by Marion Todd
‘Oh, it was a woman,’ the barmaid said.
Clare glanced at Chris then back at the barmaid. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, pretty sure. A blonde woman.’
Clare took out her phone and typed in the web address of Sharp and Lafferty. She found a photo of Cheryl and, obscuring the name, held it out for the barmaid to see. ‘Was it this woman?’
The barmaid took the phone from Clare and scrutinised the photo. Then she handed it back. ‘I can’t be sure,’ she said. ‘But I don’t think so.’ She jabbed the phone screen. ‘She’s quite striking. I’d have remembered her.’
Clare took her phone back. ‘Okay, thanks so much. Do you mind if PC Stapleton stays on to look through the footage again?’
‘Sure, no problem.’
Sara’s face fell but Clare steered her back into the office. ‘I want you to go through it again and take stills of any other blonde women who arrive alone. I want this woman found.’
Chapter 34
Back at the station, Chris went to check the IP addresses while Clare made herself a coffee. Minutes later he appeared at the staff kitchen door.
‘There’s something funny about those IP addresses,’ he said.
‘Jessica Peters?’
‘Yeah. From the emails she sent to The Heron’s Nest.’
‘Funny, how?’
‘They’re different.’
‘Meaning she’s sent the emails from different places? Could be work and home, Chris.’
‘Yeah, it could be. But the locations…’
‘Which are?’ She began spooning coffee into mugs.
‘The first one came from France.’
Clare looked up, spoon in hand. ‘France? That might explain why we can’t find her – if she’s living abroad now.’
‘Well it might, except that the next email the following day, was sent from San Francisco.’
Clare frowned. ‘That’s a bit of a schlep from France. Could she have gone on holiday after sending the first email?’
‘Yeah, it’s possible, although she’d be a bit jet-lagged. There was only eighteen hours between the times they were sent.’
Clare began opening cupboard doors. ‘Any biscuits? I’m starving.’
‘Nope.’
‘What? Not even a Wagon Wheel?’
Chris shook his head. ‘I have to fit into my kilt for the party,’ he whispered.
‘Then you’d better stop eating Zoe’s… wait – you have a kilt?’ Clare gaped.
‘What self-respecting Scotsman doesn’t?’
Clare thought of Geoffrey Dark, over in Boston now. She’d never seen him in a kilt. Come to that, she couldn’t imagine him in one either. And then she gave herself a shake. No point in thinking about him now. That chapter was over. She returned to her perusal of the cupboards and found a pack of Twix biscuits. ‘I promise I’ll replace this,’ she said, taking one out of the pack and peeling off the wrapper. She bit into the Twix and stood considering what Chris had found. Then she said, ‘Jessica – could she be – what’s the word, spoofing her email address? Trying to make it look as if it came from elsewhere?’
‘I wondered that. So I called Diane.’
‘Was she in on a Sunday?’
‘No. But her wunderkind Craig was.’
‘And?’
He shook his head. ‘Craig reckons not. The point of spoofing is to make it seem as if someone else has sent the email. If she’d done that, and Nicholas Hamilton had replied, it would have gone to the email address she was pretending it came from.’
‘Not much good for booking a restaurant, then.’
‘Not really.’
‘So?’
‘Craig reckons she’s probably using a VPN.’
‘Virtual Private Network?’
‘Yeah. He says if you sign up with a VPN company you can choose from thousands of locations, all over the world. What’s more, you can chop and change. So…’
‘France one day, San Francisco the next,’ Clare finished for him.
‘Exactly.’
Clare lifted the mug to her lips and sipped at her coffee. ‘But why would she bother? I suppose, if you’re ultra-conscious about internet security, a VPN makes sense. But why keep changing your location?’
Chris shrugged. ‘Beats me. But there’s nothing illegal about it. Maybe she just likes to keep one step ahead of spammers and hackers.’
‘Or maybe she has a reason to hide her location,’ Clare said. ‘Maybe she wants it to look like she’s in another country…’
‘…but she’s here all the time?’
