Trudi seemed momentarily taken aback, but smiled and said, ‘Oh, right. Great. Well, good luck. We could certainly appreciate a bit of help. I mean I know it looks like we’ve got a multiple murderer out there, but dragging us in on a weekend really is taking the piss.’
Molly wasn’t sure if she was joking but smiled anyway.
A few moments later, Denning appeared, carrying a cup of Costa coffee and looking slightly distracted. He placed the coffee on his desk and nodded a professional smile in her direction. ‘DS Fisher,’ he said, ‘thanks for agreeing to help. You can use DS Myers’ desk whilst you’re here. He’s on sick leave for the next couple of months.’ He pointed at a desk at the far end of the office near what looked like a metal stationary cupboard. ‘But in the meantime,’ he dragged a swivel chair over from the corner beside the whiteboards, ‘perhaps you and I could go over everything you know about Anthony Ferguson.’
She sat down next to Denning. His desk was neat and tidy; just an A4 pad and a photograph of an East Asian woman she took to be his wife. ‘I’ve seen the case notes,’ he said. ‘I’m willing to accept there are significant similarities between the two cases. We’re working on the assumption that this is a copy-cat killer; someone who knew Ferguson, possibly someone who was in prison with him and is now looking to bask in some of his glory.’
‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘However, I honestly think we need to look at the possibility that the wrong man was sent down for this eleven years ago. I know all the evidence points to Ferguson being the guilty party, but there are questions.’ She told him what she’d found out about Ferguson so far. There was something empowering about sharing this information with a senior officer, even one who had been so dismissive of her the day before. ‘OK, I know it’s mostly circumstantial,’ she concluded, ‘but it does cast doubt on Ferguson’s guilt.’
Denning still seemed unconvinced. He nodded politely when she spoke, but she couldn’t escape the feeling he was simply humouring her.
‘If that is the case,’ he said, ‘then it raises serious questions about what the real killer has been doing over the past twelve years. We also have to ask, why now? Why start killing again?’
Molly shrugged. ‘I don’t know the answer to that. But Ferguson clearly had an alibi for the night of the last murder.’
Denning looked at his notes. ‘Rebecca Owen. OK, but his alibi is far from watertight.’
‘I’m not so sure,’ Molly said. ‘I spoke to Rodman. He seemed convincing.’
‘Then why that one night? Why didn’t Ferguson offer him up as an alibi for all the other murders if he knew Rodman was willing to lie for him?’
Molly sighed. ‘I can’t answer that.’ Denning reached out for his coffee, but changed his mind, leaving it untouched on his desk. ‘You need to speak to Ken Walters,’ she said. ‘he knows more than he’s letting on.’
Denning nodded. ‘Maybe. But first things first, I have to call a briefing as soon as everyone gets here.’
She waited until the room the filled up. Once they were all seated and the general hubbub had died down, Denning rose to his feet to begin the briefing. ‘First off,’ he said, ‘apologies for dragging you all in on a Saturday, but as we are now in the midst of a multiple murder investigation, days off are a luxury we can’t afford.’ There was a muttered cacophony of grumblings from the detectives, which Denning ignored. ‘Next, I’d like to introduce DS Molly Fisher to the team. She’s joining us temporarily from regular CID to help with the investigation. I’m sure you’ll all make her very welcome and those of you who don’t already know her will find time to make your introductions at some point.’ He turned to face the whiteboard. ‘In the meantime, Trudi has been collating the CCTV footage from the bridge next to where Sandra Blake’s body was found, so our priority is to go over that in detail and look for anything that might be of interest to us. We’re still waiting for the post-mortem to get here, but we can safely assume we’re looking for the same person who was responsible for Leanne Wyatt’s murder and likely Tanya Russell’s too. Uniform are due to visit every pub within a couple of miles of the Gilded Drake, but let’s be honest, it’s the longest of longshots to assume they’d hit the jackpot. Sandra Drake could have gone anywhere, assuming she’d even gone to another pub at all.’
