“I’m the same way. If I ever look at another woman or find myself on the brink of getting involved with somebody, I immediately feel guilty as hell. It’s like I’m committing mutiny! I don’t want to know if there’s somebody else out there for me because it just wouldn’t seem right. But then there are other times when I actually crack the door open a little bit—just enough to let in the possibility that it’s okay to move on, to be with another woman, and that Ann may actually be up there cheering me on. That’s when things get really confusing.”
“I must say, I’ve not come anywhere close to sporting the thought of having another man in my life. It doesn’t even cross my mind. That’s what I’m getting at—I am at a total standstill, frozen in place. And I sometimes wonder if that’s healthy.”
“Have you seen a therapist, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“No, I haven’t. I think I’m too bloody independent to do something like that. Believe me, my father and just about everybody else I know have suggested I seek help. They’re getting rather tired of my, uh, lack of forward progress.”
“Well, all I can say is give it some time. This is a big deal and it’s going to take some serious time for things to heal. Some of us heal faster than others and there’s no sin in that; it’s just a simple truth. But trust me, one of these days you’re going to heal, Nicole. Maybe not completely, but enough to start seeing things with a little more focus. At least that’s the way it’s been with me. I’ve never been big on shrinks either by the way, so we share that commonality. And I haven’t become a basket case—at least not yet,” he added with a smile.
The waiter appeared with their breakfast. Sam took a bite of his bagel and washed it down with a shot of coffee.
“So what do you think?” Nicole said.
“About what?”
“Your coffee.”
“A slice of heaven.”
“Didn’t I tell you?” She smiled.
“Yes, and I must say this stuff tops everything I’ve had hands down.”
“I appreciate your sharing this with me, Sam. It really helps. And I hope that what you say is true, that I can someday start feeling like myself again. I still feel numb. And I know I hide it pretty well. I’ve been able to do my job at the bookshop and function from day to day. But I still have an awful lot of grief bottled up inside.”
“That’s not good, bottling everything up for as long as you have. Is there anything you do that helps relieve you of this pent-up grief? Like jogging, some sort of art or craft?”
“Used to be that reading did it for me, but not so much anymore. I’d have to say that the one thing that helps me escape is taking long walks.”
“That’s perfect! You said you’d show me around town so maybe that will have some therapeutic value, eh?”
“It can’t hurt,” she said. “And I want you to know that chatting with you hasn’t hurt either. What do you say we begin with the abbey and take it from there?”
“Sounds like a plan.”
***
Hours later, Nicole dropped Sam off at the hotel. Before returning to his room he stopped at the vending machines for a bottled water and a candy bar—he was absolutely famished. Once in his room he turned on the television, stretched out on the sofa and considered looking over the several dozen photos he’d snapped with his iPhone but decided to put it off until later.
He had enjoyed the whirlwind sightseeing adventure and the experience left him feeling a mixture of exhilaration and fatigue. After touring Westminster Abbey, he and Nicole had checked out Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament before taking a boat tour of the Thames. They boarded a ferry that took them up the river past the London Eye and other points of interest to the Tower Bridge. They then toured the Tower of London and afterwards boarded the ferry back to Westminster Pier.
Nicole had been the perfect tour guide, explaining the historical significance of this and that and sharing her insight into the evolution of London through the years. She had at one point commented how much she was enjoying their sightseeing tour and how long it had been since she’d actually done the “tourist scene.” Sam was in awe of the rich history and architecture along the Thames, noting the stark contrast of the time-worn landscape with the modern additions dotting the skyline like the Shard and the Gherkin Building.
The more time he’d spent with Nicole Heaton the more he admired her. Here was a woman still mourning the loss of her husband yet appearing well-adjusted and happy. In spite of the pain and anger she felt toward the authorities for their inability to capture her husband’s murderer, Nicole had somehow managed to contain her emotions below the surface with grace and dignity. Never once had she soured the day by lamenting her dead husband or her inability to cease clinging to his memory as she did. Quite a remarkable woman.
While taking a bite of his candy bar he noticed something on a local TV news report that caught his attention. A police sketch of a man had popped up on the screen along with a headline which read, Woman’s Murder Linked to Serial Rapist.
The female news anchor said, “London’s Metro Police continue their search for a serial rapist who they now believe has committed murder. Detectives arrived at the flat of thirty-one-year-old Olivia Cavesh earlier this morning and discovered the woman’s body. A spokesman for the police told Action News that based on evidence found at the crime scene there is sufficient reason to believe that Ms. Cavesh was murdered by the same man who in the past several weeks has sexually assaulted two other London women in their homes. Both women were unwittingly given a date rape drug by the man and subsequently assaulted while under the drug’s influence. Police describe the man as a Caucasian of average height and build, balding with thinning dark hair and a scar on the back of his right hand. It is also believed that the man is American and sports a slight suntan. Anyone who has either seen or knows the whereabouts of the man seen in this police sketch are urged to call Metro Police immediately.”