Clare’s lips tightened. ‘Well, if she is here,’ she said, ‘why would she want us to think she isn’t?’
Chris saw what she was thinking. ‘So we don’t connect her to the murder of two of her classmates.’
Clare shoved the last of the Twix into her mouth and dropped the wrapper into the bin. ‘And if that is the case,’ she said through a mouthful of crumbs, ‘then we really need to get hold of her. And fast.’
The kitchen door opened and Sara looked in. ‘I’ve checked up on those blondes, boss.’
‘And?’
‘Probably four of them, although the pub was so busy it’s hard to be sure. And some folk came in with hoods up so the camera at the door didn’t pick up their hair colour. Must have been raining.’
‘Okay, Sara. Print them out and stick them up on the board in the incident room. And do a Google search on the images, please. Remember how to do it?’
Sara said she did and went off to pin up the photos. Clare picked up her mug. ‘Fancy a chat, Chris? Help me get this straight in my head.’
Chris followed her through to her office and they sat down on either side of the desk.
‘Let’s recap what we know,’ Clare said.
‘Okay. Ingrid McKinnie goes to The Harvest Moon on the night of the twenty-eighth,’ Chris began.
‘We think for a date,’ Clare added. ‘Someone from Attracto – possibly one of the three men who also connected with Alison. Did you ask Jim to check them out?’
‘Yeah. Want me to see if he’s had any luck?’
‘Please.’
Chris went to find Jim, and Clare sat mulling over Stoneman. As Sara pointed out, there wasn’t much point in using a fake photo on a dating site. Could he be their killer? Posing as an attractive man to trick women into meeting him? If they’d followed the advice on Attracto, they’d have met somewhere public. And would a quiet-living accountant like Alison Reid have been naive enough to invite a man with a fake photo into her home?
‘No go,’ Chris said, coming back into the room. ‘BikerBoy went to Australia for Christmas and new year. He’s not actually due back here until this Saturday.’
‘Definitely?’
‘Yeah. Jim checked with the police in Adelaide.’
‘Okay, and the other one – Sandy something?’
‘SandyD.’
‘Yeah – any luck with him?’
‘He checked out too. Works at a call centre in Dundee. He was working a late shift on the twenty-eighth. Didn’t finish until two in the morning.’
‘By which time, Ingrid was probably dead.’
‘Yeah. The Harvest Moon shut at midnight and the call centre’s at least half an hour’s drive away, so I’m pretty sure we can rule him out.’
‘Which just leaves Stoneman,’ Clare said. She picked up her cup and sipped from it again. ‘I think it’s time we popped into the hotel and checked out the man in the photo.’
Chris checked his watch. ‘Want to go now?’
‘In a bit. Let’s get back to where we were.’
‘Okay, Ingrid has a date,’ Chris said. ‘Either she’s stood up and meets a friend or the date arrives late.’
‘Now it’s possible whoever she met is her killer.’
‘Yeah. But, if not…’
‘Then it’s either a random attack or someone was waiting for her. Maybe someone’s been watching her, knows where she lives, picks
her up on her way home. Easy to do if she’d had a few drinks.’
‘You’re forgetting the Rohypnol,’ Chris reminded her.
‘Dammit, so I was. That must have happened in the pub, Chris. So it was either her date – if he turned up – or the friend she met by chance.’
‘Jessica Peters?’
‘It could be. I wonder if there was something between them. Something at primary school.’ Clare suddenly remembered the photos found among Ingrid’s paperwork. ‘Those boxes from Ingrid’s house – are they still in the incident room?’
‘Think so. Want me to grab them?’
‘Please. I want another look at those photos.’
Chris returned a minute later bearing the two boxes.
‘That one,’ Clare said, indicating the one she’d found the photos in. She began sifting through the contents again until she came to the envelope of photos. ‘Right, let’s have a proper look.’
Chris pulled his chair round to Clare’s side of the desk. ‘What are you looking for?’
‘Friends, boyfriends… or anyone who might be Jessica Peters.’
There were just two photos, one of two little girls aged nine or ten, and another of the same two girls standing with another three children.
