The Uber driver dropped them in front of the Museum of Science and Industry and Lulu walked across the road towards the Staffordshire arm with Conrad on her shoulder. There were three new arrivals moored in her section, two about fifty feet long and the third a new-build that was closer to seventy feet, its roof covered with solar panels. A young woman in denim dungarees was cleaning the panels and she waved as Lulu went by. ‘Lovely day, isn’t it?’ she said. She had a Birmingham accent and a sunny smile.
‘It is,’ said Lulu. The name of the boat was Cloud Nine and Lulu smiled as she recognized the pun. ‘Oh, so you’re on cloud nine. I do like that name.’
‘It was Sean’s idea,’ she said. ‘My husband.’
‘Is he with you?’
‘He’s in the cabin, working. He’s a website designer; he can work anywhere.’
‘That must be lovely.’
‘It beats working in an office,’ said the girl, ‘but it’s strange how often he has a deadline when there are chores to be done. I’m Brianna, by the way.’
‘I’m Lulu, and this is Conrad.’
‘He’s a lovely boy.’
‘Yes,’ said Lulu. ‘He is.’
Brianna pointed over at The Lark. ‘Is that your boat?’
‘It is, yes.’
‘Just to let you know, there was a man hanging around earlier. He went away when we moored.’
‘Was he on the boat?’
‘No, he was walking up and down, looking through the windows.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘I didn’t get a good look at him. He was quite tall, dark hair, and he was wearing a big coat.’
‘I wonder who it was,’ said Lulu.
‘Maybe he was just interested in your boat,’ she said. ‘We get people peering in through our windows all the time. It can be like living in a goldfish bowl sometimes.’
She resumed cleaning the solar panels as Lulu walked over to The Lark. She climbed onto the rear deck and Conrad jumped off her shoulders and landed on the seat. Lulu checked the lock and chain. The doors were secure.
‘Who do you think it was?’ asked Conrad.
‘Probably just a curious passer-by,’ said Lulu. ‘Only Phil and DI Friar know that we’re here.’ She unlocked the padlock and opened the doors. She went down into the galley, filled the kettle and used a match to light one of the rings on the hob. ‘Evian?’ she said.
‘See, you’re a mind reader, too. You knew I wanted a drink.’
Lulu chuckled as she took a bottle of water from the fridge and poured some into a saucer. ‘So you know about Schrödinger’s cat?’ said Lulu as she put the saucer on the floor. ‘You meowed when Phil mentioned it.’
‘Of course. It’s horrible. Truly horrible.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘You know what happened, right? He put a cat in a box with a radioactive substance that was connected to a vial of poison. When the substance decayed, it triggered a Geiger counter that allows the poison to be released which then killed the cat. How horrible is that?’
‘Oh Conrad, Schrödinger didn’t actually carry out the experiment. It’s what’s called a thought experiment. All in the mind.’
‘That doesn’t make sense.’
‘It’s not a real experiment. He never set out to actually hurt a cat. It was all hypothetical. He wanted to show that because the box was locked, there was no way of knowing if the radioactive substance had decayed and released the poison, so there was no way of knowing if the cat was alive or dead. There was a fifty-fifty chance, either way. He argued that until the box was opened, the cat was both alive and dead. It’s only when you open the box that you know either way.’
‘Well, why use a cat? Scientists use rats, don’t they? Why isn’t it Schrödinger’s rat? Or Schrödinger’s dog? Or why didn’t he put himself in the box if it was only hypothetical?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Lulu.
‘Because Schrödinger hated cats, clearly,’ said Conrad.
‘Well, I’m not sure that’s true.’
‘He could have chosen any animal for his hypothetical experiment,’ said Conrad. ‘The fact that he chose a cat says a lot about the man.’
‘But you understand the point that Phil was making? At the moment Jeremy is neither guilty nor innocent.’
‘Maybe it’s better it stays that way,’ said Conrad. ‘If Jane finds out that he has been lying to her, she’ll be hurt.’
‘Better to know the truth, surely?’
‘Don’t they say that ignorance is bliss?’ asked Conrad.
‘They do indeed. But “they” aren’t always right.’ She put a teabag in a mug. ‘I do hope it works out all right for them. She seems to be happy when she’s with him. And he is charming. Smarmy, perhaps, but with charm.’
‘That reporter seems charming, too.’
‘Dickie McNeil? Yes, he’s quite charming. Reporters often are.’
‘And sharp.’
‘Yes, sharp enough to cut himself. What was his aura like?’
