Mirror Man

by McIntosh, Fiona

  ‘By overpowered, you mean drugged?’ Lonsdale nodded. ‘Do we know with what?’

  ‘We will shortly. The doc said Robbins was alive when his hands were removed but most likely dead before his killer hacked up the rest.’

  ‘Any trophy taken?’

  ‘None that we know of. His bits were left next to him on the grass.’

  Jack blew out a breath of disgust.

  ‘He’s neat, I’ll give him that. There are rope marks around the wrists but no sign of the rope used. We think he suspended the victim’s arms using that rope around a branch – there are marks on the branch to confirm this – and then tied it down, perhaps to the car. The pathologist said the dismembering was done with two firm blows, most likely from an axe. They were accurate and there are chop marks in the bark of the tree consistent with an axe blade.’

  Jack grimaced at the thought. No one would wish that on anyone, but then he decided that maybe Amy Clarke and her parents might. The thought stayed front of mind. ‘You mentioned footprints?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Size nine and a half, we believe, but again awaiting confirmation. They’re trail shoes – big four-wheel-drive tread, if you get my meaning.’

  Jack didn’t let on, simply nodded. ‘Clear prints?’

  ‘Very. For someone who left no forensic evidence of himself on the body or in the woods, he was careless here.’ He watched Jack. ‘You don’t think so?’

  ‘Get your guys to check that print in every way possible – weight, et cetera. I don’t trust it.’

  ‘You’ve seen it previously?’

  Jack nodded. ‘Like you, I sense a careful killer here. But the prints are too obvious.’

  ‘Okay, will do. Your people are doing the same, presumably?’

  ‘Yes, something else we can share.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Lonsdale shrugged. ‘Nothing much else except he made the call to Emergency, as explained.’

  ‘Tyre tracks?’

  ‘All they tell us is this is a small hatchback. Again, we’ll confirm the make when we know more.’

  Jack closed the small notebook he’d written a few reminders in. He found it cathartic to write down facts alongside his thoughts to let it all blend and percolate. He’d scribbled killer’s voice, shoe size with several question marks and he’d underlined the words recording of emergency call. ‘I’ll talk to Mr Chingford. Is he in hospital?’

  ‘No, he’s at home.’

  ‘Have you spoken to the young offenders’ home?’

  ‘Yes, I did it myself. Nothing unusual, although you’re welcome to go over it. It was a normal day as far as the staff are concerned. Robbins left the breakfast room at twenty-five past eight or thereabouts with his small backpack. We have that, and it gives us nothing of any use, just the usual crap – near-empty wallet, a scarf and a beanie, half-eaten bar of chocolate, headphones, penknife. Nothing else of any interest. According to a staff member who checked him out, Davey Robbins put on his headphones and walked outside as he saw Chingford arrive to take him to work in the morning. We’ve questioned his housemates and they’re shocked, obviously, but said all was normal: no arguments, no dramas, no sense of Robbins being anything but the usual Davey Robbins who talked about a concert he wished he could go to in Manchester, his upcoming apprentice tests and the new life he was headed for in London. According to them, he had no obvious intention of running away or anything. He hated the immigrants he worked with, talked a lot about joining a Neo-Nazi group, but the staff said he was just spouting rubbish he’d heard in prison more than anything else. He showed no indication of being violent.’

  ‘Other than raping helpless teenage girls,’ Jack remarked, unhelpfully.

  Lonsdale nodded with equal despair. ‘He’d not broken any house rules. Nothing out of the ordinary occurred yesterday morning and he did a full day’s work, speaking to none of his fellow workers as usual, just listening to his music.’

  ‘Thanks.’ They shook hands. ‘We’ll stay in touch, eh?’

  ‘One of our guys will give you a lift to Alan Chingford’s place and then back to the train station when you’re ready – the constable who brought the coffees.’

  ‘Al?’

  ‘Yeah, good memory. He’ll drive you.’

  Jack looked up. ‘Looks like it might rain.’

  ‘Always looks like that, sir.’ He grinned. ‘This is Yorkshire.’

  Beryl Chingford looked at Jack with a pained expression when she answered the door. He could tell she did not want to let him in, despite his warrant card.