Denning looked over at Deep Neeraj, who was chomping on an Extra Strong Mint and staring at something on his computer screen. He looked up when he saw Denning was speaking to him. Molly noticed Neeraj had heavy bags under his eyes, suggesting he too had been struggling with sleep.
‘Deep, get on to the PNC,’ said Denning. ‘And find out everything you can about a man called Anthony Ferguson.’
‘The Bermondsey Ripper.’ Neeraj said with a note of derision. ‘That was years ago.’
‘I know. But can you just do it, please.’ Denning was snappy and Molly wondered whether tempers in the MIT suite were frayed because of the heat, or the stress of the case, or a combination of both. This was either the worst time to have joined an on-going murder investigation, she thought, or the best time. She wasn’t entirely sure yet.
* * *
Ken Walters didn’t seem particularly surprised to see Denning when he knocked on his front door later that afternoon. Denning had left Fisher back at the office, compiling a list of people who’d been in prison with Ferguson over the past twelve years and who had been released in the past few weeks. It was a long list. She wasn’t happy about it, and had made her feelings clear to Denning. She wanted to be where the action was, and that meant accompanying him on his visit to Walters. He didn’t quite know what to make of Fisher, at least not yet. She was bright and sparky, and very keen. But she was also rough around the edges, like an uncut diamond.
‘Come in, come in,’ said Walters, ushering Denning into his small but tidy bungalow. ‘Why don’t we sit out in the garden as it’s such a lovely day?’
He led the way through to the patio at the rear of the house, beside pretty flowers in ceramic pots. The garden was partially shaded by a large willow tree that sat on the slightly parched lawn surrounded by a bed of bright roses. ‘Can I get you something to drink?’
Denning shook his head. ‘No thank you, Mr Walters.’ He wondered if he should call the old man ‘sir’; officers of Walters’ generation expected deference, even after they’d left the job. But the moment passed, and Walters said. ‘I’m going to have a glass of beer. Are you sure you won’t join me?’
‘Well, OK. I don’t suppose one would do any harm.’
Walters headed back into the house. He reappeared a couple of minutes later with two glasses of chilled Guinness. Denning hadn’t drunk Guinness for years. He appreciated the cool, rich taste as he took a sip. ‘Cheers,’ said Walters, raising his glass at Denning as though it were some languid social occasion. ‘I believe Liz McKenna is your DCI. I worked with her ex-husband for a number of years. She has quite a reputation, so I hear: balls of steel.’
Denning smiled. ‘I’ll pass on your regards.’
‘Do they still call her “Betty Taggart” behind her back?’
‘About Anthony Ferguson,’ said Denning, ignoring the attempt at small talk. ‘I believe you spoke to a colleague of mine last week. She said there might be some doubts about aspects of the original investigation. She mentioned something about Ferguson having an alibi for one of the murders? Is that true?’
Walters sipped his Guinness, licking a thin sliver of foam from his top lip with a flick of his tongue. He eyed Denning cautiously. ‘Oh yes, the delightful Detective Sergeant Fisher.’ He stared momentarily at his glass. ‘She lied to me, which I didn’t appreciate at the time. Some cock and bull story about re-examining an old case as part of some Met training scheme. I suppose in hindsight I should have appreciated her ingenuity. But I never like being lied to.’ He chortled to himself. ‘She must have thought me a silly old duffer. After all, if I can’t tell when a slip of a girl is telling me fibs, then I couldn’t have been much of a copper back in the day, could I?�
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Denning tried to reassure him with a sympathetic smile. ‘It was a bit unorthodox, and I accept that she should have been honest with you. However, I can confirm that DS Fisher is now an official part of the ongoing murder inquiry.’
‘Ferguson was a liar. His alibi was lies. It was obvious he’d asked a friend to lie for him.’
‘OK. For argument’s sake, let’s accept that the alibi was false. But DS Fisher seemed to think there was something else. Some other doubts about the case.’
Walters watched Denning with wary eyes. ‘What’s this really to do with? You can’t think Ferguson is in any way involved with these recent murders, can you?’
