I called Jen from the car, like a hurt child wanting to vent about the bullies at school. I offloaded to her as I drove, without really thinking, towards Fordley.
‘What a bitch!’ she said with uncharacteristic venom, but it felt good. Coming from someone whose opinion was usually so balanced. It validated my feelings somehow. ‘They deserve each other,’ she carried on. ‘Her and Hoyle. A dysfunctional, self-aggrandising double act!’
That made me smile despite myself.
‘You should be a behavioural analyst with insight like that.’
‘Only if “arseholes” is a clinical term I can use,’ she said, still spitting.
‘It’s a collective noun.’ I was laughing as I navigated the afternoon traffic. It was only as I turned the corner that I realised where I was. ‘Oh, shit!’
‘What? What’s the matter?’ Jen stopped mid-rant, suddenly concerned.
‘Just realised I’ve driven to the practice without thinking.’
The sight of dozens of reporters and an outside broadcast van blocking the route made me stop in the middle of traffic. I indicated back out into the flow and drove on before they spotted me.
‘Where are you now?’ I asked.
‘At home. I did warn you about the office.’
‘I know. I wasn’t thinking. Meet me up at the farm tonight. I think we need to set up a temporary office for the duration. This is getting ridiculous.’
26 September
late afternoon
Instead of driving back to the farm, I drove down to Hanbury Street and parked up a few minutes’ walk from the row of shops where Anne Stenson’s body had been found.
It had been almost three weeks since the murder and to the uninitiated, there were barely any tell-tale signs of those events now.
I stood in the street opposite the curry house, with my back to the flat where the surveillance team had been. The curry house was closed, but the newsagent next door was a hive of activity.
I stood for a while, observing the people coming and going. Students walked down the street, some took the shortcut through the ginnel between the newsagents and the adjacent houses. Shoppers and school kids made their way home. People got off the bus at the stop down the street and went on their way.
I’d learned long ago, from walking crime scenes, that if I watched an area long enough, I could see patterns emerging. Routes people took, shortcuts they made. The areas most frequented and those that people seemed to avoid. The ebb and flow of the population as they interacted with their geography.
After a few minutes, I crossed the street and entered the ginnel that ran down the side of the newsagent. I tried to picture it as the killer had seen it that early morning, three weeks before.
The dark stone walls towered three floors above my head. The roofs of the building on either side almost meeting in the middle, creating a long, dark and damp corridor that opened out about sixty yards ahead of me into the bright sunlight of an autumn day.
To my right was a ten-foot-high wooden fence surrounding the yard behind the shops. I stopped and considered it for a moment, turning to look back the way I’d just come. I was alone in the ginnel. The high, thick stone walls muffled the sound coming from the busy street I’d just left, and the light from above barely penetrated down here.
As I pushed the creaky wooden gate open, I noticed the remnants of the blue and white police tape still attached to the posts, and the dark silver-grey smudges from the aluminium fingerprint powder that had been dusted everywhere. The yard was a bit brighter, but not much. Still towered over by the high buildings around it.
I began to put myself in the killer’s mind. He’d come down here ahead of time and hidden in here, waiting for his prey. I turned and pushed the gate almost closed, but not on the latch. The wooden slats were old and had gaps in between, enough to see through. I looked through the gap into the ginnel and imagined him watching. Waiting for Anne to come past this spot as she did every morning.
I could hear my own breathing and my heartbeat. The muted soundtrack of the city beyond was just a background hum. It would have been easy enough to hold the gate ajar with his foot, just enough to spring out and grab Anne as the CCTV from the house opposite had shown that he did.
I could just see the partially obscured camera at the corner of the house above. But as Callum had said, it didn’t cover the yard completely, so it was left to the imagination to paint the horror that had happened once he’d dragged her in here.
Crime scene B – always worse.
I looked back at the spot where her body had been found. Faint bloodstains were splashed along the fence and still visible on the stone flags. I breathed in the stale, damp stench of the place. He’d breathed this air. Looked at the same spot. Stood where I was standing now.
And then what? After the horror. After the mutilation. His heart would have been pounding. His breathing quickened as the adrenalin coursed through him, heightening every animal sense in his body.
I cautiously opened the gate slightly and waited, listening intently as he would have done, for any sign that he’d been overheard – nothing. I pushed the gate open just enough to go through and turned to my right as the CCTV showed he’d done, and walked quickly towards the street beyond.
He’d been carrying a backpack containing Anne’s womb. I could imagine him feeling elated. Exhilarated. Excited by the thrill of the kill. Not wracked by guilt or fear or horror at what he’d just done, but revelling in the fulfilment of another fantasy. Another victory over the inferior police officers trying to catch him.
‘Cattle to the slaughter.’
The end of the ginnel opened out into a surprisingly wide area. Shops along the high street backed onto the space to my left. If he’d walked straight ahead, he would have come out in the city centre, with its imposing town hall and wide-paved pedestrian square with ornamental fountains and colourful flower beds. Even at that early hour, there would have been people about. He would have risked being seen and, depending on the amount of blood on his clothing, would have perhaps attracted attention.
