‘Well, yes, you are, but –’
‘I know you, Geraldine,’ Ian said with a curious smile.
Eileen merely raised her eyebrows.
‘Well, at least we have the right killer this time,’ the detective chief inspector said firmly. ‘His lawyer can wriggle as much as he likes but it was only ever going to be a matter of time. With Jasper’s DNA on the body, he can hardly deny he was there. And unless he comes up with a plausible explanation, I think we’ll have our killer. We still have Tommy’s confession, of course,’ she added thoughtfully. ‘But that might be a pack of lies.’
‘Being present doesn’t prove Jasper was responsible for the victim’s death,’ Geraldine pointed out. ‘Shouldn’t we wait and see what he has to say before we reach any conclusions?’
Ian nodded. ‘You’re right. But it seems to me we’ve got Jasper bang to rights, at least for this second case. The good news is, he’s an idiot, spitting on the body like that, so it won’t take us long to crack him.’
‘I just don’t think we should rush to assume he’s guilty,’ Geraldine muttered, speaking more to herself than anyone else.
They all knew that appearances were not necessarily reliable but having questioned Tommy’s guilt, she hesitated to do the same about Jasper. She didn’t want to get a reputation for challenging her superiors at every possible opportunity, even if she did think they were sometimes misguided.
‘What makes you think Jasper could be innocent?’ Ian asked Geraldine as they sat in the canteen over a coffee while the suspect was speaking to his lawyer.
‘I don’t, not necessarily,’ she replied. ‘But he insists he didn’t kill the victim, and the evidence only proves he was there. We can’t build a case on circumstantial evidence, even if he is our killer.’
‘Yes, I know,’ Ian replied. ‘We mustn’t speculate. You taught me that years ago.’ He smiled at her. ‘I learned most of what I know from you, Geraldine,’ he added quietly.
She laughed, embarrassed by the compliment. ‘No more than I’ve learned from you,’ she replied.
Before they could continue, Ian’s phone buzzed. ‘The suspect is ready to continue with the interview,’ he said.
Having spoken with his lawyer, Jasper seemed relatively calm and confident as he insisted he was not responsible for anyone’s murder. However hard Ian pushed, Jasper remained steadfast in his account of what he had done.
‘My client acknowledges he was responsible for spitting on the pavement, and he admits he was wrong in failing to report the body, but he did not murder the victim,’ the lawyer summed up Jasper’s position.
23
Molly spent the morning wandering around York in a daze. She had left her mother’s house thinking her life could not get any worse. Although she was furious with her ex for letting her down just when she needed him, she did not give a toss about him cheating on her. It was not as though they were exclusive. They had only known each other for a few weeks, and she did not even like him that much. What with his bad breath, flatulence and smelly feet, every part of him stank. If he had not been living in his own place where she could stay whenever Baz was on one of his drunken benders, she would never have carried on seeing him after their first night together.
What had happened with her mother was another matter altogether. When Molly’s father had walked out on them, she and her mother had agreed they would always look out for each other.
‘It’s just the two of us now, Molly,’ her mother used to say. ‘Just you and me against the world.’
They had muddled along quite happily until Baz had forced his way into their house to undermine the life she and her mother had built together. Molly had done her best to challenge her mother about the situation.
‘We got on well enough before he came along, didn’t we? Why have you let him move in? It’s me or him, mum. I won’t live under the same roof as that brute.’
Her mother had pointed out that Baz paid their bills, as though that was the end of the discussion.
‘So what? We managed just fine before he turned up. We’re not dependent on him. Tell him to get lost. You can get another job. I can get a job. We don’t need him.’
Her mother insisted she could not work. ‘My nerves are all shot to pieces, Molly. I can scarcely leave the house any more.’
‘That’s because of the way he treats you. Anyone would be embarrassed to go out looking like you do sometimes, and when you do go out you have to cover up your arms. Bloody hell, no wonder you’re a nervous wreck. He’s destroyed your confidence. You used to have a job before he came along. You’re the same person now as you were then.’
Her mother refused to listen to reason. When Molly pressed her, she became tearful.
‘Baz pays the bills,’ she kept bleating, like a mantra. ‘Baz pays the bills. He takes care of things. I don’t know how we’d manage without him. He pays the bills.’
‘Mum, he knocks you about. He’s vicious.’
At the mention of Baz’s violence her mother would start to cry in earnest.
‘Please, Molly, don’t talk like that. You don’t understand.’
‘What don’t I understand?’
‘He looks after me.’
‘Oh, please. How can you say that? He hits you.’
It was hopeless. Still, in spite of everything, Molly had never expected her mother to throw her out of the house, and when she thought about Baz’s son taking her place at home, she struggled to control her rage at the injustice of it all. Molly had always supported her mother who had repaid her by offering Molly’s room to a man who had just served a prison sentence for violent assault. Like father, like son. One day her mother would realise she had made a terrible mistake. But whatever happened from now on, Molly would never forgive her mother. She was never going home, and she would not contact her mother again. She had no mother.