‘It’s possible,’ Denning said, ‘that someone Ferguson knew is behind these recent killings. But, taking on board what DS Fisher has told me, along with what I’ve read about his case, we can’t ignore the possibility Ferguson may be innocent. I have an obligation to explore all the options before I completely rule anything out.’ Credit to Neeraj, he’d been thorough when collated everything of interest the PNC had on Ferguson and the Bermondsey Ripper case.
A sudden gust of wind blew across the patio and caused the flowers in the ceramic pots to nod as though they were agreeing with Denning’s words.
‘Yes,’ said Walters. ‘Yes, I think you’d be very wise not to rule anything out when it comes to Anthony Ferguson. It’s just possible things weren’t quite as clear-cut as they seemed at the time.’
* * *
Molly had wasted an hour searching through the list of names she was compiling for Denning. Most were petty criminals who had been sent down for drug-related crimes, violence or robberies and break-ins. Others had been in for fraud, deception or handling stolen goods. One man had served two years for perjury. Only four murderers had been released within the last month: two of them were over sixty, one had moved back to Glasgow to be with his elderly mother, and the other had been recalled over a breach of his parole within a week of being released. Two men had been released early from rape sentences, but it was a big leap from rape to murder. Or was it? The truth was: she didn’t know what she was looking for.
She didn’t entirely buy Denning’s copy-cat killer theory. It was too neat, too convenient. It felt to her like he was retro-fitting the facts and trying to form them into a tidy shape. She should have been with Denning at the interview, after all she was the one who’d flashed Walters’ name up on the radar in the first place.
But instead she was sitting at Denning’s desk, looking over a list of ex-cons, one of whom might be a serial killer. She looked up to see Trudi waving a packet of B&H in her direction and gesturing towards the door. Molly shook her head and pulled an exaggerated sad face. There was nothing she would have loved more at that exact moment than to go for a fag break and a gossip with Trudi, but she had to plough through this crap. She would run the names through the PNC to see if anyone had attracted police attention since they’d got out, but if they were devoting their spare time to killing women then it was likely they’d be keeping as low a profile as was humanly possible.
The PNC was unable to yield anything useful, as she’d expected. She was tempted to look up the name Jon Cavanagh, even if it meant unearthing a whole heap of nasty shit she’d rather not know about. She still couldn’t escape the gnawing worry that there was so much more about Jon’s life and personal history about which she was ignorant. For the sake of her sanity, perhaps it was better left like that. She still had to ask herself some hard questions about her future, and whether or not Jon featured in it. Moving her belongings into the spare room was only one step off moving out altogether. She didn’t yet know if that was what she wanted. She didn’t really know much right now, not even if she wanted to work in MIT, especially if most of the work was as tedious as conventional CID.
At some point in the near future she was going to have to have a serious conversation with herself as to where her future lay, both personally and professionally.
* * *
Denning took another sip of Guinness. It was particularly welcome on this hot day. A wasp buzzed around his head; he tried swatting it away but it kept returning, lured either by the Guinness or by the scent of his aftershave.
‘There was always something about Anthony Ferguson,’ Walters said. ‘I told all this to your colleague, but I’ll say it again: he seemed to exude something evil. Prior to meeting him I don’t think I’d ever truly known evil, not in an almost physical sense. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you, Mr Denning, but with most killers there’s a clear purpose behind why they do what they do: greed, lust, revenge. Most killers kill for a reason.’ He scratched his beard, and stared at the glass of Guinness on the garden table as though mesmerised by it. ‘Ferguson killed because he enjoyed the act of killing. I don’t think it mattered to him: animals, people. He took pleasure from watching others suffer.’
Denning already knew this. He’d done his research: Ferguson was a cold-blooded psychopath, who’d never shown a shred of remorse for his actions. But none of this was proof of either innocence or guilt. ‘But you have doubts about him?’ Denning asked.
‘About his guilt? No, no doubts at all.’
