by A. J. Cross
Traynor was looking preoccupied. ‘Detective Inspector, I’ve just told you I can’t do that. I already have a case. Let me have copies of all you have on the crime scenes, plus biographical information on the victims’ – Judd was furiously writing – ‘their daily lives, employment history, criminal history if any, family relationships, interests, friendships, plus all the available forensic information, pathology reports and photographs, crime scene photographs, including aerial if you have them—’
‘We have,’ said Judd.
‘I also want time-of-death estimates where possible, types of weapons used, maps of the area.’
Watts stared at him, raised his hands. ‘Just … hang on a minute. We’ve barely made a start. Come with us to headquarters now. Be part of it. I’ll give you copies of all we’ve got so far and we can agree a schedule of investigative actions and—’
‘Detective Inspector, as I’ve just explained, I cannot do that. Certainly not this week.’
Silence grew between them. Watts gave him a long look. ‘Sounds to me, regardless of what the chief constable thinks he knows, you’re not available, full stop.’ The look on Traynor’s face, in his eyes, told Watts he was keyed up, more than ready to leave. Whatever Traynor had planned today, wherever he was going, inside his head he was already on his way.
Traynor spoke. ‘I already have a responsibility to a case. There’s a lead I must follow up. Contact me in a week or so but for now you must excuse me.’
Watts watched him lift the backpack and head for the front door. Traynor opened it, waited. Anger climbing, Watts started towards it. Clutching her pen, notes and bag, Judd got to her feet and followed. Watts was already through the door, down the steps, heading away as Traynor locked the door. Heading for the Aston Martin, he got inside and quickly reversed. It purred its way down the drive and disappeared from view. Watts climbed inside the BMW, slammed the door and gripped the steering wheel, getting his breathing under control.
Judd glanced at him as she sat. ‘If he’s as good as Brophy says, it’s no surprise he’s got another case. And it’s only a few days.’
Watts turned to look at her, saw for probably the twentieth time since Brophy had put her on this case how young she was. ‘You asked me a question earlier. About how Traynor came to be involved in the York-Oxford-Guildford homicide investigation.’ She waited. ‘He wasn’t the criminologist. His wife was the Oxford victim.’
She stared at him, silent, eyes wide.
He started the BMW. ‘I’m sympathetic to anybody who’s been victimized like his family has, but right now I feel the same about the Roberts and Barlow families.’ He glanced back at the house, shook his head. ‘Those two families will eventually have a place to visit, mourn their loss. Traynor’s problem is that he hasn’t got that.’
‘What do you mean?’
He glanced across at her. ‘His wife’s body was removed from the scene and never found.’ He turned the key in the ignition, deciding not to add that as the investigation of the case grew more desperate, the focus had very briefly turned on Traynor himself, due to investigators discovering that his wife had significant financial means. ‘But we’ve got our own problems. The Roberts and Barlow murders. They’re our priority and we’ll do it without his help.’
‘But, Sarge, if he’s got a responsibility for another case like he said—’
‘You still don’t get it, do you? There is no “current case”. What we’ve just seen is Traynor doing what he does whenever he sees a chance of locating evidence on his wife’s murder. He can’t let it go.’ Judd was looking in the direction the Aston Martin had gone, her face unreadable. Watts had known all along that approaching Traynor for help had been a mistake. He was as unstable as the rumours he’d heard about him. Brophy had made another mistake assigning Judd to this case. Too young. Too raw. He reversed and they headed down the drive. ‘Traynor’s good at what he does but it depends entirely on where his head and his thinking are at.’
‘So, where does that leave us?’
‘Without any specialist help because Dr William Traynor, criminologist and obsessive, is a non-starter.’
They drove towards headquarters in silence. Judd broke it after several minutes. ‘He must have loved her a lot. I thought he was nice.’
‘How does “nice” help us, exactly?’
‘It doesn’t. I’m just saying. And look what he said about the information he wants. He knows what he’s about, Sarge, but if you don’t like him, that’s that.’