‘Taken on the same day, judging by the clothes,’ she said studying them. ‘I reckon that’s Ingrid. Look at the curls.’
Chris nodded. ‘Think that’s Jessica next to her?’
Clare turned the photo over but there was nothing on the back. ‘Could be,’ she muttered. ‘What about the other one?’
Chris turned over the other photo. ‘Something written here.’
Clare reached across and drew her desk lamp towards her, holding the photo under the glow from the bulb. ‘Ingrid with Alison. So they were friends, despite what Ingrid’s mother said.’
Chris nodded. ‘Looks like it. What about the other names?’
Clare screwed up her eyes. ‘Looks like John…’ she turned the photo over again. ‘Yeah, that one’s a boy.’ She turned it back, peering at the other names. ‘I think that says Lexy,’ she said, ‘but I’m struggling with the last one.’ There was a smudge over it but it looked like…
‘Ruth,’ Chris said. ‘That says Ruth.’
There was a tap on the door and Sara’s face appeared. ‘Boss, funny thing,’ she said.
Clare glanced up. ‘Well?’
‘I had to check the name to be sure,’ Sara began.
‘Spit it out, Sara!’
‘Remember the shoplifter? The one we picked up the other day?’
Clare looked at her. ‘Ruth Williams…’ she said slowly.
‘Yeah, that’s her.’
Clare glanced back at the photo. It did say Ruth. Surely it was a coincidence.
‘Well, she’s in that WhatsApp group as well,’ Sara said. ‘She must have been at school with our two victims.’
Clare glanced at Chris, trying to work out what this might mean. Ruth Williams, recently brought in for shoplifting. The same Ruth Williams who was in a WhatsApp group with the two murdered women; and now Clare was holding a photo that included Alison, Ingrid and someone called Ruth.
Chapter 35
The house in Trinity Place was in darkness. It was a single-storey bungalow, finished in a pebbledash render which was coming away from the walls, here and there. The windows with their white PVC frames were newer, though. There was a garage to the side with a dark red up-and-over door and Clare thought back to the photos Sara had taken of the stolen goods. But that wasn’t important just now.
‘Go round to the back door,’ she said to Sara and Robbie, and she waited for them to make their way down the side of the house before she rang the bell.
As she pressed it she heard the soft tones of a Westminster chime but there was no sound from within. She knocked firmly on the door but, again, there was no response. Stepping back, she scanned the house. There were two rooms to the front, one either side of the door. The curtains were drawn on one window and she moved to the other and peered in. But it was growing dark, making it difficult to see anything other than a small red light which she presumed was coming from a television left on standby.
Sara came back round the side of the house. ‘No sign of life, boss. Curtains drawn on the rooms at the back.’
A neighbour appeared on her doorstep and looked across.
‘We’re looking for Ruth Williams,’ Clare called.
‘Not seen her for a couple of days,’ the neighbour said.
Clare thanked the neighbour and waited for her to go back inside. Then she turned again to the front door and crouched to look through the letterbox. There was a vestibule and an inner glass door which had been left open. Squinting against the darkness, Clare could just make out a hall running towards the back of the house with doors off, left and right. Then she pressed her face up against the letterbox and looked down towards the floor. A copy of the Sunday Times lay on the mat and she guessed it had been delivered that morning. There were letters too which must have been there since Saturday at least. Was it likely Ruth had gone away, overnight? After the upset over the shoplifting, Clare didn’t think so. An uneasy feeling began to form in her stomach. ‘Any glass doors?’ she asked Sara and Robbie.
‘Yeah, boss,’ Robbie said. ‘The back door’s half glass.’
‘Open it.’
The lock on the back door wasn’t particularly sturdy and Robbie elected to force it with a chisel, rather than smash the glass. The door swung open and they stepped into a utility room that ran along the back of the house. Clare felt for a switch and the room was bathed in light. Clothes hung from a pulley mounted on the ceiling and she put up a hand to touch a pair of jeans. They were bone dry. A light was flashing on a washing machine, next to the door, indicating it had completed its cycle. In front of them was another door which led to a kitchen. Again, Clare found a switch and a bank of downlighters lit the room. There was little evidence of life in the kitchen. The sink was empty of dishes, the surfaces clean and tidy. A walk-in larder cupboard to the side revealed shelves of store cupboard items, neatly stacked.
