she was able to eat her last meal. Perhaps he had promised her freedom. Any threat would have had her retreating again, unable to function, and that included the ability to eat. If not traumatised before the rape, she certainly was after it when the killer put his penis down her throat. No sign of foreign food or blood meant that she hadn’t used her teeth to defend herself. Fear might have stopped her, as he had suggested earlier. The emotional shock had left her incapable of fighting back.
He looked out across the road and pictured the scene. Jane West’s confrontation with her attacker. He had a car or van. He'd used it to move the girl to and from the theatre. It was inconceivable that she'd walked with him or been carried. So he used the car for the initial meeting. Was he in uniform? It made sense. Everything was pointing to a copper.
He'd got past the child’s first defence. Somehow, he'd gained her trust.
Not that difficult for a copper.
Seeing a uniform, kids of that age did what they were told. Unless they were streetwise, which Jane West wasn’t.
‘OK,' he said suddenly, as Margaret jumped. 'Let’s take the direct route back to Richmond Park, into Churchill Place, the way she would have walked. Drive slowly.’
Margaret Domey nodded, glad to be on the move.
He relaxed back, letting is knees slide forward to the dash, and watched the road in front, concentrating on the pavements.
Jane West would be walking along in front; her friends had already left her, or she was hurrying ahead. They were in a hurry to finish their homework, get out again. She was the one hurrying. The others weren’t that committed. She rounded the bend first. Now, apart from the traffic, she was on her own. The man had seen her on her own, waited until she had rounded the corner, then pulled up. No, he didn’t like it. It was too well planned. He wouldn’t take the chance that she left her mates, even if it had happened before. No, for some reason he was absolutely confident she'd get in the car, whether she was with her mates or not. The car was parked, he was waiting for her.
They continued along the road until they reached the edge of the estate. Now the roads narrowed and there were a lot more people about. Adults. He'd run out of time. It happened back there, on the bend.
The man felt at ease, he knew where he was and knew exactly what he was about. He was absolutely certain that Jane would get in his car without a struggle. OK, leave that for the moment.
‘Drive on, Margaret, head towards the Carrington. Take the quickest route.’
So, he had her in the car. He was excited. He could actually see her close up, perhaps for the first time, he could see her knees and legs. Obviously he was concentrating on driving. She would realise, if she hadn’t already done so, that he wasn’t taking her home, and now she might struggle. Or would she? Would the fear get in the way? Was he acting out the usual role of the abductor, explaining in graphic detail what he planned to do? Now, left in no doubt about her mistake, would Jane make a challenge, or would she fall into submission? It had to be submission. There were no marks made at this early stage. There was no way he would have stopped to bind her arms and legs. If he had hit her it wasn’t forceful, perhaps a slap, nothing more, nothing that caused any bruising. The marks at the side of her neck and just below her elbow had, according to the pathologist, been newer, caused no more than a few hours before her death. So perhaps there was something else. Now that she was in the car a threat alone would be enough to control her. The sight of a knife maybe. This would make the danger quite clear, and her impulse to struggle or scream would be controlled.
Margaret drove into the main road leading to the theatre. It was busy with early evening traffic. What time did he arrive here? Indeed, did he drive straight here or stop at some intermediate place until the traffic had eased? Perhaps until darkness had fallen? No, he wouldn’t take that chance. The police would then be out in force. Knowing something about the police he would have guessed that. He drove here straight from the school, and parked at the back of the theatre, hidden by the high walls, his entrance already opening and waiting.
Now she was at his mercy, totally compliant, unable to function for herself. He had to lead her into the theatre, down those dark steps. The more submissive she became, the more dominating he was. Dominance, the concept behind ninety percent of sexual assaults.
‘Let’s call it a day,' he said at last, taking Margaret by surprise. He wanted to be alone with his thoughts. He'd get rid of her, grab a bite to eat and then return to the scene alone, when he would immerse himself further, become the girl, feel what she felt. The he would go over it again, and this time he'd be the killer, and through his actions he'd sink into the murky depths of the killer’s mind. He would excite himself, bring to mind the photographs of Jane West he had seen earlier, think of her as something he must have, build up an uncontrollable urge. If he could do that, become the killer, then he'd have the bastard.
