Next Victim

by Helen H. Durrant

  “Leave me your email address. When Mrs Andrews comes back from her break, I’ll get her to send you the web address and password. We use cloud storage for our CCTV.”

  They went back to the car.

  “What d’you think?” Elwyn asked.

  “Tricky. He’s one of those men who think they are always right. That’s his domain in there. Everyone does as they’re told, and no one dare put a foot wrong. We come along and put it to him that one of his workforce could be involved in a murder. Sent him spinning well out of his comfort zone, that.”

  Chapter Eight

  Amy was grinning like the cat that had got the cream. “We’ve spotted him, ma’am. One of the bars at the end of the street. The CCTV is positioned so that it takes in a few of the tables outside. Our victim’s going from one table to another. It looks like he’s asking for money. He appears to do quite well. One or two even hand over notes.”

  “Are you sure it’s him? The victim was in a pretty bad way.”

  “It’s the shape of the face, ma’am. I’m sure it’s our victim.”

  Amy had paused the film at a particular frame. Rachel and Elwyn moved closer to have a look.

  “That does look like him,” Rachel said, recalling what she’d seen of the victim. “He’s untidy. Those clothes don’t fit properly. His hair looks like it hasn’t been cut in a while. He certainly looks like a rough sleeper.”

  “He puts the money in his jacket pocket,” Amy said.

  “We’ve no jacket. No clothes at all in fact. Anything could have happened to the cash. The killer may have taken it. For now, I’m more interested in who he speaks to. Does he sit down with anyone?”

  “Not that we can see, ma’am. In all the shots he appears in, he’s moving. Unfortunately the other cameras on the street are looking in the wrong direction.”

  Ah well. Nothing Rachel could do about it. “Thanks, Amy. Good work.”

  “DCI King, do you have a moment?”

  It was Detective Superintendent Stuart Harding. He’d come in while everyone’s attention was on the screen.

  “Certainly, sir.” Rachel led the way into her office. Harding looked drawn and tired. Something was bothering him. Hopefully it wasn’t just the current case. She wanted him off their backs.

  “Do you have an identity for the victim yet?”

  “No, sir.”

  “In that case we’ll do an appeal. I’ll arrange for a press briefing later. You and I will take the stage. We’ll put out a photo and answer general questions only. You have a suitable image of the young man, a description they can use?”

  “Yes. We have a good shot of him on CCTV taken on the day he was killed.”

  “Good. We need a decent response. A murder victim, and still no ID.” He shook his head. “It doesn’t sit well. The public expect more.”

  “Needless to say, we are doing our best. We are following several leads. I feel confident that with or without the appeal we’ll have an ID soon.”

  “Not guaranteed. Not unless he’s reported missing.”

  “There are aspects to the case that make me think otherwise, sir. There’s a tattoo on his foot, for example. It’s a name, possibly his, and it’s in an odd position. We’re checking the parlours.”

  “An appeal will yield results faster.”

  “Is that all, sir?” Rachel knew from his demeanour, the reddening face, the straight back, that Stuart Harding was holding his true feelings in check. He had a temper which he found difficult to control. It seemed to be getting worse. Lately, his expectations of his teams had become almost impossible to achieve.

  “Keep me informed, understand? I want an update on progress daily. I’ll let you know when the briefing is taking place, but it will have to be tomorrow now.” He turned on his heel and marched out.

  “He looked edgy,” Elwyn said.

  “And the rest. He wants to put out an appeal. It might give us something, but more than likely we’ll end up with a load of timewasters.” Rachel looked around the incident room. The team were heads down at their desks. “Amy, our guest in the cells. Have you spoken to him yet?”

  “He’s been asleep all day, ma’am. He was shattered. He woke briefly, had a cuppa and then went off again.”

  “Make sure he’s checked regularly. We don’t know his medical history. I don’t want him keeling over with some condition we know nothing about.” She turned to Jonny. “The tattoo parlours. Anything?”

  “I’m still going through them, ma’am,” he said.