A door to the hall stood open. Sara and Robbie went ahead to explore the other rooms while Clare and Chris poked about the kitchen.
‘There’s nothing here,’ she said to Chris. ‘Come on – let’s see the rest of the house.’
‘Boss…’
Clare’s heart sank. Something in Sara’s tone. The bathroom light was on, Sara standing just outside the door. Clare moved past her to go into the room and saw Robbie standing by the sink. A dining chair which had been placed in front of it was occupied by the figure of a woman. Ruth Williams.
Her arms hung limply down while her head was bent forward, submerged in the sink which was full of water.
Clare glanced at Robbie. ‘Dead?’
He nodded. ‘She’s cold, boss.’
She moved round to take a closer look. Ruth’s head was turned slightly and through strands of hair which had settled on the surface of the water she could see that her eyes were still open. She longed to close them but resisted the temptation. She glanced at Chris who was standing next to Sara. ‘Get SOCO and a pathologist out, Chris. And better get a locksmith for that door while you’re at it. And I’ll need someone on the door tonight.’
Chris dialled the number for SOCO and Clare took out her phone.
Jim answered immediately. ‘Clare?’
‘Another death, Jim. Ruth Williams, our shoplifter from Friday. Look, I really need to get hold of Jessica Peters. Get every spare body onto that WhatsApp group. Anyone who went to the same school and who’s local is to be visited in person. See what they know about her. Check our databases, try the voters’ roll, the phone book, even – anything else you can think of.’
‘I can speak to the Registrar General when they open in the morning,’ Jim said.
‘Yeah, we may need to do that. But let’s see if we can find her tonight.’
Clare turned to Sara and Robbie who w
ere hovering just outside the bathroom. ‘We can’t touch anything until SOCO have been so I want you two back at the station, helping with that WhatsApp group.’
Sara’s face was a picture of misery. ‘Boss, if she’s done this to herself…’
Clare shook her head. ‘Sara, if you’re worrying about her arrest yesterday then don’t. You did everything by the book and she was treated with compassion.’ She glanced back at Ruth Williams. ‘If this is a suicide – and frankly, I doubt it – it probably would have happened anyway. It’s certainly nothing to do with the way you handled Ruth yesterday.’
Sara’s gaze strayed back to the sink and Clare put a hand on her shoulder.
‘Go on, now. I need you to help find Jessica Peters. Okay?’
Clare watched Sara leave with Robbie then she took a last look round the bathroom. ‘Better retrace our steps, Chris. Come on. We’ll wait for SOCO in the car.’
* * *
It was almost nine when Clare and Chris finally returned to the station.
‘You get off home,’ she said to Chris. ‘Not much more we can do tonight. And take Sara with you. Pour her a big glass of wine.’
‘What about these?’ He held out a large brown evidence bag containing Ruth Williams’ laptop and a smaller one which held her mobile phone.
‘Jim said he’d get one of the cops to take them down to Tech Support first thing tomorrow.’
‘I’ll leave them on his desk then,’ he said. ‘You coming?’
She shook her head. ‘I’ll have to update the DCI.’
‘Good luck with that.’
DCI Gibson sounded as if he was in a pub when he finally answered her call. ‘Hold on,’ he said. ‘I’ll just get out of here.’ Clare could hear background chatter and music playing, then suddenly it was quiet. ‘Okay, what’s up?’ he said.
‘Sorry to interrupt your night, Al. But we’ve another death.’
‘Murder?’
‘Hard to say at this stage. But if it’s suicide then it’s a bit of an odd one.’
‘Odd?’
Clare explained how they’d found Ruth Williams. ‘I mean she could have been drunk, a bit unsteady and decided to sit at the sink to wash her face. But that doesn’t seem likely.’