  ‘Just a few minutes, Mrs Chingford.’

  ‘Look, he’s answered all your questions already.’

  Jack gave her his best smile of sympathy. ‘All of York CID’s questions, Mrs Chingford. I’m from Scotland Yard.’

  It didn’t impress her. She breathed through flaring nostrils and her husband arrived behind her.

  ‘Hello there,’ he said, smiling at Jack. ‘I don’t mind at all. I’m devastated about that lad. Come on in . . . er . . .’

  ‘Detective Superintendent Jack Hawskworth,’ he answered.

  ‘Alan!’ his wife despaired.

  ‘Come on, Beryl. A youngster was murdered horribly on my watch,’ he appealed. ‘I’m not hurt – more embarrassed than anything.’ He shook Jack’s hand.

  Beryl sighed and stood back. ‘Can I get you a cup of tea, Mr Hawksworth?’

  He didn’t correct her. ‘Only if you both are having one.’

  ‘Yorkshire tea is the best tea,’ Alan boasted. ‘Yes, let’s have a pot, Beryl, thanks, luv.’

  She disappeared into the back of the house and Jack was ushered into a sitting room where a small gas fire guttered.

  ‘I feel a bit chilled today,’ Alan admitted, giving a shiver.

  ‘You must be shaken up?’

  ‘I am. But as I said, I’m mostly embarrassed.’

  ‘Don’t be,’ Jack said.

  ‘How can I help, Detective Superintendent? How come Scotland Yard is involved?’

  ‘Davey Robbins is a London criminal and we’re just making sure we do all our due diligence.’ It sounded convincing enough and Chingford seemed to accept this rationale.

  ‘What can I tell you that hasn’t already been said?’

  ‘I’m mostly interested in any small aspect you can remember about your attacker.’

  Chingford’s face creased into a deep frown. ‘I told them everything I could. I don’t think he had any intention to do me harm.’

  ‘A kind attacker?’ Jack smiled.

  ‘Well, nothing kind about a fellow who does what he did to Davey . . .’ Chingford sounded sad. ‘I know most would have no sympathy, but my role was never to judge. I like to see my lads get through their worst times and make good – repay the society that gives them another chance.’

  ‘You’re generous, Mr Chingford.’

  ‘Call me Alan, please. I try.’

  Beryl bustled in with a tray, pinched-lipped. ‘Let it brew, Alan. Can I offer you some cake, Mr Hawksworth?’

  ‘Er, no, thank you. This is perfect.’

  ‘Right, well, if there’s nothing else, I’ll leave you both to it.’

  ‘I won’t hold your husband up for much longer,’ Jack said.

  Her lips thinned further but she nodded and departed.

  ‘I’m sorry, Detective Superintendent,’ Alan said. ‘She does worry too much. This was frightening, I’ll admit, but prison life taught me to stay calm in any confronting situation. I realised he didn’t want anything from me other than the car, but when he left without it, I’ll be damned if I could work out what his intentions were in coming to my home, tying me up, threatening he’d hurt Beryl!’

  ‘Tell me about his voice, Alan.’

  ‘His voice? Well, now, that’s interesting. Er . . . nothing particularly unusual about it. I wouldn’t say deep or high, mellow enough. He spoke calmly, although I think the cold weather up here was giving him a workout.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

>   ‘Well, he sounded cold, sniffed a bit. He spoke quietly though, and while his words were threatening, he didn’t put any heat in them. A man in control, I would say.’

  Jack nodded. ‘Accent?’

  ‘Definitely a southerner.’ Alan grinned. ‘No real accent at all . . . I could pick someone from the West Country or even Sussex.’

  ‘Did he sound like a Londoner?

  ‘Well, he wasn’t cockney. He had a cultured accent but wasn’t overly posh.’

  ‘Educated, then?’

  ‘Yes, definitely. The way he spoke held no cursing, no slang. He spoke in full sentences and in excellent English.’

  ‘Could you take a stab at his age?’

  Alan leaned forward to pour the tea. ‘Age . . .?’ He pondered this as he prepared the tea with milk and handed a small mug to Jack, gesturing towards the sugar if Jack wanted it. He sat back with his mug and sipped. ‘Not young, but his voice held no tremors. I think if I was cornered, I would guess he might be in his fifties.’