Baxter shouldered his way into the IR. The other stopped work to greet him, feeling terribly self-conscious. As he crossed the room he paused momentarily at the incident board. Catching sight of Mary-Anne’s photograph pinned next to that of Jane West chilled his heart. 'Oh Jesus,' he uttered. He looked desperately at his colleagues.
He moved across to Cole’s door. Cole looked up from the papers on his desk.
‘Hello, Guv.’
‘Rick, tell me?’
Cole nodded slowly as he came to terms with Baxter’s wretched look. ’they matched. At least two of the girls recognised Helen Guest’s photofit. We’re looking for the same guy, a copper.’
Baxter slumped against the door frame. 'I don’t know if I can handle this.' He felt smashed into little pieces. He inhaled deeply and let automatic pilot lead him into records.
He tried to concentrate, but found it impossible. He hung around for an hour, then went home. At something after ten Cole found the rest of the team packing up. The sense of disbelief and anger was mixed with disappointment and failure. They needed a break. Night duty had arrived. The uniforms were being briefed in their parade room. The obligatory CID man sat at the end of the management table. It was the start of the weekend. Other things went on. One murdered girl and one missing didn’t stop drunks getting out of hand, or the pushers and pimps and robbers carrying on their trade. Other people, innocent people, were getting hurt. That never stopped. On their patch there were over thirty boozers, any one of which could be the scene of a brawl; there were hundreds of miles of track waiting for an accident to happen. The 999s continued to ring. Domestics, burglaries, assaults, you name it, on Friday night it happened. The briefing would go on for another thirty minutes or so, then the corridors would be busy with heavy plods making their way to the exits. In the car-park, the pandas would pull out. Clockwork. Superintendent Billingham’s well-oiled machine.
Sam Butler said, ’some of us are knocking off for a few hours. We’re into a swift half before we fall down.’
Cole was slightly surprised that the DS wasn’t rushing home to work on his second chance.
‘Yeah, Sam, that sounds good. Unless anything breaks, we'll meet up here at eight in the morning.’
Butler yawned and said, 'When this is all over there'll be a lot of people taking a rest. Are you coming?’
‘I'll be over shortly. You can get them in. Where’s Hazel?’
‘She was in records with the super. She’s probably still going over his list.’
Cole nodded. 'I'll walk over.’
Butler locked his drawers and followed the other exhausted bodies to the door.
Mike Collier emerged from the gents wiping a splash from his fly. He saw Cole and grunted, 'All over?’
‘Will be in a minute. For a couple of hours anyway.’
‘Bad news, all this. Fucking bad news. It’s still sinking in. I can’t believe it. Nobody can.' He shook his head. ’the super’s about the only one of your lot that our lot even remotely admire.’
Cole nodded. Collier headed to his desk in reception where he had a secret kettle on the boil. Cole watched him go, then headed the other way, up three flights of steps, to the collator’s office. It was a square room, one wall covered with bookcases packed with lever-arch files, the others with four-drawer filing-cabinets. Two Kodak micro-film viewers stood on a far table and just inside the door a single pedestal desk was piled high with grey folders. Hazel sat at the desk with one of the folders open in front of her. Her elbow was on the desk, her chin resting on the palm of her hand. A cigarette dropped from her fingers and smoke curled up to the fluorescent strip. He back was to him. He closed the door. He turned suddenly.
‘Guv?’
‘Hazel, haven’t you had enough? We’re calling it a day. The duty team can take over for a few hours.’
She stubbed the cigarette but left a lazy smoke trail. Her swivel seat swung his way. Her black clad knees were held together. The edge of her skirt fanned over them.
‘The others have gone. I said we'd see them over the road. That all right with you?’
She nodded but stayed seated. Her eyes held onto to his before she turned back to the desk and fumbled among the papers. She found the key and paused.
‘Did the super put his list together?’
‘He made a start,' she said. 'Just a dozen or so names.’