‘A lot of white,’ said Conrad. ‘That’s the sign of a quick mind, but also nervous energy. And it shows an inclination for perfectionism.’
Lulu laughed. ‘In my experience, journalists are rarely perfectionists: they write what they think will sell papers. Very few of them are to be trusted.’
‘Maybe Dickie McNeil is different,’ said Conrad. ‘I didn’t see anything untrustworthy about his aura.’ He tilted his head on one side. ‘It was interesting that a woman phoned with the tip-off. You think the killer is a man, but a woman made the phone call.’
‘Yes, I wondered about that,’ said Lulu. ‘But just because she made the call doesn’t mean she’s the killer.’
‘But she wanted publicity, obviously. She wanted to be sure that Dickie knew about the body so that he would link it to the other killings.’
‘That’s possible, yes.’
‘So maybe she was involved in the killing. Maybe she is the killer and she wants to throw the police off the track.’
‘I’m not sure a woman could have carried the body to where it was found.’
‘That’s sexist, Lulu. She could have been a strong woman.’
Lulu laughed. ‘Yes, you’re right.’ The kettle began to boil and she poured hot water into the mug.
‘And if she wants to throw the police off the track, that must mean there is a track.’
Lulu frowned. ‘Now you’re confusing me.’
‘The woman must know that if the police look in the right direction, they will find her. Which is why she wants them looking elsewhere.’
‘So the woman has a motive?’
‘Exactly,’ said Conrad. ‘Cherchez la femme.’
They both froze when they heard a voice shouting outside. ‘Permission to come aboard!’
Lulu and Conrad both looked at the window. It was a man’s voice. A Manchester accent.
‘Hello! I can hear you in there! Permission to come aboard.’
Lulu went up the stairs and out onto the rear deck. Dickie McNeil was standing on the path at the side of the boat. He had his hands in the pockets of his trench coat as he grinned up at her.
‘Mr McNeil,’ she said. ‘This is a surprise.’
‘Call me Dickie,’ he said. ‘So, can I come aboard?’
‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea,’ she said. ‘But I am sure DI Friar wouldn’t want me talking to you. Didn’t she say everything needs to come through the press office?’
‘She’s a stickler for the rules, is Julie, I’ll give her that. But surely you and I can chat. Professional courtesy, what with us both being former police. Former superintendent Lulu Lewis, late of the Metropolitan Police.’
Lulu’s eyes hardened. ‘How did you find me, Mr McNeil?’
‘Please, Lulu, call me Dickie.’
‘How did you find me, Dickie? You didn’t follow me, did you?’
McNeil tilted his head. ‘No, I didn’t.’
‘So how did you know where I was?’
‘I’ll tell you what, Lulu. You invite me on board and I’ll tell you.’
Lulu looked at him for several seconds, then nodded. If he knew who she was and what she used to do, then he almost certainly knew about the Choker investigation. She turned and went back into the cabin. McNeil stepped onto The Lark and followed her.
He had to stoop as he came down the stairs. He looked around. ‘Isn’t there someone else here?’ he asked.
Lulu nodded at Conrad, who was still sitting on the sofa. ‘Just Conrad.’
‘I heard voices.’
‘I was on the phone.’
‘Two voices.’
‘Speakerphone,’ said Lulu. ‘I worry about the radiation, don’t you? I can’t see that it’s healthy to hold a piece of electrical equipment against your head for long periods of time.’
‘I suppose you’re right,’ he said. ‘Do you mind if I sit down? There really isn’t enough headroom for me.’
Lulu waved at the sofa. ‘Please.’ McNeil sat down next to Conrad. ‘Can I get you a drink?’ she asked.
‘Not a drink drink,’ he said. ‘I’ve been sober for almost twelve years. But a glass of water would be nice.’
‘Evian?’
‘I’m a big fan of Evian.’
Lulu smiled. ‘So’s Conrad.’
‘Cats have a favourite water?’
‘Conrad does. Actually, I’m just making tea.’
‘Tea would be nice.’
‘I have some chamomile teabags from Fortnum and Mason, or regular tea if you’d prefer.’
‘Chamomile would be fine, thank you.’
Lulu put a teabag into another mug and poured in hot water. McNeil sat on the sofa and Lulu gave him the mug. He thanked her and looked around, nodding his appreciation. ‘This is nice,’ he said. ‘Really nice.’
‘Thank you.’
‘My parents loved canal boats. We went on quite a few canal holidays when I was a kid. I really enjoyed it.’ He grinned. ‘I’m too tall these days,’ he said. ‘I’d be banging my head on the roof all day and my feet would be sticking out of the bunk.’