  ‘Any clue as to why?’

  ‘Just something he said that made me think he might have gone to school in the late fifties, early sixties.’

  ‘Ah, good. What did he say?’

  ‘He offered me some water, because he warned I might be left tied up for a while.’

  ‘How is that a clue?’

  ‘He offered a beaker of water. That’s what we all called the cups in school. I haven’t heard the word used in a long time and certainly not from someone younger than myself . . . it’s only us boomers who use that sort of language.’

  ‘Okay,’ Jack said, sounding enlightened. ‘That’s a help. You didn’t happen to see what he was wearing on his feet, did you?’

  ‘I did, actually. How curious.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Well, he was wearing a pair identical to ones I used to wear when I was all day on my feet in the prison. I still like them but now I wear them in brown, like his . . . my prison uniform meant I wore the black version.’

  Jack blinked at all the information. Alan liked to talk, but in truth he was being more helpful than Jack could have hoped. ‘Would it be an imposition to see your shoes, please?’

  ‘Not at all. They’re just out in our boot room. Give me a moment.’ He hauled himself out of the chair with a sigh and, while Jack felt bad for causing the exertion, he sensed this was important. He watched Alan return, padding in his slippers. ‘Here we go. He was wearing a pair just like these – except his were a sort of warm tan, not this dark brown.’

  Jack looked at the bland cushioned shoes. ‘Hush Puppies.’

  ‘I swear by them. Really comfy and they don’t set off metal detectors in airports . . . or prisons.’ He grinned.

  ‘Do you know the name of them, by any chance?’

  ‘Oh-ho, now you’re testing me, Detective. But Beryl being Beryl will certainly know.’ He called for her and Jack inwardly sighed, knowing another disapproving look would be coming his way.

  Right enough, it arrived, creasing across her stern expression. ‘Were you leaving, Mr Hawksworth? Can I show you out?’

  ‘Er, yes, in a moment, Mrs Chingford, I—’

  ‘Listen, dear,’ Alan interrupted. ‘What are these shoes called?’

  ‘What on earth—?’

  He stopped her again. ‘Darling, just answer. Do you or do you not recall the name of these shoes?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, bristling at his interruptions. ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘Could you write it down for the Detective Superintendent, please, dear? It’s important.’

  ‘Yes, well, give me a moment.’

  ‘Is it important?’ Chingford asked as she disappeared again.

  ‘It could be. The footprint we have does not belong to a smooth-soled shoe like this. In fact, it’s the opposite – it’s got the deep grooves of a trail shoe.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Well, he was in formal shoes just like these. I remember clearly because I was on the ground and they were all I could see just beneath the pillowcase he pulled over my head. I gave that black pillow slip to the police. They were going to check for DNA.’

  ‘I doubt they’ll find any. He’s cautious.’

  ‘Not if he’s leaving footprints. He could have changed to avoid his shoes getting muddy.’

  ‘Yes, he could have,’ Jack agreed, but for different reasons.

  Beryl was back. ‘I’ve written down the name that was on the side of the box. We bought them in Leeds two years ago – the receipt is taped inside if you need.’

  Jack smiled. ‘That won’t be necessary, but you’ve been most helpful, both of you.’ He pulled out a card. ‘Alan, if anything else strikes you – any small recollection from your attack – don’t hesitate to call.’

  ‘Righto,’ Alan said and then grinned. ‘That’s what he said when I pointed to where I’d put the car keys down. He really was quite polite about it all.’

  Jack smiled kindly once again, shook Alan’s hand and nodded his thanks at Beryl. ‘Thank you again. Nothing beats Yorkshire tea.’

  15

  Lauren had risen in London at about the same time Jack had to catch his train. She had seen the late-night bulletin reporting the discovery of a mutilated body outside a caravan in Yorkshire that evening and her internal radar was beeping madly. She had been restless ever since, and it hadn’t taken much to convince herself to call The York Gazette, which had broken the story first. It wasn’t yet six but pigeons outside her flat window were busy, so why not her?

  ‘Congratulations,’ she said to a fellow called Angus Hartley. ‘You must be the darling of the newspaper.’