‘Is that all?' Cole flared. 'I was hoping for more than that. Perhaps he doesn’t realise that time is against us. For Christ’s sake, what’s he been doing?’
Hazel stood up and turned on him, responding impulsively, ‘How can you be so cold? The poor man doesn’t know what day it is.' he shook her head angrily. 'You are a callous bastard; the others were right.’
She swung past him towards the door. He grabbed her hand and the key flew to the floor. He knew it was a mistake but it was too late. She faced him. Surprise brought a gasp and her eyes widened. Their lips locked. They tasted smoke, slightly bitter and familiar. She broke free and said, ’this isn’t a good idea.’
‘I'm due a bad one.’
She reached up and kissed him again. For a few seconds they were in a different place, nothing else existed. Her hand slid inside his jacket; his beneath her shirt. He felt her silky skin and soft breasts; she went between the buttons into the hair on his chest. Suddenly, she was at his fly and he was under her skirt. She freed him and held onto his testicles and only let go as he bent to pushed down at her tights and pants. She stepped out of her shoes and pulled her underclothes free of her feet. Their lips glued together again. He felt his hand between her thighs. Her legs went weak. She guided him, forcing him to bend his knees, and he straightened inside her, surprised at how easy the insertion had been. She moaned in his ear, a tiny little laugh that came with a gasp.
‘Oh, Rick,' she uttered.
He backed her against the side of a four-drawer and she raised her elbows onto it in order to lift herself against him. He placed his hands beneath her bare buttocks and her legs wrapped around him. She felt him pulsating inside her. The feeling of pleasure made her moan again and she brought her legs up further. His thrusts became harder, his pelvis ground against her. His breaths became ragged. Hers came with every thrust. She shut her eyes tightly as she felt a wave of heat beginning to build. She arched her pelvis higher, clamping her legs to hold him, her body quivered under the exquisite torture. Her climax came on, releasing a coil of wonderful heat. She hadn’t experienced the sensation in many months. Now it came, turning her body into a shaking jelly. Here mouth opened in a silent cry. It looked like pain. Suddenly she was whispering into his ear, ’shit, shit.’
It might have been the clenching of her muscles that sparked him, but maybe not; he was well on the way. They'd had two days of foreplay. He came with a final thrust that slid her up the steel cabinet until she was all but sitting on top. The sensation rocked him; it felt like lava pouring out of him, going on forever. It was almost painful. He stayed motionless, inside her, not daring to move, feeling the throb as his ejaculation continued. She lowered herself gently, tentatively, feeling the pressure stretching her inside and the hot flow of semen spread out. Slowly her legs relaxed around him and slid down his body until her feet touched the cold floor. She gazed up at him and raised her hands to his face, pulling him down to kiss her again. When they parted she whispered, ’there, it’s better now. Let’s go get that drink.’
In the White Horse, with the heat of their bodies still burning through their clothes, they met Butler and the rest of the team. The gloom was overbearing, the voices kept low and indistinct. Hazel acknowledged Butler with the faintest of smiles. Butler noticed the look of her skin; it seemed softer and radiant, and he felt a slight stab of jealousy. Or was it disappointment? Either way, they were ludicrous sentiments and he shook them off. As Cole drew up a chair, he asked, 'Everything all right, Guv?’
‘I don’t know, Sam. You tell me.’
Butler finished his drink and nodded. 'We'll have this bastard tomorrow. We'll find Mary-Anne.’
Cole nodded stonily.
Hazel felt the wetness between her thighs and pressed her legs together. Her body was trembling. Over her glass rim, as she drank, her eyes locked onto Cole again. There was no one else she wanted to see. She gave him a small knowing smile. Her body felt bruised and wonderful, her lips swollen. She saw Sam Butler’s speculative glance and shrugged. For the moment, she no longer cared.
The detective sergeant glanced at his watch and reluctantly said, ‘I'll be getting off, then.’
DS Barry Scot and Sergeant Wilson joined him. They moved to the door together. That left James and Walker sitting with Cole and Hazel. Single people with nowhere to go.