Watts waited for a gap in the traffic. ‘Judd, this isn’t about “nice” and it isn’t about “liking”. It’s about having somebody reliable, who’ll be there. Not somebody who’s so driven that if he sees any possibility, no matter how remote, of finding his wife’s remains and identifying her killer, he’s on to it and never mind anything else. His every thought, every action is still geared to compulsively following it up, and that’s after the combined efforts of trained officers from three forces couldn’t get a result.’ He breathed. ‘And, right now, the neck on the line in our case is mine. I don’t need that kind of complication.’
‘But anybody in his situation would want the same. To get somebody done for what happened.’
Watts sighed. ‘He hasn’t managed it in the last decade. All it’s done is get in the way of his leading a normal life and affected his mental health.’ He glanced at Judd. ‘Here’s what I know about that case: the family had a German shepherd they adopted after it was retired as a police dog. On the day of his wife’s murder, Traynor was still at his Oxford college. His wife and nine-year-old daughter were at home. According to the daughter, the wife called the dog to come inside. It didn’t come, so she went out to look for it, found it in the garden, dead from neck injuries. She comes back to the house, locks the door and a couple of minutes later there are sounds of somebody inside the house. She quickly hides the daughter in a cupboard, where she stayed throughout the attack on her mother. When Traynor arrived home, he was attacked. The police came. There was plenty of blood evidence, I heard the place was awash with it, but no sign of his wife’s body. They found the daughter traumatized, still inside the cupboard.’ He looked at Judd. ‘You didn’t read any of that back then?’
She looked away. ‘No.’
‘Glad to hear it.’
‘What happened to his daughter?’
‘She went to live with the maternal grandparents. She needed a lot of help. Traynor had had a breakdown and was in no fit state to look after her. Or himself, for that matter. Which probably added a shedload of guilt to his other problems. I know a few officers who’ve worked cases with him since then. He knows his stuff, he gets results, but having him as part of an investigation can cause big problems. He’s no team player.’
‘Why not?’
Watts felt a surge of irritation. ‘There’s no ending a topic with you, is there, Judd? You saw what just happened at his house. He’s obsessed. He’ll drop whatever case he’s on if he gets what he thinks is a lead on his wife’s murder. Every officer I know is convinced that whoever committed those three homicides is either dead or already in prison for something else.’ Watts increased his speed, changed lanes. ‘Forget Traynor. We’ve got two homicides of our own and I want to see what leads have come in following the media appeal. I also need to see the pathologist some time, so put a sock in it.’
‘Can I come to the pathology suite?’
‘Jesus wept.’
FIVE
Tuesday 16 August. Two-ten p.m.
The Aston Martin moved quietly along Oxford’s St Aldate’s, turned left, followed the road, took another left and entered the car park at the rear of the police station. Entering a parking space, Traynor placed his visitor’s permit beneath the windscreen and got out, raising his hand against the brightness of the day, his eyes fixed on the imposing honey-coloured building. He’d felt tense during the journey. Seeing the place again, his tension spiked. Taking his backpack from the boot, he headed for the building�
�s rear entrance and the officer waiting for him. Reaching it, he took John Heritage’s outstretched hand in both of his. Heritage’s gaze moved slowly over Traynor’s face.
‘Good to see you again, Will. You look well.’
‘You too, John.’
Heritage led the way inside the building. Traynor had spent hours here in the early part of the last decade. Whenever he returned, he was welcomed, if not given what he wanted or hoped for. They walked along corridors, Traynor drawing glances and nods of recognition from some officers, others looking uncertain, trying to place him. Heritage pushed open a door and they went inside a hot, nondescript room.
‘Have a seat, Will, while I open a couple of windows. How’s work?’
Traynor reached into his backpack, took out a file and laid it square on the table. ‘Busy. It’s been suggested I consult on a current Birmingham case.’
Heritage sat opposite him. ‘Anybody I know?’
‘Detective Inspector Bernard Watts?’