I stood and considered his options. To my right was a wide grass verge and a footpath that seemed to lead to the back of more commercial buildings – not as public or open and not covered by any CCTV that I could spot.
I turned right and walked slowly along the path, noticing how few people there were. I stopped and looked up, turning through 360 degrees, seeing the skyline, the rooftops, the buildings. Ahead and towering above the other structures, the large glass edifice of Fordley University looked back at me.
I checked the time and then picked up the pace, following the path with a brisk walk. He wouldn’t have wanted to attract attention to himself by running. He would have looked like someone hurrying to work maybe? Head down, striding out with purpose.
In exactly seven minutes, the path brought me to the back of the university complex. A high, green chain-link fence marked the boundary. It was a warren of delivery bays and loading areas at the back of the building. A barrier protected the entrance to an underground staff car park, with signs that declared it to be for ‘Permit holders only’.
I followed the footpath, noting the swipe card protected locks that guarded access from this side of the building. Seemingly deserted. Not a route many pedestrians would take. It took another five minutes to walk around the edge of the university and come out at the front main entrance.
I took the time to stand and look around. To my right, Manchester Road snaked its way up the hill out of town and I could see the towering blocks of flats along its route. George House where Martha’s body had been found, was clearly visible. Just a few minutes’ walk away. Less than a mile – a murder mile.
26 September
evening
Jen arrived at the farm in a car loaded down with equipment and files. We set up another desk in my office and arranged things the best we could. Jen got things sorted while I called Callum.
‘Jo, I’m sorry about earlier
at the briefing,’ he said, as soon as he picked up.
‘Hoyle’s a complete–’
‘Never mind that,’ I cut across him. ‘I walked the scene today at Hanbury Street.’
That statement was met with silence, so I ploughed on.
‘I think the university might be your link.’ I said it hurriedly before he could cut me off. ‘It fits the geography of the murder and the killer’s profile.’
‘Go on.’
‘The university is almost on a direct route from the ginnel in Hanbury Street. In seven minutes he could have been at the back of the university. It’s a rabbit warren of delivery bays and staff entrances, offices and security blocks.’ I was saving the best till last. ‘And it’s just ten minutes’ walk from George House’.
‘Okay. That’s the location link – what about Jack? Is it feasible he’s connected to the university? I mean, does that fit with your profile of him?’
‘Your techies said that his IP address was being routed through proxy servers in universities or companies around the world. So that would fit. I think our man could be an employee there. That would give him access to the university buildings.’
‘Not a student?’
‘No. His age range doesn’t fit.’
‘Mature student?’
‘I don’t think so. He’s too polished. His intellect and disposition have a maturity that makes me think he’s more likely to be a lecturer or on staff somehow. My profile of him has always been that he is intelligent, educated. He’s calm and unruffled. He’s a linear thinker. A strategist who plans every minute detail. He’s not reactive and has highly developed impulse control. He’s also used to being in control. I think he has a position of authority – used to people following his instructions. I think that fits with a lecturer or senior member of staff rather than a student – even a mature one. Plus, if he’s on staff, he would have more freedom to come and go at odd times of the day and not attract attention. It would account for how he could disappear into the ginnel and not reappear in town. It would give him a place to change clothes or dump his bag – whatever.’
‘Okay,’ he said, and I got the sense he was making notes.
‘And don’t pass this on to Taylor-Caine.’ I knew that sounded petulant, but right then I couldn’t have cared less.
‘You don’t have to worry.’ He sounded distracted. ‘She took a call just after you left the briefing. Seemed in a rush to leave after that and booked off for the day. Rumour has it, she’s been seeing someone, which pissed Hoyle off even more.’
‘Shame,’ I said, without sincerity. ‘So, back to the job at hand. Given the technical wizardry, maybe look at the computer sciences department?’
‘I’ll get onto it, but we’ve only got a few days to the next one.’
‘Sooner rather than later then,’ was my rather unhelpful parting shot.
I was more determined than ever to see this through, despite Hoyle’s resistance. I owed it to Martha. More than that, I owed it to the other girls who had died and to the ones I knew would go on to die if we didn’t catch him.
Jack had all but told me that somehow I knew him, or knew of him. Somewhere, our paths had crossed and whatever his motivations now, he was driven to make sure I was involved. I couldn’t step away from this even if I wanted to. If the police didn’t want my help, fine. But it didn’t stop me working on this on my own. Callum could help me or not, that was up to him. But somehow, I had a feeling that Hoyle’s attitude wouldn’t stop him feeding me information any more than it had with the towpath killings. If we had to use back channels to communicate rather than the front door, then that’s what we’d do.
Jen sat down in the armchair across from my desk, looking at me as she took a sip of coffee. We’d finally managed to create some order out of the chaos of boxes and it was getting late.
‘I think I should move in,’ she announced, simply.
‘What?’ My surprise showed.