‘I hope you rot in hell for what you’ve done,’ she muttered.
It was hard to shut her resentment out of her mind and concentrate on her immediate problems, although they were pressing. In her present state of exhaustion, it was difficult to focus on anything. The image of the dead man she had seen in Nether Hornpot Lane kept flashing across her mind. She might have been the last person to see him alive. Even more disturbing than that was the thought that the same fate might befall her if she continued sleeping on the street. Unpleasant as it had been living with Baz, the death of the old tramp made her fear for her life. She felt no safer now than she had been with Baz threatening to beat her if she crossed him.
It was possible the killer had been harbouring a personal grudge against that particular old man, but it was equally possible he had picked his victim simply because he was homeless and vulnerable. If that was the case, then anyone sleeping on the street might be in danger. The killer might attack her next. Terror and hunger made it difficult for her to think clearly. She had to force herself to concentrate on her plight. She was homeless, friendless, and broke. Without an address she would not be able to find a job, and if she continued living on the street, she risked being murdered in her sleep. She had to find shelter somewhere before night fell. She could not even go back to her stupid boyfriend, because she had no money for the bus fare home.
Wandering around aimlessly, she grew increasingly conscious of hunger gnawing at her insides. Seeing signs for the station, she followed them and found the Ladies Room where she was at least able to use a toilet, and have a cursory wash. It was not much, but it was better than nothing. Splashing cold water on her face made her feel slightly less forlorn, until the sight of her bloodshot eyes in the mirror reminded her of the old man she had seen in Nether Hornpot Lane. With a jolt, she recalled the hooded killer. For all she knew, he was prowling the streets, waiting until darkness fell so that he could attack his next victim. But somehow the knowledge no longer seemed so terrifying. She would soon be dead anyway.
It was all Baz’s fault.
She had witnessed a murder, and she was too tired and hungry to care. She knew she ought to go to the police and tell them what she had seen, but she had no idea how they treated homeless minors. She did not think she could be locked up for sleeping on the street, but they might contact her mother, and force her to return home, or else shut her up in some institution that was little better than a prison. On balance, she decided it was best to avoid any contact with the authorities. Her life was challenging enough without having to contend with the police and social services, and possibly being sent back home to Baz and his son, and her ineffectual mother. She could just imagine how that would end.
Leaving the station, she returned to the city centre where she had seen several people with sleeping bags. Worse than the fear of being sent home was the thought that her mother might not have reported her missing, and would refuse to take her back. Baz had told her she had to leave the house, so her mother would probably refuse to allow her to return, even if the authorities sent her back. Had another rough sleeper not told her about a church hall where breakfast was served to homeless people, she might have gone to the police and given herself up as a runaway anyway, she was so hungry.
She found herself in St Helen’s Square. There was a smart café on the corner. Through the window she could see people seated at tables drinking tea and eating cakes. Her mouth watered and she could have cried with longing. Her relief when she learned that the church served fry-ups to rough sleepers until midday was almost unbearable. She followed another rough sleeper to the church and gorged herself until she felt sick. But the breakfast renewed her strength. It was only her second day living on the street and she already knew where she could find a meal at least once a day, and where she could find a toilet, and even have a wash of sorts. It was amazing what a difference a full stomach made to how she was feeling about her circumstances. All she needed was a safe place to sleep and her immediate problems would all be solved.
24
Don swore out loud. He distinctly remembered leaving the van parked around the corner, outside a house with a spindly tree growing in the centre of a small patch of grass to the side of the front door. He had specifically noted that tree, growing above the height of the house, so he would have no trouble finding the van again. He had easily recognised the tree and reached the house, only to find himself standing in an empty parking space. He swore again. There was no way he could be mistaken. He was sure he had locked the van but, fishing in his pockets, he could not find his keys.
A horrible suspicion crept through him. If he had left the keys in the ignition, and some bastard had gone and nicked it, the insurance company might refuse to pay up. Not that the van was worth much anyway, but anything was better than nothing. He looked around helplessly, as though he might spot the van in a different parking space. It was possible kids had taken it for a joy ride and dumped it somewhere nearby. In fact, when he thought about it, that was the most likely explanation for the disappearance of a battered old van like his. He could not imagine anyone would actually want to steal it.
He ran back home and phoned his insurance company straight away but he already knew it was hopeless. Even when he told them he had left it securely locked, he knew he might as well not bother. The list price was hardly worth the cost of the keys, let alone the van itself. It was a good runner, but it was pretty ancient. It had been old when he had first purchased it, and now it was even older, and battered. Every year since he bought it the old thing had limped through its MOT on a wing and a prayer. If Don had not been mates with the foreman of the garage, it would probably have failed.
‘As long as you get the tyres changed,’ his friend would say, or ‘You really need to sort out your suspension.’