  ‘Oh, well, for today anyway,’ he said, sounding understandably chuffed, and young – that could help her.

  ‘How on earth did you crack the story?’

  He laughed. ‘My girlfriend wanted to do one of those farm experiences, you know?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘We took a Friday off and drove down to a farm that offers it. We’d had a good day and decided to have a pub meal before driving home and I heard sirens. Then I got a call from my editor, who wanted to know if I was anywhere near Sherburn.’

  ‘And, of course, you were,’ she said, ensuring she sounded enthralled but hoping to hurry him along.

  ‘Yeah, pure chance that I was able to get to the scene fast. I was there before the TV crews.’

  ‘Good for you, Angus. Are you still covering the story?’

  ‘Yeah. My newspaper’s paying for the accommodation for last night and tonight, and I’ll be going back to the field and the caravan where he was found. I’ll leave in an hour.’

  ‘Listen, Angus, if I make it worth your while, would you do me a small favour?’

  ‘Depends. I can’t—’

  ‘No, it’s simple. Can you just ring me later and tell me one senior policeman’s name who’s in charge? Just a name. Then I can do my own sleuthing. I’ll pay you one hundred pounds for that information.’

  ‘A hundred quid? Are you joking?’

  ‘Not at all. You see, I’m writing a feature about ex-criminals, so it’s got nothing to do with daily news. Davey Robbins was sent to prison for a serious crime against a woman. And we write for women, so rape and domestic violence, these are important issues, you know?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I hear you. Plus, he had the jewels cut off, so that should keep your readers insanely intrigued.’

  She didn’t reply to that.

  ‘So, just a name, is it?’

  ‘That’s it. Ring me the moment you have it. Can you text me your postal address? I’ll send a cash cheque today. No one has to be any the wiser.’

  ‘Cheque’s in the mail, eh?’

  ‘I’m good for it, Angus. I promise. You have my name and phone number so I’m hardly going to dud you.’

  ‘No. Okay, then, talk later.

  Lauren was pleased to discover that Angus was as good as his word. He rang her four hours later while she was putting the finishing touches o
n her feature concluding that the Jack Russell terrier was the best dog companion for a single woman today.

  ‘Got that story, Lauren?’ Rowena reminded her.

  ‘Just about to hit send,’ she called back over the bent heads of the other two writers. ‘Hang on, my phone’s going. I have to take this.’ She grabbed her phone and moved quickly to the corridor. ‘Angus?’

  ‘Yeah, hi.’

  ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Crazy up here. Full crime-scene drama and plenty of police guarding it.’

  ‘Who’s in charge?’

  ‘Well, from York CID it’s Detective Inspector Ian Lonsdale.’

  She grabbed the pen she kept habitually behind one ear and scribbled it on her hand in biro.

  ‘All right, that’s great, thank you. I’m going to—’

  ‘No, wait, it got very interesting.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Scotland Yard turned up.’

  Lauren opened her mouth in surprised delight, but no sound came out; her mind was racing now, confirming that her hunch as the pigeons began cooing this morning was right. ‘Are you there?’

  ‘Yes, yes, sorry. You dropped out momentarily,’ she fibbed. ‘You said Scotland Yard?’

  ‘Yeah, and the local lads weren’t happy, I can tell you.’

  ‘Do you have a name?’

  ‘Big shot. Detective Superintendent Jack Hawksworth. Pretty boy. They all hated him on sight.’

  She smiled. Hello, Jack. ‘Angus, this is perfect.’

  ‘You got my address?’

  ‘I did. I’ll go to the post office at lunchtime. Thanks.’

  ‘Any time,’ he said. ‘Good luck with your feature.’

  ‘Good luck with your story. Bet The Yorkshire Post hates you.’

  They both rang off to the sound of each other’s chuckles. Now she had to explain to Rowena about needing a one-hundred-pound cash cheque.

  Lauren was on her third coffee, the Pret a Manger soup she’d hungrily consumed at eleven-thirty a distant memory, and she was beginning to feel cold leaning against the wall, watching the incoming-trains information changing on the flicking arrivals and departures board. All she was feeling right now was frustration. Everyone else seemed to find what they needed, surging forwards to a platform gate as their train’s time was confirmed or an arrival platform verified.