‘If we’re going to base the office here until all this is over, it’s easier than commuting from mine every day.’
A million reasons why it wouldn’t work tumbled through my mind. The silence lengthened as I tried to diplomatically pick the one that I thought would dissuade her most effectively and hurt her feelings the least.
She pounced on the hesitation. ‘We can’t use the practice in town because of the press and if I travel in from home, there’s every chance some journalist will follow me up here. So far they don’t know where you live.’
That was true. The nature of my work meant I’d been careful to keep my home address and my private life, private. The phone numbers here weren’t listed and I’d chosen the farm partly because of its seclusion. Only close family and the local police knew how to find me here.
‘What about Henry?’ I brought her husband into it. Legendary for his annoyance with her late night, early morning work ethic, and protective of their family time.
‘He’ll cope,’ she snorted. ‘He might realise just how much I do if I’m not there. He’ll suddenly realise the fridge isn’t self-filling or the dishwasher self-emptying. And as for changing the loo roll…!’
‘Bit harsh, Jen.’
I was struggling to come up with a reason that wouldn’t offend her. After all these years of living alone, I didn’t know if I could share my space with anyone else.
Those sharp blue eyes seemed to see right inside my head.
‘Remember, I’ve known you forever,’ she said. ‘I know all your moods. The fact that you’re as grumpy as hell if you don’t get enough sleep or enough tea, and you snap like a Rottweiler when you’re distracted by your work. Not to mention the fact that you don’t eat when you’re stressed out. If you’re left up here to work on this on your own, all of the above will apply, and I’m not allowing that to happen.’
She stood up abruptly and put her cup down on my desk like a full stop. ‘I’ve already told Henry, so don’t worry about him.’ Her expression softened and she put her hand over mine. ‘This case is as big as it gets, Jo, and I’m not leaving you on your own. We’re a winning team, remember?’
I was shocked when my eyes began to well up. I slipped my hand from beneath hers and patted her wrist as a diversion.
‘Sounds like you’ve got it all planned,’ I said, trying not to let my emotions get the better of me. I never could cope when people were unexpectedly nice to me.
‘I have. My case is in the car and I’ll sort out the spare room. I’m cooking tonight, so you can work till it’s ready, okay?’
I nodded, partly shocked and partly relieved to have an ally in what was starting to feel like a very lonely battle.
28 September
morning
The house phone was ringing. I could hear it from my office.
‘Jen!’ I yelled. ‘Jen! Can you get that?’
It kept ringing.
Irritated, I dragged my attention from the computer and walked down the corridor to the kitchen. I could see as I got nearer that the porch door was open and there was no sign of Jen or Harvey. She’d probably taken him out for a walk.
‘Hello?’
‘Jo?’ James’s familiar voice crackled. It sounded like he was calling from the car.
‘Hi. Where are you?’
‘I was driving to your office. I called to make sure you’d be there but it went to voicemail. Tried your mobile too. This was my last resort. I guessed you might be at home.’
‘Sorry,’ I said, holding the phone under my chin as I filled the kettle. ‘We’re not at the office because of the press. Jen’s diverted office calls to her mobile, but it looks like she’s out with Harvey and there’s no signal across the fields.’
‘Is it okay for me to come up there then?’ His tone was tight. Business-like.
‘Of course. What’s wrong?’ I could hear the infectious tension leaking into my own voice now.
‘I’ll tell you when I get there.’
James sat across from me at my desk. His usual
relaxed demeanour was missing and he seemed tense as he talked me through recent events.
‘I should have gone back to London yesterday,’ he said. ‘But it’s taken me a few days longer to tie things up in Manchester than I thought. The staff are up and running there now, so I’m not needed here. Then this morning, as I was getting ready to drive south, I received some information that I thought you should be made aware of.’
My stomach plummeted. How did I know I wasn’t going to like what came next?
‘What?’
‘After you left the last briefing at Fordley nick, Astley showed the team his results from the spatial analysis. Hoyle and Taylor-Caine didn’t want you to see the results with the rest of the team because, apparently, they’d been given an advanced preview at Hoyle’s insistence.’
‘And?’
‘The map showed the killer’s location as here,’ he said, simply.
His eyes were studying mine for some kind of reaction, but what he said didn’t register with me at first.
‘Here?’ I mimicked stupidly. ‘You mean in Fordley?’
He reached for the inside pocket of his immaculate suit jacket, shaking his head as he pulled out a neatly folded sheet of paper.
‘No, Jo. Here!’
He spread the paper out on my desk and rotated the image so I could see it.
It showed a colour contour map of Kingsberry with all the familiar landmarks. At the centre was the unmistakeable image of my farm, as if taken from the air. I could see the lane, my farm, and George’s property and outlying buildings further down the track. A portion of land at the edge of our adjoining fields was coloured in red and raised out of the image in 3D.
I frowned. ‘But this doesn’t make sense,’ I said. ‘Are you telling me that–’
The Murder Mile Page 19