After a quick drink, Hazel said goodnight and left them to it. When Cole pulled into his drive at midnight she was waiting for him, her car bathed in the vulcanic light.
‘Surprised?’
‘A little.’
‘Do you mind?’
‘Mind?’
‘Well, you’re the senior office. You’re the one compromising your rank.’
‘I don’t mind.’
‘You knew I'd be here?’
He inserted his key in the door and said, ’that’s a bit strong. I hoped. There’s a difference.' He shut the door behind them and switched on the hall light. She'd changed and showered; her hair still damp. He indicated the living-room. 'Go on in and pour some drinks. I'll be five minutes.' On the bottom stair he hesitated.
‘What is it?’
‘You shouldn’t be here.’
‘D'you think I don’t know that? I feel shell-shocked, numbed. I'm still tingling from before. Now I need to be held. Is that so bad? It’s a war zone out there. What’s right and wrong seems to go by the board. You find comfort where you can; you live while you can. That’s how I feel. In any case, I'm in love with you.’
‘That’s a bit sudden.’
‘Does there have to be a time scale?’
‘Pour the drinks.’
She watched him up the stairs then went into the living-room. The curtains were still open, flooding the room with street-light. She felt strangely giddy and elated, detached, as though she was watching herself go through the motions. She left the light off and opened his scotch, then stood by the window gazing out into the quiet street. She needed to be joined, filled with him again, feel his throb against her own. She needed the physical comfort of someone close, hot breath on hers, arms wrapping her in an easy embrace, her chest flattened snugly against his, sharing breaths, somewhere painless, warm and peaceful. Euthanasia. That was it. She needed a gently death; the heat spreading from her groin, wave after wave of it, would carry her away in to another world.
He came up behind her, wet, a towel around his waist. She turned to face him and he kissed he gently, lips parted. He tasted of Colgate. She felt him stir beneath the towel. When they parted she held the glass out towards him and he swallowed a measure.
He said, thickly, 'Come on, you’re absolutely right, let’s forget it all for a couple of hours. Talk about whatever normal people talk about. Do. whatever normal people do.’
‘That’s the problem. We’re not normal people, are we?' Nobody understands.’
‘Come upstairs to bed. Under the covers there’s a certain security.’
In the deep shadows she reached up and kissed him again.
‘Your husband is back tomorrow,' he said awkwardly
‘Yes,' she confirmed. 'Late morning. He'll be pretty pissed off when he realises I've got to work. He’s arranged a meal out with some of his colleagues and, usually, partners are included.’
‘Social workers? It sounds as though you've got out of it by the skin of your teeth.’
‘I'd already resigned myself to an evening of shop talk, with me and the other partners looking at our watches.' She sighed. 'It’s not a bad as it sounds.' She stroked the hairs on his chest. 'What am I saying? It’s worse than it sounds, believe me.’
‘I believe you.' He leaned to the beside table and lit a cigarette. He settled back against her. She borrowed a drag and exhaled toward the ceiling.
‘This is a disgusting habit, smoking in bed after making love. It stems back to the old black-and-white movies. The fifties and sixties. Room at the top, Saturday Night and Sunday Morning.'
‘They’re before my time.’
‘Mine too. I caught them on the box. They’re still better than some of the crap they serve up today. Oh God, I feel wonderful. I'm still throbbing. I love you, Rick.' She punched his arm gently and handed back the cigarette. 'And I'm leaking like the Yorkshire Water Board. It was wonderful.
He was taken by the curious intimacy of Hazel sleeping quietly beside him. It wasn’t the inches between them, or the incredible gentleness of what had gone before, but the impression of trust, the sense of how natural it had been. Little things, removing her skirt and pants and displaying herself unashamedly before sliding into his bed, the first contact again, the curious spark of skin against skin, the touch of her subtle perfume, the feel of her soft breasts and slightly rounded stomach, the little catches of her breath as she moved beneath him, the ease with which he slid smoothly inside her, the slippery heat; they came back now to produce a warm contented glow.
Before he slept he set the clock for seven, and hoped an hour to get ready would be enough.