‘Luckily that’s never been a problem for me,’ said Lulu. ‘So how did you find me, Dickie?’
‘Dogged police work,’ he said, and tasted his tea. ‘Oh, this is lovely. Thank you.’
‘Specifically?’
‘I started wondering if the Strangler had come out of the blue, or if he’d killed before. He seems very well organized, very professional, so it didn’t feel like he had come from nowhere. I’ve got a pal who works for the National Crime Agency and he contacted the Serious Crime Analysis Section.’
‘That’s very enterprising of you,’ said Lulu. ‘And almost certainly illegal under the 2018 Data Protection Act.’
McNeil put up a hand. ‘You got me,’ he said. ‘But everything we’re talking about here is off the record.’
‘I hope that works both ways,’ said Lulu. ‘I wouldn’t want to see my name in the Manchester Evening News.’
‘You won’t,’ said McNeil, lowering his hand. ‘This is just a couple of former detectives chewing the fat.’ He sipped his chamomile tea. ‘According to my pal, until recently there were no matches for the three killings in Manchester, at least no matches for the type of knot and rope used. But SCAS was updated two days ago, and now we have a match.’
Lulu smiled thinly, but didn’t say anything. There was nothing she could say: she had a pretty good idea which way the conversation was heading and all she could do was to let it run its course.
‘Four matches, in fact. All of them in the London area. And the SIO in the first two London murders was assisted by a consultant whose name was . . .’ He paused for effect, but Lulu kept her face impassive. ‘Former superintendent Lulu Lewis.’ He smiled.
‘That doesn’t explain how you found me here,’ said Lulu.
‘I’ve got pals who worked in the Met and you’re very highly regarded. A good, honest cop who isn’t afraid of a hard day’s work and who cracked a fair number of difficult cases over the years. You retired to live on a canal boat called The Lark. From their description it was clear that it was you I met with Julie, so I put two and two together. There aren’t too many places in Manchester where you can moor a narrowboat.’ He looked around. ‘I was expecting to see DI Jackson here.’
‘He’s at his hotel,’ said Lulu. She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of asking him how he knew Phil’s name.
‘He’s equally well regarded,’ said McNeil.
‘I’m sure he’ll be delighted to hear that,’ said Lulu.
McNeil grinned. ‘So obviously you and DI Jackson are here to help with the investigation.’
She flashed him a tight smile. ‘Well, that’s your inference.’
‘Oh, come on, Lulu. I can call you Lulu, can I? Or would you prefer retired Detective Superintendent Lewis?’
‘Lulu is fine. Dickie, you seem to know all there is to know. So why are you here? Surely it’s not just to show me how clever you are.’
‘I want the story.’
‘From the sound of it, you already have the story.’
‘So you can confirm that you and DI Jackson are here to help with the investigation?’
‘I can’t confirm anything, Dickie. This is all off the record, remember?’
‘I would prefer to quote you, that’s all.’
‘But you can’t. If it was down to me, then I would probably say yes, but it isn’t. DI Friar has been very clear that she doesn’t want you talking to us, she wants you to go through the press office.’
‘The GMP Press Office is as much use as a chocolate teapot,’ said McNeil. He put his mug down. ‘How about this, Lulu? Can you answer questions about the London murders? You worked on those investigations. DI Friar didn’t. So she can’t really object if we talk about them.’
Lulu sighed. ‘What do you want to know, Dickie? And we’re still off the record.’
‘They were listed on SCAS as gay hate crimes.’
‘Possible gay hate crimes. One of the victims had a wife and children.’
‘Yet the three victims in Manchester aren’t gay.’
‘So far as we know.’
McNeil frowned. ‘So you’re suggesting that they might be gay? Or bisexual? Leading double lives?’
‘I thought we agreed that we’d only talk about the London cases.’
McNeil nodded. ‘Yes, okay, right. Do you have any idea why your killer stopped killing in London and then five years later started killing in Manchester?’
‘We’re not sure that it is the same killer,’ said Lulu. She saw McNeil open his mouth to reply and she stopped him with a wave of her hand. ‘But if it is, there are a number of possible reasons.’
‘Prison, incapacity, moving overseas?’
‘Exactly.’
‘And would that have applied to any of the suspects you had?’
‘Who said we had any suspects?’
McNeil smiled. ‘An experienced copper like you? You’d have some names in the frame.’
Lulu sighed. ‘You don’t have to keep soft-soaping me, Dickie. Yes, one was in prison and another moved overseas. To Spain. We’re trying to track them down at the moment. But please, that’s not for publication.’