  Rachel went back into her office. It was gone six in the evening and she needed to speak to the girls, make sure everything was OK. She sat at her desk and took her mobile from her bag.

  “Meggy, you with your dad?” Megan grunted. “Is Mia home? Has she taken her meds?”

  Mia had type one diabetes and needed regular medication. It had been under control for nearly three years now, and Rachel wanted it to stay that way.

  “For God’s sake, Mum. We’re all fine,” Megan barked. “I’m trying to work and I’ve got a deadline!”

  “Try being me!”

  “It’s not all about you, Mum. I’m doing a degree, remember? Mia’s had her injection and gone round to Ella’s. Some panic on about homework. When will you be back?”

  “I could be late. Don’t wait up. Best if you and Mia stay at your dad’s tonight. Keep an eye on your sister. Don’t let her stay up until the death.”

  “He’s had that bloke round about the extension,” Megan said. “It sounds pretty cool. We’ll be able to come and go as we want between the two houses.”

  “Yeah, well cool!” Rachel snorted. She’d no idea what was really going on in Alan’s mind, but this was an expense they didn’t need.

  There was a knock on her office door, and Jonny Farrell barged in. “I’ve got something!” He beamed at her.

  Chapter Nine

  “A bloke who runs a tattoo parlour in Fallowfield remembers the lad,” Jonny said excitedly. “He went into the shop with another boy and a girl. The tattooist reckons they were students. He thought the request odd, both in terms of where he wanted the thing, and the name. Apparently, his real name wasn’t Alfie.”

  “Does he know what his name was?” Rachel asked.

  “No. When the work was done, the girl paid with her debit card. The bloke did say he got the impression it was some sort of joke the group intended to play on a mate.”

  “We need that debit card record,” Rachel said. “Students. Local, did he think?”

  “He didn’t say, but it’s more than likely. We’ve got enough colleges around here.”

  And that was the problem. “Get the debit card info from the bank first thing in the morning and we’ll go from there. We find the girl who paid, and we should have the identity of our victim,” Rachel said.

  Amy stuck her head around the door. “Uniform have been on. Our guest is awake and asking to be released.”

  “In that case, we’d better have a word. He should certainly be well rested by now, and sober. We won’t get a better time.” It was gone seven, and the team had been hard at it all day. “Amy, you can join me. Elwyn and Jonny, get off home.”

  Rachel saw the look Amy threw her way. She wasn’t happy. Had she been planning another night out? What it must be like to have no ties! “He needs a gentle touch. He’s more likely to talk to us women,” Rachel explained. “I don’t want him to see this as an interrogation.”

  “No probs, ma’am. I wasn’t doing anything this evening anyway.”

  Rachel caught the sarcasm. She watched Amy rummage around in her desk and retrieve her mobile.

  “A quick call and I’m ready.”

  Amy went off into the corridor to make her call. Rachel shook her head. If Amy had had something planned for tonight, she should have said so. She wasn’t a bloody mind reader.

  The old man had been asleep for hours. God knows when he’d last washed or changed his clothes, because he stank to high heaven.

  Rach
el took a sheet of paper from the uniformed officer. The man had given his name as John Jones.

  She smiled at him. “Are you feeling better, Mr Jones?”

  “Can I go now, love? I’ve got places to be.”

  “We’ve got one or two questions first. You were in the arches last night when that young man was murdered. It would help if you could tell us what you remember. We want his killer found.”

  “I didn’t see ’owt.” He stared at Rachel. His face was filthy with ingrained dirt. “It were too dark, and I’d had a bit to drink.” He looked down at his hands. They were shaking, Rachel noted. “I heard him screaming though. Cut me to the quick. Poor soul, that beast hurt him bad.”

  “Yes, we know that. Did you hear anything else? Any names, for instance?”

  “No. I think he were drugged. He were out of it for most of the time, to be honest. But whoever killed him were a cruel bastard. Kept hitting him. And if that wasn’t enough, he took petrol and burnt him . . . I’ve never seen the like of it.”