“Jesus,” Sam breathed. “How fucking weird is that?”
His first thought was the call from Roger yesterday informing him that Stanley Jenkins had murdered a woman in Vegas and that she’d been given a date rape drug. Now somebody in London had committed the exact same crime. And the killer was believed to be an American, no less!
Just a coincidence? Really?
Another thing occurred to him. Roger told him that the murder in Vegas had taken place last month. And that Jenkins had fled Vegas shortly thereafter, which would allow him ample time to flee the country and cross the big pond to London. And to commit the other two date rape drug crimes the newscast had mentioned.
But was it earthly possible? What were the odds of Stanley Jenkins actually being here in London, England, right now, raping and murdering women? Miniscule. And for Sam to be here at the same time while this is going on? Unfathomable.
Sam snickered, imagining the look on Roger’s face if he were to tell him this. The detective would absolutely admonish him for even considering that the London crimes had been committed by Stanley Jenkins. And Sam could hardly blame him.
The clincher to all of this was the police sketch of the perp. If Stanley Jenkins had indeed had plastic surgery yet again to change his appearance, he sure as hell wouldn’t have chosen to look anything like the guy they just showed on TV. The sketch depicted an older man with thinning hair and what could only be described as less than chiseled facial features. Jenkins was much too vain to have taken on such a cheesy, ordinary appearance. It was possible of course—anything was possible. But damn unlikely.
Still, Sam wondered what, if anything, he should do about this. Call the cops and inform them of his suspicions? No way—they would almost certainly blow him off. Call Roger Hagstrom anyway? Even if his old friend would lecture him on how stupid and paranoid he was being—just as he had all along since Ann’s death with regard to Jenkins?
Nah.
The best thing to do was try and convince himself that this is just what it is: a huge coincidence.
Forget about it and enjoy the rest of his time here.
Which is what he planned to do.
He turned off the television, picked up his iPad and found the place where he’d left off in the e-book he’d been reading. Within ten minutes he fell fast asleep.
Chapter 24
Inspector Clive Hogarth was all but at the end of his rope. Since the press release of Olivia Cavesh’s murder the telephones at the station hadn’t stopped ringing. Some of the calls were tips from concerned citizens who thought they recognized the man in the police sketch. Some of the callers were greedy mercenaries asking if there was a reward being offered for tips leading to the arrest of the serial rapist. But by far the majority of the calls were from outraged Londoners asking why the police haven’t found this monster yet and chastising them for causing a poor innocent woman to lose her life through their ineptness. How many more defenseless women will die before the coppers caught this villain? they wanted to know.
But the wrath of the public was no match for the ire of the Chief Inspector. A special briefing had been assembled an hour ago and the chief declared in so many choice words that if this lunatic wasn’t apprehended before the end of the week some heads were going to roll. Hogarth knew of one head in particular he was referring to, as did everyone else who cast their eyes in his direction as the words left the Chief Inspector’s lips.
Hogarth glanced over at Higgins who was fielding the plethora of calls that were non-stop. She caught him looking and cast him a mock scowl aimed at trying to lighten him up a bit. It didn’t work. Instead of responding, he ignored his partner and punched another blinking button on the phone.
He scanned the list of tips on his notepad for anything that genuinely looked worthy of pursuit and saw only one. A janitor at the hotel where Iris Matthews had been staying thought he’d seen a man matching the killer’s description the following morning after she’d been assaulted. What stood out in the janitor’s memory was that the man had unknowingly dropped a scrap of paper on the floor while removing his keys from his trouser pocket. When the janitor picked up the paper he saw that it was a shop receipt from a place in Chelmsworth, Essex. Hogarth wouldn’t have put much stock in this tip except for something else the janitor had mentioned. He was pretty certain the man was American. He’d overheard him ask directions from another hotel customer in an American accent.
This he felt was worth following up on. Plus, he needed to get out of here before he went mad from babysitting this bloody telephone. He rang the contact number for the janitor.
“Rosswell Hotel, how may I direct your call?”
“Yes, this is Inspector Hogarth from Metro Police. May I speak to Andrew Johns, please?”
“What room is he in?” the woman inquired.
“I’m sorry, he’s an employee there—a janitor. Mr. Johns phoned earlier and gave me this number to contact him. Evidently he doesn’t have a mobile phone.”
“I see. Please hold.”
While waiting, Hogarth swore under his breath, wondering why the janitor hadn’t simply given him his personal phone number instead of the hotel’s. Everybody on the planet including janitors owned a cell phone nowadays he’d thought.
“Hello?” the woman said.
“Yes.”
“Somebody is trying to track down Mr. Johns. His exact whereabouts is not known and this is a large hotel. Would you like to hold or would you prefer leaving a number for him to call?”
“I’ll hold if you don’t mind.”
“Very well.”
Feeling his blood pressure rising by the second, Hogarth shut his eyes and slowly counted to sixty. The stress from this case had already gotten the best of him. He hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in over a week and the growing pressure now that the homicide division had been called in was only making matters worse. Something had to break soon or he feared he might very well have a coronary.
