Neeraj rummaged in the pocket of his leather jacket and took out a packet of Extra Strong Mints. ‘Yeah, the guy’s got style. And class.’ He popped a mint into his mouth, then made to put them back into his pocket; he paused and offered one to Denning. ‘It’s just a pity he was lying through his arse.’
Chapter Thirteen
Ever since her early morning meeting with Magda Kilbride, Molly had been twitchy. She’d fully expected the journalist to dismiss her claims about Anthony Ferguson with a derisory laugh. The fact she hadn’t done so, told Molly that she just might be on to something.
She gave the mouse a shake and woke her computer from sleep mode then, using the Met’s intranet, logged onto HOLMES2. Having started life as an advanced search tool which could instantly cross-reference data between different police forces, HOLMES2 had recently been upgraded to include full and comprehensive details on any ongoing major criminal investigations in the UK, including photos of relevant crime scenes.
Misuse of either HOLMES2 or the Police National Computer database was an instant disciplinary matter, and if someone were to check that she’d been accessing it for anything other than official police business, she’d be in serious trouble.
But she had to know if she was right.
She tapped in her access code and password and quickly brought up the appropriate file: Leanne Wyatt’s murder case. DI Denning was clearly thorough and very organised: all the relevant information had already been uploaded onto the system, including scene-of-crime analysis; the post-mortem report and a note that the forensics report was to follow.
It was the post-mortem report she wanted.
She clicked on the relevant file and waited for the information to appear on the screen. There was a separate attachment which contained photographs from the crime scene as well as the post-mortem photographs. She clicked on the attachment, waited a few seconds for the file to download, then opened the file to examine the post-mortem photographs.
She stared at the pictures of Leanne Wyatt: her face had been cleaned up by the morticians, presumably for the benefit of whichever family member had been given the unfortunate task of having to identify her. Molly was looking at the face of a young girl, the life battered and strangled out of her. It was tragic and it was horrible and such a waste of life.
But she couldn’t miss it. There in the middle of her forehead, almost dead centre, a couple of ugly red scratches in what distinctly looked like the shape of a cross.
* * *
The Fleur de Lys on Islington’s Upper Street had been laid out with the same identikit fixtures and fittings that could be found in any generic pub chain; the walls decorated in shades of pale beige, on which were hung insipid prints of what looked like some kind of flower, before Denning realised they were Fleur de Lys.
A bored-looking cleaner pushed a Henry Hoover around a far corner trying his best to ignore them.
It had been Ryan Cormack who’d phoned it in: the manager had contacted them to say that someone fitting Leanne’s description had been in the bar on Monday evening.
Denning slid a photo of Leanne Wyatt across the bar top. ‘Was this the woman you saw on the evening of the 23rd?’
The manager, who had given his name as Jason Meredith, was in his mid-twenties with badly dyed blond spikey hair and piercings threaded along one earlobe. He was unshaven and looked like he hadn’t slept; as though the evening shift and the morning shift had bled into one another without even pausing for breath. ‘That’s what I told one of your colleagues. I saw the news last night and I recognised her. She was in here on Monday night, sitting at the end of the bar chatting to some man. She was nicely dressed, and, you know, nice looking.’ He pushed the photo back across the bar. ‘It was nasty, what happened to her, like.’
‘What about the man she was with?’
Meredith shrugged. ‘Just some bloke. Bit older than her, but there was nothing strange about him. And they seemed to know each other; I mean she walked straight up to him as soon as she arrived.’
‘When was that?’
‘About eight, or thereabouts. I’m not sure what time he arrived. I only really noticed him after she turned up. We were quite busy for a Monday, so I didn’t have much time to chat to the customers.’
‘What about CCTV?’
‘The CCTV in the bar area doesn’t work. I’ve been on at the owners to get it repaired for weeks now, but you might as well speak to the back of your hand.’
‘The bar area? Does that mean the CCTV is working elsewhere?’
