Jack drove around the estate, feeling better about his article.
He glanced towards the playground he had seen earlier. He heard laughter and then the sound of a bottle breaking on the floor, provoking more laughter. Jack looked to the houses opposite, expecting to see the twitch of a curtain to see what was going on, but there was nothing.
He drove past a building that was in the middle of the estate, and the sign on the front told him that it was the Whitcroft Community Centre. It was like most community centres: a square brick building with aerosol artwork decorating the outside walls, the wheelchair ramp bordered by a rail with paint flaking from it. He didn’t need to go inside to know that it would look like all the others – painted cream, with a wooden floor marked out for a basketball court and filled with flimsy metal chairs that packed away in high stacks.
It hadn’t escaped the attention of the local kids though. The sign was broken in places, and two of the windows were boarded up.
Jack drove on, not understanding why someone would want to destroy so much around them. He headed for the road out of the estate, and once the broken lights of Whitcroft were left behind he thought about Don, and the contrast between his own life and the lives of the people who paid for his services.
Jack turned into the leafy street that took him towards Don’s house. It curved gently, and the only things that obscured the street lights were the branches of the trees that swayed in the breeze. There were no cars on the road. They were all pulled onto driveways, two for each household, mostly new.
He drove close to the copse where Jane had been found, and so he stopped. He positioned his car so that the headlights illuminated the patch of trees. The light caught a piece of crime scene tape that was left tied to a silver birch, just fluttering. Apart from that, it had returned to what it had been before.
Jack resolved to visit it in the morning, because the small piece of tape would make for a good photograph if the killer stayed free, some kind of metaphor for how time was moving on and the victims would be forgotten. Except that the memories of Jane’s murder would linger in the minds of those who looked at it every day, and for Don Roberts and Mike Corley, the memory would never go away.
Jack set off again, and as he got closer to Don’s house he saw cars cluttering the road. It looked like there was a meeting.
Jack drove past and then turned round so that he could watch. He was curious. What were they planning? Was another suspect going to be driven from their home, or even worse?
He had only been there for a couple of minutes when the front door opened, throwing light onto the driveway. Someone came rushing out, animated, turning to shout something. Jack leaned forward to get a better view through the windscreen. He recognised the figure. David Hoyle. Then Jack saw his car parked further along. He should have spotted it, a Mercedes with a personalised plate. He had seen it parked outside court many times.
Jack was surprised. What was David Hoyle doing there?
Hoyle turned back to whoever was in the doorway. He was waving his arms, finger pointing, and then he walked away, heading for his car. Jack started his engine, making David Hoyle look around. Jack set off towards him, and as he drew alongside, he wound down his window.
‘Good evening, Mr Hoyle,’ Jack said. ‘Must be a big pow-wow to bring you out here. Why are you rushing off?’
Hoyle looked surprised and glanced back towards Don’s house. The front door was closed now.
‘Mr Hoyle?’
‘Leave me alone,’ Hoyle said, his tone more fearful than angry.
‘Something has happened, I can tell.’
He held Jack’s gaze for a few seconds, and Jack thought he was about to say something, Hoyle’s lips twitching and pursing, but instead he opened his car door and started his engine.
Hoyle pulled away quickly, and as Jack watched the rear lights disappear round the curve ahead, he knew that whatever had made Hoyle bolt out of Don’s house wasn’t good news.
He’d raced home and concealed his van under tarpaulin at the back of the house. He was back in the small space with his computer, the door closed tightly so that the rest of the house was shut out. But it wasn’t enough, the noises still made their way in. His hands were clamped around his ears. The noise was a clamour. The taps had turned into screeches, like nails down blackboards, and there was laughter, mocking shrieks.
He felt unsettled, still too aroused. He had skipped through his photographs. Shots of Jane, of Deborah, their faces pale and still. And the others from before he came to Blackley. The pictures took him back through his memories, and he relived the struggles, the fear. He thought of the girl from the night before. He hadn’t taken a picture, he hadn’t had time. There had been just the release and then a short drive to the canal, stones weighing down her pockets. There would be no discovery. Not yet anyway. It wasn’t enough. He wanted a bigger high, his hands around someone else’s neck, the feel of their pulse, a drumbeat against his outstretched palm.
He wanted to go out again, but he stopped himself. It wouldn’t be right. No more mistakes. Wait for tomorrow.
There would be no sleep, he knew that. Not now. It was time to plan.