Heritage smiled. ‘Ignore the bluffness and you’ll soon realize that you’ve got yourself a diamond. What have you brought this time?’
Traynor removed papers from the file, placed them in front of Heritage. ‘Information on an arrest made by your officers here four days ago.’ He pointed at the topmost sheet. ‘Forty-year-old male. Lorry driver. Suspect in the homicides of five women. Two of those women were killed in this city, one six months before Claire, the other ten months after.’
Heritage gave him a direct look. ‘You’re referring to Dennis Sloan. After we arrested him, I did consider emailing you. You know that whenever we get a serial case we go straight to our “unsolveds” to check for links. Claire’s file was the first I pulled out. If we’d known back then that Sloan was already operating in this area, we would probably have linked him ourselves.’
Traynor clasped his hands at his mouth to steady them. ‘You’re saying that you think this Sloan is a potential suspect for Claire?’
Heritage was no longer looking Traynor in the eye. He shook his head. ‘No, Will. We’ve interviewed him over several hours. He’s now charged with the five homicides for which he was arrested. Partly because of my direct involvement with Claire’s case, I led the interviews with him. He’s denied any involvement in the Oxford, York and Guildford cases—’
‘Of course he has!’ Traynor raised his hands. ‘Sorry, John. Where are you right now, with this Sloan?’ He watched Heritage gather together the papers he’d brought with him.
‘I know what you’re asking, Will: do we believe Sloan killed Claire? If I’d been asked that same question four days ago, I would probably have said that Sloan was a person of interest. He uses motorways on a daily basis and he’s admitted making deliveries in York and Oxford and ten plus other locations during the time the homicides occurred.’ He looked directly at Traynor. ‘I understand, Will. I know you’ve lived with this for the last decade. You know that if there was ever a chance of identifying who killed Claire, I’d be the first in the queue to make the arrest.’ He paused. ‘We can place Sloan in close proximity to each of the five homicides we’ve charged him with. We’ve matched his DNA to them. We know his MO.’ He paused. ‘We got no DNA from the scene inside your house and the same applies to the York and Guildford cases.’ The colour had left Traynor’s face. ‘But we’re getting better at isolating and developing trace DNA samples with every year that passes. As soon as we had Sloan in custody, we pulled out those three cases … sorry to use the word “case” where Claire is concerned. We got out all the blood samples, sent them back to the lab for retesting.’ He paused again. ‘Sloan didn’t kill Claire or the other two women in that series, Will.’
Traynor stared at him. ‘How can you be so sure?’
‘There’s no trace of Sloan’s DNA, nor any other physical evidence to link him to them, plus the pattern of behaviour during the homicides he’s now charged with bears zero resemblance to what occurred at your house. There isn’t a single fact, shred of evidence or circumstantial tie-in of Sloan to Claire’s murder.’ Seeing Traynor struggling for composure, he tapped the papers he’d been holding into alignment, reached for the file, opened it, placed them inside and closed it. ‘I’m sorry, Will.’
Traynor wanted out of the hot, silent room. ‘Not having facts or evidence isn’t the same as saying that this Sloan didn’t kill Claire.’
Heritage looked at him, his gaze unwavering. ‘That’s how it works, Will. You know that. I wish I could give you the news you want, but I can’t.’ He paused. ‘Sloan didn’t murder your wife, and I’ve known you long enough to say this to you: let it go.’
Traynor was on his feet. ‘I appreciate your and your team’s efforts, John.’
Heritage stood, looked at his watch. ‘Stay and have a late lunch with me.’
Traynor shook his head. ‘Thanks, but I think I’ll walk around the city for a while.’
Heritage eyed him, aware that each time Traynor returned to Oxford after leaving it eight years before, he went to the house he’d shared with his wife and daughter to look at it from the outside.
Traynor caught the look, held out his hand. ‘Don’t look so worried, John. I just need to walk.’ They left the room and headed to the front entrance of the building where Heritage gripped Traynor’s hand in his.
‘We’ll keep in touch, yes?’