‘The one down by the toilets works. And by the entrance. It records straight onto a DVD.’
‘We’ll take any DVDs for the night in question, if you don’t mind.’
‘We only keep the DVDs for twenty-four hours, then they’re recorded over.’
Denning was incredulous. ‘What’s the point of that?’
‘Saves money. I mean, if there’s been an incident, then we keep hold of any footage for evidence, like, but otherwise the DVDs just get reused.’
‘It’s just unfortunate there was an “incident” on Monday evening,’ Denning offered.
‘Yeah, but I didn’t know one of our customers was going to get murdered, did I?’ He folded his arms across his chest. ‘You need to take it up with the owners if you’ve got a problem.’
‘I might just do that,’ said Denning. ‘Can you describe the man she was with?’
‘Late thirties, maybe slightly older. Well dressed, polite; chucking cash around like there was no tomorrow.’
‘Did you recognise him?’
Meredith looked perplexed. ‘Recognise…?’
‘Had you seen him before?’
‘No. He wasn’t one of our regulars. I think she’s been in here a couple of times, but I’d never seen her with him before the other evening.’
‘I don’t suppose you happened to hear what they were talking about?’
He shook his head. ‘No chance. It was heaving in here. There was a band playing and you could barely hear yourself think.’
‘Anything else?’
He looked blank for a moment, and rubbed a hand over his stubbly chin. ‘Well…’
‘Go on.’
‘I can’t be sure, mind, but it looked like she was crying at one point.’
‘Crying?’
‘Yeah. I mean I couldn’t say for certain, but she did look like she was upset about something. It was possible they’d had an argument, but I might be wrong.’
Denning thought about this. ‘Do you know what they were arguing about?’
Meredith unfolded his arms and leant on the bar. ‘Like I said, I’m not even sure they were arguing. But whatever it was, they obviously kissed and made up at some point, because the next time I looked up, they were sat over there,’ he pointed at one of the booths, ‘and seemed quite chatty again.’
‘What time did they leave?’
He shrugged. ‘I couldn’t tell you that, sorry.’
‘OK,’ said Denning, ‘but I expect the CCTV could have helped there.’
‘Yes,’ Meredith replied coldly, ‘I expect it would have been more helpful.’
* * *
Once they were back out on the street, blinking in the brilliant sunlight, Neeraj said, ‘The description doesn’t fit Gregor Kane.’
‘No,’ said Denning, ‘but it does fit Daryl Bailey.’
‘It could fit half the men in London, including me and you.’
‘Perhaps…’ Denning was staring down the street, towards the lower end of Upper Street, where it ran into Pentonville Road. ‘Where did Kane say he was on Monday night?’
‘The Cat in the Hat. It’s a nightclub near the Angel tube station.’
‘Yes,’ said Denning. ‘I know it is. It’s also less than a five minute walk from this bar.’ He turned to face Neeraj. ‘Do you believe in coincidences, Deep? Because I don’t.’
Chapter Fourteen
‘Thanks for agreeing to see me,’ Molly said. ‘I’ll try
not to take up too much of your time.’
Kenneth Walters smiled and offered Molly a cup of tea. ‘It’s not often I get a visit from an attractive young lady, so please take as long as you like.’
Walters was in his mid-sixties, meaning he would have been in his early to mid-fifties at the time of Ferguson’s killing spree. Too young to retire…?
The house was in a cul-de-sac off a quiet road in Hornchurch. Plenty of pictures of family were dotted around various tables and bookcases in the cosy living room. Large picture windows opened onto a well-tended garden. Judging by the immaculate state of the garden, Molly guessed this was how Ken Walters filled his days.
Walters had been easy enough to trace: Trudi Bell’s dad had worked in the same nick as him back in the late nineties, and they had kept in touch via the occasional Christmas card.
Molly had told her DI she was following up a lead in the Gregor Kane drugs case. It was a lie, and she felt guilty telling it, but she needed to speak to Walters. If nothing else, he would be able to confirm or deny what Magda Kilbride had told her.