‘And why would the killer move from London to Manchester?’
‘No idea.’
‘And did you ever come up with a motive? Other than the gay hate crime scenario?’
‘We couldn’t find motives for any of the killings,’ said Lulu.
‘The victims weren’t connected in any way?’
‘No. Their lives never intersected. As you know, HOLMES is very good at spotting links and connections and there weren’t any.’
‘So they were killed because they were gay?’
‘That was what we thought, yes.’
‘Which means that the three victims here must be gay. Or bisexual.’
‘That’s a jump, Dickie.’
‘But is it? If it’s the same killer, and if said killer targets gay men, then that means the victims here have to be gay.’
‘You can’t print that, Dickie.’
‘I can if I can confirm that they were gay.’
‘And how would you do that?’
‘I can talk to the relatives.’
‘I’ve already done that.’
‘And?’
‘Now we’re back to talking about the Manchester cases.’
McNeil held up a hand again. ‘I hear you. Sorry. But it’s hard to separate the two sets of killings.’
Lulu looked thoughtful. ‘I would have thought that the job of a journalist was to report what was happening. It seems to me that you’re more interested in solving the case than writing about it.’
McNeil grinned. ‘Once a copper, always a copper. Sure, yes, I’d love to solve the case, but we both know that lone wolves don’t crack cases. Murder investigation is a team sport, despite what you see on television.’ He sighed. ‘So, you don’t mind if I write that two detectives from London are helping GMP with their inquiries, and that said detectives were involved in similar cases in London?’
‘You clearly know that, so how could I stop you? I have to say that I’d prefer that you didn’t name me or Phil, but again I can’t stop you. You’d just be reporting the facts.’
‘What I’d really like is a photograph of the two of you.’
Lulu laughed and waved her hand. ‘Well, that’s not going to happen.’
‘I didn’t think so. But is there anything that you can tell me, off the record? Anything my readers should know?’
Lulu drank her tea and looked at him over the top of her mug. Part of her wanted to tell him that the third murder didn’t match the rest. That would have been the fair and honest thing to do, but Lulu knew that making the knowledge public would put the most recent killer on the defensive. Far better that he believed his ruse had worked, and that meant keeping Dickie McNeil in the dark. ‘You seem to be on the right track,’ she said.
He pulled out his wallet and handed her a business card. ‘If you ever do have something to share with me, please give me a call,’ he said. ‘I won’t insult you by saying that we pay for tip-offs, but we do pay for tip-offs.’
‘Can I ask you a question, Dickie?’
‘Of course.’
‘Is there anything to this Canal Pusher that I keep hearing about?’
McNeil grinned. ‘Are you asking me as a former cop, or as a journalist?’
‘Is there a difference?’
‘Heck, yes. As a journalist, every time a body is fished out of a canal it gives me a front-page story – is it the work of the Canal Pusher? Even if it clearly isn’t, the question can be asked. And when it is answered a day or two later, well, I still had my splash, didn’t I?’ He chuckled. ‘No pun intended.’
‘And your view as a former police officer?’
He shrugged. ‘The Canal Pusher is an urban myth, nothing more. More often than not it’s just a drunk or druggie falling in and drowning. The occasional suicide. You do get the odd murder, but it’s usually the result of a drunken brawl or a mugging gone wrong. There’s none of the attention to detail that we’re seeing with the Strangler.’
‘DI Friar really hates it when you give him a nickname.’
McNeil smiled mischievously. ‘Yes, I know.’ He stood up and put his mug in the sink. ‘And with that, former superintendent Lewis, I shall love you and leave you.’ He looked over at Conrad. ‘And it’s been a pleasure seeing you again, Cecil.’
‘Conrad,’ said Lulu.
‘I apologize,’ he said. He put his hand over his heart and bowed to Conrad. ‘It has been a pleasure seeing you again, Conrad,’ he said. ‘I’m so pleased that you were never actually lost.’
He headed up the steps and out onto the rear deck. The Lark swayed as he stepped off the boat and they heard his shoes crunching on the rough path as he walked away.
‘He’s tenacious,’ said Conrad.
‘Yes,’ said Lulu, ‘he is. Dogged, you might say.’
‘You might,’ said Conrad. ‘I wouldn’t. It’s a pity that you have to lie to him.’
‘Yes, it is. But needs must.’
‘So sometimes lying is okay?’
Lulu sighed. ‘Well, it’s never okay, is it? Not really. But there are times when one really doesn’t have a choice.’