And every year Don would promise to deal with the problems, and promptly forget about them until the next MOT test. The van went. He only used it for local trips around the city, delivering gardening tools for a local outlet. There was always a risk the engine would pack up, but he felt safe enough driving it around town. As long as the brakes and the steering worked, he was not going to kill anyone. The worst that could happen was that he might fail to deliver an order.
He searched everywhere for the keys, but could not find them in the house. As he had expected, the value the insurance company put on the old vehicle was nowhere near enough for him to replace it. He was left with a payout of a few hundred quid and no transport. Talk about bad luck. Except that it was not bad luck, it was his own stupid fault for leaving the keys in the van, which only made it worse.
‘At least it wasn’t full of gear,’ his girlfriend said. ‘You could have ended up losing a load of stuff that didn’t even belong to you.’
That did not help. Things could not look much bleaker.
‘How the hell am I going to replace it?’
‘Can’t you tell the insurance company it was full of tools?’ she suggested. But he could not claim for contents, only for the vehicle itself, and that was almost worthless. Only it had not been worthless; it had given him a means of earning a living.
‘What the hell do we pay insurance for?’ he grumbled. ‘And what the fuck am I supposed to do now?’
‘You’ll have to get on to the police and report it stolen,’ she replied. ‘Maybe they’ll be able to recover it for you.’
‘Fat chance.’
But he had to report it anyway, if he was to get anything at all out of the insurance company. Without wheels, he had nothing better to do, so he decided to catch a bus to the police station in Fulford Road and report the theft in person. That way, he might stand a better chance of getting something done, although he doubted anyone was going to pay much attention to his problems.
The desk sergeant barely glanced up when Don announced he had come to report the theft of a vehicle.
‘I’ve got the logbook and everything,’ he said.
‘That’s bad luck,’ the policeman said, with a surprising flash of sympathy. ‘Can you fill this out please?’
Don wrote down all the details. He felt quite pleased with himself for knowing exactly where he had left the van, and the registration and even the chassis number. The time the theft had taken place was necessarily vague as it had disappeared at some point during the night.
‘If you ask the people living nearby, someone might have heard it driving away?’ he suggested. ‘Then you could find it on CCTV and follow it to wherever it was taken?’
‘We’ll do what we can, sir,’ the desk sergeant replied briskly.
His tone suggested that the last thing the police were going to do was conduct a door-to-door investigation to discover whether anyone in the street had heard a vehicle driving past, looked out of the window, and jotted down the registration number of a dirty white van as it drove off.
‘It’s my livelihood. You have to do something.’ Don blustered, but he knew when he was defeated. ‘Is there nothing you can do?’
‘We’ll be keeping a lookout for it, sir. The registration number will be circulated to all our patrol cars and it’s possible we’ll spot it somewhere. It could have been joyriders taking it for a spin,’ he added.
He looked dubious. Don could almost hear him thinking that a seventeen-year-old van was hardly likely to attract the attention of kids out for a spin. Still, it was possible. Thanking the policeman, Don turned to leave.
‘I take it you’ve reported it to your insurance company?’ the policeman called out.
‘Oh, yes, thank you for reminding me. They asked me to give them a crime number when I’d reported it.’
The policeman gave him the number and Don left. Short of hiring a car and driving around York searching for the van himself, there was nothing more he could do. Cursing his bad luck, his life, his own stupidity, and everything else he could think of, he walked all the way home to save the bus fare, as though that was going to make any difference to th
e rest of his life.
25
‘You do know it’s only two weeks since you were last here?’ Jonah greeted Geraldine as she entered the room.
She waited for a quip about how they had to stop meeting like this, but Jonah just stared down at the body for a few minutes without speaking.
At last he broke the silence. ‘I’d guess he was in his late seventies.’
‘He looks older than that,’ she replied. ‘He was found in a doorway, his lower half still inside a tattered sleeping bag, so it seems we’re looking at another rough sleeper. Does that make a difference to your estimate of his age?’
Jonah shrugged. ‘The lifestyle took its toll. It’s hard to say how old he was.’
They both stared at the body. It looked skeletal; a delicate layer of white flesh stretched like tissue paper over the bones. Pale eyes stared up at the ceiling as though surprised by the brightness of the light, after a life spent in the shadows.
‘Was he strangled?’ Geraldine asked.
Jonah merely grunted. The answer was obvious from the dark line of bruising around the dead man’s scrawny neck, and the way his eyes bulged unnaturally in their sockets.
‘He’s not a very pretty sight, is he?’ Jonah asked. ‘I wouldn’t fancy his chances in a beauty pageant.’
Geraldine smiled fleetingly. She was relieved at the return of Jonah’s customary good humour, without which her visits to the mortuary would have been unbearably depressing.
‘What about the murder weapon?’
She hoped it had not been a strip of red fabric, although the circumstances in which the victims had both lived, and the manner in which they had been killed, pointed to a single killer. She was not surprised when Jonah confirmed the second victim had also been strangled by a strip of red fabric, probably a tie.
‘Was it the same piece of cloth as was used on the previous victim?’ she asked.
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