  As Butterfield had thought. Rachel would get that information to him as soon as she could. She saw Amy wince. “You said he. It was definitely a man? Did you see him?”

  “No, not really. He were in one of them all over white suits and a black coat, and I only saw him from the back. Even his head were covered. I suppose it could have been a woman, at a pinch. I don’t hear too clear, and what with the booze an’ all, I can’t be sure. But he had a torch that lit the place up a bit. I could see the boy were in a bad way. He must have been heavily drugged because he screamed a bit, but he should have made a lot more noise than he did.”

  “You’re being very helpful, John,” Amy said. “You phoned us too, that was a good move.”

  “It were his phone, the lad’s. Not mine.”

  Rachel looked at Amy. “What happened to it?”

  “The custody sergeant will have it.”

  “Arrange for it to go to forensics. We should be able to get the call log.”

  “Will you let us help you now, John?” Rachel asked. “Perhaps get you a place in a hostel? I could make a call on your behalf.”

  “Hate them places. No, love, I’m fine on me own. Can I go now?”

  “We will need to contact you again. There is every chance you’ll be called as a witness once the case goes to court.”

  “I’ve a brother in Ashton, Pennington Court flats, number eight. He’ll get a message to me.”

  Amy had been writing down everything John Jones had told them. “Would you mind signing this before you leave?”

  “Can’t write. Never learned.” He put a huge cross at the bottom of the paper, and then stood up.

  “See him out, Amy, and get him a hot drink and a sandwich from the canteen before he leaves.” Rachel left the room with some relief. The smell was making her feel queasy. She didn’t understand why he’d refused her offer of help.

  Chapter Ten

  For more than an hour, he sat hunched over his computer, squinting at images of young, blond men. He didn’t want to pick just any young blond man. He was looking for a particular type. It had been easy with ‘Alfie,’ he’d spotted the likeness at once. But finding the next one might not be so straightforward.

  For various reasons, he’d disregarded most of them and was now left with two. Both were local. Good, it meant less travelling. And both bore a resemblance to victim number one.

  It was never his intention for there to be only one victim. These young men were practice for something far more important. And he would keep on practising until he got it right. His cold, dark eyes flicked rapidly from one face to the other as he tried to decide which one to go for.

  In the end, he chose a youth with golden curls and a cherubic face. They had to be like that, there was a very good reason for it. It too was part of the quest.

  The young man called himself ‘Luke.’ Wondering if that was his real name, the man sent ‘Luke’ a message, calling himself ‘James.’

  Earlier that evening, he’d taken a walk down Canal Street and sussed out the cameras and where they were pointing. He’d identified an outside table where they wouldn’t be recorded. That would be the meeting place. All he had to do now was set it up.

  He wrote, I am looking at your profile. You are beautiful. I am captivated. Please agree to meet me. You will not be disappointed. A click, and the words went off into cyberspace.

  Several minutes passed with no response. The man grew anxious. Had he come on too strong? Or perhaps Luke wasn’t online.

  I am free tomorrow, Tuesday evening.

  The man smiled. This was too easy.

  The next message read, I want to look at you, can we facetime?

  Not possible. He’d put a photo on the dating site but it had been heavily photoshopped in an effort to disguise himself. He’d added a short beard and moustache and dyed his hair a shade darker. He planned to do this for real before meeting his date in person. He’d already let his facial hair grow.

  Can’t. Wrong sort of phone. Don’t worry, I’m like you, just a guy looking to meet up with someone I can trust. Meet me tomorrow, Canal Street at seven. You can make up your mind then. If you don’t like me, I’ll understand. I will be sitting at an outside table, wearing a rose in my lapel.

  A bit old-fashioned, but what was wrong with that? Again he waited. Did the young man suspect that something was wrong? Was he having second thoughts? He hoped not. Now the man had settled on Luke, he was keen to firm things up.

  Yes, I’ll be there.