Since this had been his case from the get-go everybody conveniently blamed him for the lack of any tangible progress in all this time. He was the fall guy— the one taking all the heat. Part of him felt he deserved it—the part that told him he was losing his touch and letting the past negatively affect his performance. The other part felt his getting all the blame was unwarranted. It wasn’t his fault this killer had the luck of the Irish and was as slippery as a wet bar of soap. The fact that none of the victims had been able to furnish much usable evidence hadn’t helped any either—two women with limited recall and one deceased who hadn’t even been given an opportunity to recall a bloody thing.
“I can connect you with Mr. Johns now, Inspector.”
“Hello?”
“Yes, hello, Mr. Johns. This is Inspector Hogarth. I am calling to see if we might meet today for a few moments. I have some questions regarding the murder suspect you think you may have seen.”
“Surely, of course.”
“Excellent. I could meet you in the hotel lobby in say, twenty minutes?”
“I can do that—I’m on break now so no problem.”
“Excellent. See you soon.”
Hogarth got up from his desk and went over to Molly Higgins. “I’m going to the Rosswell Hotel to follow up on a call.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“No, you’d better stay here on the phone. I won’t be long.”
Higgins sighed, shrugged her shoulders, visibly miffed. Hogarth left the station.
On his way to the hotel, Hogarth wondered if this was how he would be living the rest of his life. A career cop and a perennial bachelor at age forty-three with few interests beyond gardening and a stamp collection. He supposed this was the best he could expect. He’d known as a lad that his dry personality and standoffish manner would prevent him from making many close friends or having any love interests. His parents, particularly his mother, had been severe and controlling throughout his entire childhood. She had instilled in her son the importance of working hard, being a well-mannered, upstanding citizen and avoiding the temptation to sin at all costs.
He had no regrets, really, as odd as it may seem to most people. His desire to fight crime, help make people safe and uphold the law had been his driving force since he was a teenager. And he had a great deal of satisfaction knowing he was good at what he did and in his own small way was making the world a better place. The operative word here being was. He used to know he was good at this job but that wasn’t the case anymore. Far from it. He felt impotent, useless. He should have caught this culprit a month ago but had failed. And now a woman was dead. How many more would meet the same fate at the hands of this monster?
When he arrived at the Rosswell it didn’t take long to pick out Andrew Johns. He was wearing coveralls and standing near the front entrance expectantly.
“Mr. Johns?”
“Yes, Inspector,” the man replied, shaking his hand.
“Let’s go over there,” Hogarth suggested, motioning toward a seating area in the lobby.
When he was sure they were out of earshot Hogarth said, “I want to give you a good look at the sketch posted in the media.”
He pulled out the sketch from a folder and showed it to Mr. Johns. “Does this look like the man you saw here that morning?”
The janitor took out a pair of eyeglasses from his pocket and put them on. He studied the sketch carefully and nodded his head.
“That’s him. The only thing that doesn’t match is his skin—it was a bit darker. A white man with a suntan.”
“How close to him were you when you saw him?”
“Not much further than we are now, Inspector. I was sweeping the floor over there near the lifts and this fellow asked a man which way was Brewer Street. The man pointed toward the entrance and said it was to the right. The man thanked him and walked away.”
“And you think the man was American, right?”
He nodded. “Yeah, I’m pretty certain of that. Spoke the way those cowboys speak—you know like President Bush sounded. Americans the only ones that talk like
that.”
“Can you recall what he was wearing?”
He thought a moment and replied, “A light nylon jacket, I believe. It was dark, maybe blue or brown. Can’t remember what his trousers looked like.”
“Did the suspect come out of a lift?”
“Yeah, he’d come out and saw the other man waiting for a car on the other side.”
“Did you by any chance notice what floor he’d come down from?”
“Afraid not.”
“I see. So when did the man drop the shop receipt?”
“He was fishing around in his pocket on his way to the entrance and the paper fell out when he pulled out his keys. I went over to pick it up, thinking it might be something important. When I saw that it was just a sales receipt for three tubes of oil paint I decided not to chase the man. I figured he may have even known it fell but didn’t care enough to pick it up to be honest.”
“Do you still have the receipt?”
“No, sir. I threw it in the dustbin.”
“But you saw what store the receipt came from.”
“Not exactly. All I remember was that it was some sort of art store in Chelmsworth. Sorry about that.”
“That’s okay, Mr. Johns. Do you remember the approximate time this all occurred?”
“A bit past seven o’clock—I had just started work so I’m sure of the time.”
“Can you think of anything else that might be important to the case? Any other physical features of the suspect, any scars or distinguishing features?”
“No, sir. He was quite ordinary looking, average height and build. Thinning hair and partly balding just like the sketch there.”
Hogarth handed him his card. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Johns. If you think of anything else, please give me a call.”
“Will do, Inspector. Sure hope you find that woman’s killer.”
The May Day Murders Sequel Page 21