THE EADES HOUSE WAS OPPOSITE the park. Ava could turn back and choose not to telephone the police in the mad hope of helping them catch a child killer. It was funny when she thought about it; so silly in its seriousness, like she was in a film or on TV given the stage fright she felt. To make this work she had to perform, pretend to be somebody she wasn’t – someone brave and confident.
Ava crossed the road, her stride long and sure, like she was meant to be there. She pulled the key out of her jeans pocket.
The property was flanked by thick hedges and a tall fence so Ava was able to casually walk up to the front door without hindrance. She turned the key in the lock and walked in.
The house was silent.
In the living room, she stood over the rotary telephone, pulled out her notebook and, very quietly, panicked. Being called upon to act alone was terrifying. And so Ava decided to warm up. She stretched and made wide lunges and explosively huffed as if she was doing kung fu. She studied her script as she didn’t want to spring off the subject in random tangents. Dictionaries and her trusty thesaurus had been checked for all the correct terms in correct contexts, as well as the rare books on the subject, to ensure everything was just right. There were many foreign names that she could spell, just hoped she could pronounce. She would be perfunctory, precise, professional then gone.
She also had to make sure it was Miss Misty that came out of her mouth – there could be no trace of Ava, even to her own ears.
Her throat was too dry. She went into the kitchen and drank directly from the tap.
Ava picked up the telephone receiver and rang the number of the incident room on the card Delahaye had given her, nervous but breathing normally. Yet she needn’t have worried: when the receiver was picked up the other end, Miss Misty snapped on instantly, as if she’d been waiting in the wings for just the right moment.
She closed her eyes.
‘Good afternoon, Bournville Lane CID, Detective Sergeant Delahaye speaking. How may I help you?’
Ava would have faltered on hearing Detective Sergeant Delahaye speak with such immediacy at the other end of the line. But Miss Misty didn’t miss a beat.
‘Good morning, Detective Sergeant.’
* * *
It was Miss Misty. Delahaye’s pause was too long.
‘Misty, hello,’ he said eventually. ‘Long time, no hear.’ He gestured frantically to Perrin and Lines then set the telephone onto speaker. The team froze and fell silent. His colleagues looked as gobsmacked as he felt.
‘Indeed,’ said Miss Misty.
‘How are you?’ asked Delahaye.
‘Fine, thank you.’ A pause, then, ‘I have some information you might find useful regarding your investigation.’
Delahaye grabbed a pen. ‘Please continue.’
‘You’ll be tempted to disbelieve what I tell you, but I advise you to take it very seriously, for the sake of Rubery’s children. Are you ready, Detective Sergeant?’
‘Yes,’ said Delahaye.
‘Have you recognised a pattern thus far?’
Delahaye paused. Perrin nodded. ‘Yes,’ Delahaye said. ‘The pattern involves dogs.’
‘Correct. Canines of all kinds: wolves, dogs and foxes. Bites found on the children suggest the killer is attacking the boys the same way dogs attack people.’ Miss Misty paused once more. ‘Bryan Shelton was found with his throat possibly torn out.’
‘That detail wasn’t disclosed to the press. How would you know that, Misty?’
‘Have you forgotten that I was the one who found Mickey Grant’s body, and saw for myself the damage done?’
She hadn’t answered the question. Delahaye was sure now he knew the identity of Miss Misty – it was the girl who’d helped make the 999 call on the day Bryan Shelton’s body was discovered, a girl canny enough to preserve evidence on that body and would have seen the wounds inflicted on the child’s neck.
Delahaye looked to Perrin, who nodded his consent. ‘Mickey was discovered with a fox . . . And Bryan Shelton was found wrapped in a blanket with a little dog.’
There was a long pause.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘We see a developing pattern. It was once believed that unstable people became uncontrollably violent during the time of the full moon. This is fallacy.’ Another pause then: ‘So, what do you get if you cross a man with a wolf, DS Delahaye?’
It wasn’t a question you got asked on an ordinary day – and Delahaye thought he’d heard everything.
Then the penny dropped.
‘A werewolf,’ he said. The other squad members turned to look at each other, bemused.
‘Yes, but the proper term is lycanthrope. Lycanthropes don’t exist, DS Delahaye. He doesn’t physically change into the beast, he just thinks he does. Clinical lycanthropy, however, does exist and has existed in spots and spats throughout human history. That’s clinical lycanthropy.’ Helpfully, she spelled it out while Delahaye scribbled. ‘History has many cases of clinical lycanthropy. These are real-life accounts of men who truly believed they were werewolves, believed absolutely that they transformed into animals at will. It is known in modern psychology. The famous cases in criminal history will interest you more. Am I speaking too quickly?’
Delahaye paused. ‘No.’
‘Good,’ she said sharply. ‘These cases match the criteria of the murderer you pursue. In each case, a small community was terrorised by a lone man who suffered with clinical lycanthropy, and children were the victims.’ Miss Misty slowed down as she listed. ‘The names of the places are, amongst others . . .’ She made every name clear and singular. ‘Bedburg. Allariz. Livonia. St Severs; Dole.’ She paused then added, ‘Of this list, take a closer look at Dole’s Gilles Garnier, and especially St Severs’ Jean Grenier – these two are the closest you will find in comparison to Rubery’s predator.’