‘Here we are.’ Walters appeared from the kitchen carrying a tray heavy with tea and cake. He placed the tray on the coffee table and poured out a cup each for Molly and himself. ‘Help yourself to milk and sugar.’ He passed the cup to Molly, then sat on an armchair beside the patio doors. ‘Would you like some walnut cake?’ he asked. ‘My wife made it yesterday.’
Molly felt it would be rude to refuse. There was something avuncular about Ken Walters: he was a couple of kilos overweight, with a greying beard and sharp blue eyes that twinkled at her from behind the thick lenses of his gold-rimmed glasses. He looked like a kindly grandfather, which she imagined he probably was.
She balanced the cake on her saucer and tried not to spill anything. She desperately wanted another cigarette.
‘You said on the phone that you wanted to ask me some questions about Anthony Ferguson, but you didn’t say why. Has something happened?’
‘No,’ she replied, her mouth full of cake. ‘No, this is strictly unofficial, Mr Walters.’ She swallowed the mouthful of cake and wiped crumbs from her mouth. ‘I’m hoping to join the homicide division, and I’m currently completing a module in forensic science as part of the Met’s internal diploma certificate. I have to write an essay based on an actual murder inquiry, and I thought the Bermondsey Ripper investigation would make an interesting case study.’ It worried her just how easily the lies came to her now. It would only take a phone call to an old colleague in the Met to prove she was talking bollocks; she was banking on Walters not taking that chance.
‘Please call me Ken,’ he said. ‘We’re all on the same side after all. And I think it’s really wonderful that the Met offer these kind of schemes nowadays. Such things never existed in my day: it was sink or swim, and you’d surprised just how many people sank. Sometimes without a trace.’ He gave a jovial laugh at his own joke.
Molly smiled back at him. She suspected Walters liked talking about his days on the force. She knew that many retired police officers felt a growing void where their purpose in life had disappeared overnight – a void they were unable to fill. It would be worse for Walters if his retirement had been forced on him, assuming Magda Kilbride had been telling the truth.
‘I just want a bit of background about Anthony Ferguson,’ she said. ‘I know the basic details, but I’d like to know more about the specifics of the case. As you led the investigation I thought it would be useful to get your take on what happened.’
‘Yes, yes, of course. I’d be happy to help.’ Walters sat back in his armchair and closed his eyes, nodding slowly. When he spoke it was almost like he was in a trance. ‘I can remember the case so vividly. Even after thirty years in the Met, there are some cases that never leave you.’ He took another sip of tea, staring at the cup for what seemed like an eternity before placing it back on the table beside him. ‘The first victim was found a short distance from a pub where she worked, in a car park just off Jamaica Road: she’d been raped, beaten and strangled. Then about a month later another woman was found in a park near the Old Kent Road, same MO, only more violence this time.’ He gave a deep sigh. ‘We didn’t make a connection at first; assumed it was just coincidental. It was only after the third murder that we realised we were dealing with the same man. Nobody likes having a serial killer on their patch: they’re always the worst kind. It becomes like a sick game for them; pushing us to see how much they can get away with before we finally catch them. One of our team had been a junior detective on the Sutcliffe murders in the eighties, so we knew what would happen if we didn’t catch this monster: the press and the public would crucify us. And rightfully so. But we had very little to go on: no witnesses and very little DNA evidence to work with.’ He removed his glasses and rubbed a hand over his eyes. ‘As the murders progressed they became increasingly more brutal. I can never understand why someone would feel the need to use that level of violence. I mean, there’s no reason for it, is there?’
He looked at Molly, as though this were a question he expected her to answer, but she just quietly shook her head.
‘He scored a cross onto the forehead of some of the victims. Is that right?’ she asked.