‘DS Fisher seems to think you had doubts about certain elements of the case. If you do have any doubts, Mr Walters, now would be the time to share them.’ He tried hard not to sound aggressive, but there was an edge to his voice that said he had neither the time nor the energy to fuck about. ‘I need to conclusively rule any link with Ferguson out of this investigation, and time isn’t exactly on my side here.’
‘I think you can safely rule Ferguson out of these recent murders,’ Walters chuckled. ‘As far as I’m aware, he’s still locked up.’
Denning looked at him, trying to fix him with the same gimlet stare that McKenna so often used on him, but Walters seemed impervious; no doubt he’d crossed swords with scarier DCIs than Betty Taggart back in his day. He decided on a more direct approach. ‘Like I said, time isn’t on my side. We’ve got a killer out there and I need to put him away before the body count rises.’
The directness seemed to do the trick. Walters dropped his shoulders and sighed. For a moment he looked like a shrunken old man rather than the strong-willed, sharp-minded ex-cop that had greeted Denning on the doorstep.
‘Ferguson was an unfortunate individual. One of life’s inadequates: a loser, I suppose you’d call him. I’m no psychiatrist, but I reckon murdering those women was the only successful thing he’s ever done in his life.’
‘Go on.’
‘Well, that’s it really. Nothing more than a niggling doubt. But we didn’t have time for niggling doubts twelve years ago: we were up against it, as I very much imagine you are now. Time was of the essence, as it always is. And it wasn’t as if Ferguson wasn’t guilty. We all knew he did it.’
Denning scratched his head. The wasp was buzzing around Walters’ head now, though he seemed oblivious to it; lost in his own memories.
‘What, exactly, was that niggling doubt?’
‘It was the murders. They were so well-planned. Everything – from how those poor women were snatched from the streets, to where and how the bodies were left for us to find – was planned with an almost military precision.’ He looked at Denning, pity lining his face and sadness welling in his eyes. ‘It took us months to solve those murders. Months of solid hard-core policing. We even drafted officers in from other divisions, and still we struggled to find a lead.’
Denning was confused. ‘I already know this. It’s in the files. I still don’t see what it has to do with Anthony Ferguson.’
‘That’s just it, Mr Denning. We were dealing with a clever killer. Anthony Ferguson was many things, but he wasn’t clever.’
‘I don’t see…’ Denning was struggling to follow Walters’ reasoning. ‘Are you now saying Ferguson didn’t do it…?’
Walters shook his head. He took another drink of Guinness. He looked momentarily crestfallen as though he’d finally been caught out and kne
w it was time to confess. ‘No. I’m saying, deep down, I always suspected there might have been two of them.’
Chapter Forty-Five
Molly didn’t want to believe what she was reading. Despite her reservations, curiosity had got the better of her and she’d decided to have a look on the PNC. She’d convinced herself she’d rather know than not know; that whatever the outcome, she would deal with it.
And there it was, flashed up on the computer screen.
The harassment claim made by Melanie Harris about Jonathan Andrew Cavanagh. He’d received an official warning, but nothing more.
However, there was a second entry under his name. She thought she was going to throw up when she read it: an arrest for assault dated almost exactly twelve years ago. But it was the name of the victim that made her scalp prickle. The person on the receiving end of Jon’s violent outburst was Magda Kilbride.
It explained so much. The underlying animosity between the two of them, and the one-woman vendetta Mags seemed to be waging against Jon.
She read the report for a second time.
The officers who’d been called out had labelled it a ‘domestic’. Domestic? Did that mean Jon and Mags had been living together…?
The details were vague, just the basic facts: a report had come in at approximately 22:30 p.m. on the evening in question. It seemed there had been an argument between ‘a couple’ resulting in a female being thrown against a wall causing her injury. Despite some significant bruising, the female had declined to go to hospital, insisting she would stay with a friend. The male had been arrested, cautioned and held in custody until the following morning. The male was described as having been drunk and aggressive. Ultimately, the victim had decided to drop the charges and the case never got as far as court.
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