‘Mickey’s murder was different from Bry—’
‘But not so different, DS Delahaye.’
Delahaye closed his eyes. She had put into order what had been disordered for months. Her theory fitted and it threw light on the whole case. It might not be clinical lycanthropy, of course, but it was something to move forward with. How did she know so much about such things?
‘There aren’t many books on the subject, and most of those available aren’t very good. But might I recommend a shortcut?’
Delahaye smiled in response. ‘Yes, please.’
‘Rubery has a mental hospital, and then there is Hollymoor Hospital. There must be a rich store of knowledge amongst their faculties. There might even be a case history of clinical lycanthropy amongst their patient records. At least one doctor there must have some interest in unique psychologies – or will know of a colleague who does. I suggest you start there for your research.’
Delahaye glanced at Perrin, who nodded. DCI Brookes leaned against the door jamb of his office.
‘A werewolf . . . ’
‘No,’ said Miss Misty. ‘A man who truly believes he is a werewolf. Those who suffer this condition are usually male. You’re literally looking for a lone wolf in sheep’s clothing – someone local to the area, well known to local people especially children. He ensures his everyday mask stays in place but somebody close to him must know when it slips.’
The police had always suspected the killer was a local man, and if their main suspect believed he was a werewolf, it was a dramatic, surreal yet comfortable fit for the evidence, and his method of operation.
‘You mustn’t tell the public this,’ said Miss Misty. ‘You’ll have gangs on the streets hunting anyone they perceive as odd and mayhem will ensue. You’ll have to pursue this quietly for now.’
She was right.
‘I would like to ask you a question, DS Delahaye.’
‘Yes.’
‘Why release to the press the story about the man in a bear suit seen around the site of Bryan’s body?’
Delahaye clicked his pen. ‘Because we don’t believe it was a man in a bear suit . . . ’
‘I don’t think it was a bear suit either,’ agreed Miss Misty. ‘I think it was a man in a wolf suit making mischief of one kind . . . or another.’
Where had Delahaye heard that line before?
‘I think the suit is . . . bespoke,’ Miss Misty continued. ‘I suspect he’s made the wolf suit himself – from fake or possibly even real dog fur. This thing he is: it’s private, all his own. He wouldn’t risk sharing any part of it with an outside . . . agency.’ She pronounced some words with the delicacy of a person eating expensive food for the first time.
‘Where would he get real dog fur?’ asked Delahaye, horrified.
‘Detective Sergeant: many dogs are killed by cars on the roads every year so it would not be difficult to find the right materials.’
On the other end of the line, in the background, Delahaye made out the loud, trilling tones of an ice-cream van, and Ancona’s van no less – ‘Pop! Goes The Weasel’. He heard Miss Misty’s gasp: a startled intake of breath, as if she’d been goosed from behind. In that gasp, Delahaye heard Ava, all Ava as her disguise collapsed for a brief moment. Robert Shelton’s voice was suddenly in his head: ‘They can do accents and impressions . . . Mary Poppins, and wolf howls . . .’
Where the Wild Things Are, Delahaye thought, remembering that Bryan had been buried in his home-made wolf suit . . . Hadn’t Ava’s Miss Misty just quoted the mischief line from that story? ‘The night Max wore his wolf suit and made mischief of one kind and another . . . ’
‘You mentioned before about him walking on all fours,’ he said. ‘Is that physically possible for a human to move like that for long periods of time?’
‘Yes, with practice.’ A short pause, then, ‘I hope this information will be useful.’
A click, and then the dial tone buzzed in Delahaye’s ear. The squad exchanged glances.
Delahaye sat alone in the growing disquiet. They’d been fooled into thinking they were speaking to an educated, upper-class woman. The emergency telephone call alerting of the police of Shelton’s location had been made by children. The tape of the call had been played several times and it was two children they heard – a boy and, in the background, seemingly telling him what to say, a girl. Both refused to give their names when asked by the controller. Delahaye had exchanged a glance with Lines because they knew a girl bright enough to avoid making the call herself as she knew Delahaye would recognise her voice – Ava Bonney. This beggared the possibility that was both impressive and chilling – Ava bagging the hand and making the little dam. Now he had a decision to make: to tell the rest of the squad that Ava was Miss Misty, or not to tell?
Don’t tell.
She gave us a wad of clues.
She’s too useful.
She doesn’t interrupt.
She doesn’t get in the way.
Leave her be.
‘Was that a hoax call?’ DC Hicks asked. ‘Are we getting our legs pulled?’
Gibson watched Delahaye with intense interest.
‘No,’ said Delahaye, Lines and Perrin in unison.
‘I’ll call Rubery Hill Hospital,’ said Gibson, and turned away to the telephone on her desk.
Delahaye checked his watch then snatched his car keys from the desk. Miss Misty’s call had been timely for he had a meeting with former Chief Inspector Harry Marshall, and the drive to Rubery would be time to consider all she’d said. The police wouldn’t be able to utilise the information until they’d spoken to an expert about it, but it was a new lead.