His face briefly registered a note of surprise, then he slowly nodded. ‘That was what finally convinced us we were looking for the same man. Although that information was never made public just in case someone confessed, then we could use that knowledge to prove they weren’t having us on. Also, the last thing we needed was a copycat killer thinking about doing something similar to try and throw us off the scent.’
‘Why did he do it? The cross I mean, why?’
The old man shook his head ‘Some killers like to mark their victims in some way. It’s almost like a calling card. But as to why it was a cross, I don’t know. Ferguson wasn’t religious, so that didn’t explain it. We asked him about it, of course, but he wouldn’t say. But then he didn’t say much.’
‘How did you catch Ferguson?’
We brought in a forensic psychologist. He described an insecure loner with poorly developed social skills. He suggested we were looking for a psychopath. Well, Anthony Ferguson comfortably fitted that description.’ He gave a weary smile. ‘Even so, it took months of painstaking detective work to finally nail him. As is so often the case, it was a lucky break that swung it our way. Ferguson was eventually arrested after getting into a fight at work – he was working for a building firm at the time and had a minor skirmish with a work colleague – his DNA was a direct match to two of the victims. From that we investigated him further and found out that he was a regular at the pub where the first victim worked, and CCTV placed him in the vicinity of another two. Initially he refused to tell us anything, offering up an endless stream of “no comments”. He was a pathetic little runt of a man. I mean I know the types of men who commit these atrocious crimes are usually inadequate specimens, but even so, there was something particularly hopeless about Ferguson. Then there was this palpable sense of evil that came off him: it was almost tangible. I’m not a religious man, Molly, but when I looked at Anthony Ferguson I swear it felt like the devil was staring back at me.’
He paused for a moment as though the memories were so awful his brain needed a chance to cool down before it melted from the horrors it had been forced to revisit.
Molly finished her tea. So far everything he’d told her confirmed what she already knew. But if Magda Kilbride was to be believed – and that was still a big if – then where were the doubts Walters had expressed about the case?
‘Did Ferguson give a reason for committing the murders?’ she asked.
He shook his head. ‘It was only when we presented him with the CCTV and DNA evidence that he started to talk, even then he didn’t say much. He denied everything, as they always do. He claimed the evidence was faked, and the police were out to frame him.’
Molly waited before she asked her next question. ‘Is it right that he had an alibi for one
of the murders?’ she asked.
Walters’ brow wrinkled. ‘You have been doing your research, detective.’ He took a slow deep breath, then said, ‘Ferguson mentioned something about having been with a friend on the night of the last murder. It was all rubbish, of course. It was the same during the trial: the defence put it forward but it was quickly dismissed. Besides, even though he protested his innocence, he couldn’t explain away what evidence we did have against him. However, I think by then he knew the game was up.’
‘I presume you checked out his alibi?’
He looked at her before he answered. ‘We spoke to the friend, naturally.’ Walters gave a deep chuckle. ‘He was an alcoholic who could barely remember what he’d had for breakfast, never mind whether or not he’d been with Ferguson on the night in question. It was a complete waste of time. The prosecution made mincemeat of him at the trial.’
‘Can you remember the friend’s name?’
Walters stroked his beard and gave another shake of his head. ‘Dennis, or Derek or something. I can’t remember a surname.’
Dennis or Derek… no surname… It wasn’t much but it was something.
She decided to grasp the nettle: ‘Was there a chance he didn’t do it? Anthony Ferguson: is there any possibility he could be innocent?’
Walters stared into his tea cup, then looked hard at Molly. ‘Oh, Ferguson did it all right. Take my word for it. The man was pure evil.’
Molly didn’t believe in moral absolutes like good and evil: it was too convenient. Even if Ken Walters believed in the existence of evil, it was neither a credible motive nor an indication of guilt. But Walters seemed a decent man. She suspected he’d done the best he could at the time: not cutting corners or accepting easy answers. Perhaps Magda Kilbride was wrong. Perhaps she’d deliberately stirred the shit pot in the hope of finding something that wasn’t there.
Know No Evil Page 7