‘We always have, John. Thanks for your time.’ Traynor went down the steps and began walking the hot city pavements. He would stop only when he reached the point of exhaustion. It was what he did whenever he came here.
SIX
Back at headquarters, Watts and Judd went directly to the squad room to collect the tip sheet responses to the televised appeal. Watts took the thick file from one of officers who had handled the calls.
‘We’ve hit a lull, Sarge, but there’s over fifty so far.’
Judd looked elated. ‘Fifty. Sarge, we’re motoring.’
‘Anything of particular interest?’ he asked.
The officer shook his head. ‘The usual crazies. Nothing that stands out.’
Watts peered into the file as he headed for the door. ‘Keep at it for now. Let me know when the call rate looks to be dropping.’ They went downstairs to the room they’d been inside earlier. Watts dropped the file on to the table and opened it. ‘It’s quiet in here. Let’s have a look through them.’ Sliding the tip sheets on to the big table, he pushed around a third of them towards Judd, keeping the remainder for himself.
‘What are we looking for, Sarge?’
‘Anything which suggests the caller has something sensible to offer, plus any which get our attention for any other reason.’
Judd scanned the tips in front of her. ‘Why did you ask for people who were at the scene a week before the murder to come forward? What’s the point?’
‘Because we work back from the actual crime to see if there’s any indication or evidence of it being set up.’
Judd looked uncertain. ‘Like?’
‘Anybody seen loitering who might fit the role of stalker.’
They were engrossed in evaluating the tips when the door opened and Jones appeared, tip sheet in hand. ‘This just came in, Sarge, and I thought I’d bring it down.’
Watts took it from him, read the details, looked up at him. ‘Did she sound yampy?’
‘No. Sensible and confident.’
Watts stood. ‘Come on, Judd.’
She stared up at him, pointing at the tips on the table. ‘What about these?’
‘We’ll finish them when we get back.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘To see a Miss Dorothea Banner who reckons she’s got something interesting to tell us about Blackfoot Trail.’
Watts had been unsuccessful in deflecting Banner’s offer of hospitality. Frustrated, he watched as she poured tea into flowered china. ‘I don’t know about you, Detective Inspector, but I cannot abide tea in mugs.’ He declined the fig rolls she was offering. Judd took one. Banner smiled. �
�Take two, dear.’
Opening his notebook in a bid to get things moving, Watts glanced at her. Had to be at least eighty. ‘First of all, Miss Banner, we’re very grateful to you for phoning in response to the televised appeal—’
‘You looked as though you needed help so I was pleased to do so.’
He nodded. ‘How about you tell us, in your own time, what you saw?’
Miss Banner put down her cup. ‘I don’t see the relevance of my time. The question is are you ready?’ He straightened, early memories of school surfacing. ‘It was last Saturday, the thirteenth, the time, nine-ten in the evening.’
He looked up at her. ‘That’s two days prior to the case I appealed on.’
She smiled at him. ‘You did say that you were interested in the seven days prior, Detective Inspector. Where was I? Ah, yes. I was in here, watching a recorded episode of Botched.’
Seeing Watts frown, Judd said, ‘It’s a programme about cosmetic surgery, Sarge.’
Banner sent her a nod. ‘Exactly so. It’s unbelievable what young women, and others who should have more sense, will allow people to do to them and mostly by male doctors, I have to say.’ She gave Judd a benevolent glance. ‘You’re very young but I hope you’ll never subject yourself to such grotesque violence.’
Judd grinned, shook her head. ‘No way—’
‘Getting back to that Saturday evening, Miss Banner, you were watching television. How did that lead to you seeing something at Blackfoot Trail?’
Dorothea Banner sat forward, her manner earnest. ‘I’m glad you asked. The woman who’d already been cut to ribbons at least once by this so-called “surgeon” was being incredibly stupid and I decided to treat myself to a cup of hot chocolate. When you reach my age, you’ll realize that one tends to feel a little cool, despite the weather. I went to the kitchen.’ She clasped her hands together. ‘That’s when I saw it!’