  Arrangements made, Luke signed off. The man was pleased at his success. Things were looking good, but he must go carefully. This time he wouldn’t rush things. ‘Luke’ would be reeled in slower than the last one. There were still some loose ends to tidy up.

  The man took the student identity card from the breast pocket of his shirt. His first victim had been studying at Manchester Metropolitan University. He accessed Facebook, logged in using his fake account and typed in the name on the card. It took a few minutes, but finally he found him.

  A pretty face in a halo of flowing blond hair. Seeing the profile photo brought it all back — the anticipation, the thrill of the slow kill. The pain and the helpless victim’s reaction.

  The lad had been twenty, a student from Stockport in the second year of a degree course. He had two parents still alive, no siblings and hundreds of friends. In his spare time, he enjoyed football and going to concerts. Didn’t they all?

  One photo showed him surrounded by a group of girls. Did they know he was gay? One of them, a pretty girl with long, blonde hair was kissing his cheek. The man found her name — Hayley Burton. He smiled to himself. Was Hayley missing him? There had been nothing on the news. That meant his first victim had not yet been officially identified.

  Enough. Going over it again wouldn’t satisfy his need for long. The man was now gazing at a different Facebook profile. This one was familiar. It belonged to someone he used to know well, someone he hated with every fibre of his being. That hate was what drove the man forward, what led him to kill. He had to get even, take revenge for what that person had done to him.

  The man often checked this particular profile. He was older now, his golden curls long gone, and the angelic face bore the lines of a life that hadn’t been easy. Served the bastard right. The man on the Facebook profile stared back at him, a cheesy grin on his face. Who was he kidding?

  “Hello there, long time no see,” the man whispered, lightly touching the image. Time had not been kind to the face beneath his fingers, and that pleased him. It was justice of a sort.

  “Have you missed me? Ever wonder what happened? Where I went? You won’t have to wonder much longer. I’m going to put you straight. Be warned, your world is about to change. I am coming for you.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Tuesday

  For once, the house was blissfully quiet. No arguments, no stamping up the stairs, a rare peaceful start for Rachel. The girls were next door with their dad. The wea
ther was kind too, a sunny late April day that promised more warmth than they’d had in a while. What to wear? Rachel settled for jeans and a shirt. If Harding put in an appearance, she kept one of her good jackets in her office.

  Several cups of tea, a couple of slices of toast and she was ready for the off. Her mobile beeped. It made her jump. Jed again? She hoped not. Relief, it was a text from Alan. He was taking the girls to a restaurant in town so she could forget about dinner. She sent back a smiley emoji. Alan was worth his weight in gold at times.

  Another beep, more nerves, but this time it was Elwyn. They had a name for the woman who’d paid for the tattoo, Hayley Burton. Her current address was a student house in Fallowfield. That made sense, given where they’d got the tattoo done.

  It was progress. Elwyn would get the address and text it to Rachel. The girl must know who the young man was. Then they’d have an identity, and the case could move forward.

  Rachel lived several miles out of the city in the village of Poynton, not far from Macclesfield. When she’d split from Alan, she’d bought two semi-detached stone cottages with the idea of knocking them together. That had never happened. Time, money and the job meant her plans were constantly put on hold. In the end she’d had no choice but to put the cottage they didn’t use on the market. Not ideal, Rachel wanted the space for the kids, but it was the only choice given her circumstances. It sold almost immediately — to Alan. Her first thought was, would he ever give up? And that she would have appreciated a discussion. At the very least to have been told! Had she been aware of what he planned to do, Rachel would have made him look elsewhere. She objected to having Alan spy on her every movement, question the late nights and general slog that came with the job. But as it turned out, it was a blessing. It solved all her childcare problems, and Alan was able to keep a close eye on Mia.

  A major drawback of living so far out was the traffic. Today’s journey seemed to take ages until, finally, she hit the A6. From there she crawled with the rest of the traffic as far as the traffic lights in the centre of Fallowfield. Here, she swung a left onto Grange Road. Her satnav indicated that she wanted the next turning on the right.