A Cold Cold Heart

by John Nicholl

  The DI grinned. ‘So, what size are your shoes? It’s a simple enough question. What’s the answer?’

  ‘Eight, size fucking eight, if you must know.’

  The two officers glanced at each other knowingly before Grav spoke again. ‘A size eight footprint was found immediately next to the murdered girl, within inches of her cold and battered body.’

  ‘It’s not fucking mine!’

  Grav met his eyes. ‘Perhaps now would be a good time to summarise: there’s your long history of violence towards women, the semen sample, the cigarette butt, and now the footprint. This isn’t going well for you, Peter. It might be an idea to start talking.’

  The duty solicitor shuffled some papers to no effect. ‘I’d like to consult with my client privately.’

  Spencer jumped to his feet. ‘This is a setup. It’s mad. I’ve done fuck all. It’s a fucking setup.’

  Kesey took his arm. ‘Sit down, Mr Spencer. Just answer our questions. That’s all you’ve got to do.’

  The duty solicitor spoke out again, more insistently this time. ‘I’d like some time alone with my client.’

  To everyone’s surprise, Spencer glared at Ward and shook his head. ‘No. I’ve got nothing to hide; I’m an innocent man. I just want to get this shit over with.’

  Grav couldn’t believe his luck. ‘You want to continue?’

  ‘Just get on with it.’

  ‘You don’t want a break, despite your solicitor’s advice?’

  ‘Just ask your fucking questions. The quicker I’m back in Swansea nick, the happier I’ll be.’

  Kesey took three further photographs from the file and lay them side by side about an inch apart. ‘We believe that these young women were victims of the same killer. As of now, you’re our most likely suspect.’

  Spencer dry gagged, swallowed, and gagged again. ‘This is fucking ridiculous. I gave my missus a few miserable slaps when I was pissed and threatened her, I’ll put my hands up to that.’ He pushed the photos away from him. ‘But that lot’s got fuck all to do with me.’

  The DS returned the photos to their original positions. ‘Look at them. Take a good look at what you did; that’s down to you.’

  ‘No fucking way!’

  ‘Where were you on the third of October last year?’

  Spencer was repeatedly blinking now. ‘How the fuck am I supposed to know the answer to that?’

  ‘What about the sixth of November, can you give us an alibi for that date?’

  He shook his head forlornly as Grav glared at him and said, ‘You’re not doing very well are you, Peter? How about I give you one last chance before we charge you with murder?’

  Spencer looked ready to puke.

  ‘Where were you on the fifth of December? It’s only a few weeks back. Surely even you can answer that one. Go on surprise me.’

  Spencer relaxed in his seat as his tension melted away. ‘Are you saying that’s when one of the girls was murdered?’

  ‘What’s your point?’

  He laughed out loud. ’Are you saying the bitch was murdered here in Wales?’

  Grav glared at him and hissed through gritted teeth, ‘What’s so funny about a young woman losing her life so tragically? Does her death amuse you? It seems that way to me.’

  ‘She was killed here, wasn’t she? Or you fucking jokers wouldn’t be investigating the crime.’

  ‘Her body was found in Trinity Field. That’s about ten minutes’ drive from your home address. We believe you killed her there. Do you find that as funny? Are you laughing now?’

  Spencer broke into a smile that gradually evolved into a full- blown laugh that caused his chest to heave as he guffawed loudly.

  Grav formed his hands into tight fists below the table. ‘What’s so funny, Spencer? You are seriously winding me up.’

  ‘We were visiting the missus’ mother’s place in Newcastle. It was her seventieth birthday on the fourth. We travelled up on the third and stayed for a week. That’s an alibi, isn’t it, Inspector? There’s witnesses, lots of them, and not all family. You’ve got fuck all.’

  Grav reached across the table and switched off the tape. ‘Get this bastard back to Swansea, Laura. He’s wasted enough of our time already.’

  ‘You don’t want to keep him here until we’ve checked his story and searched his mother’s place?’

  ‘Oh, we’ll do that all right; we’ll check everything. We’ll search the house, we’ll interview the witnesses, and we’ll check any cameras between here and Newcastle. I can promise you that. If the bastard’s lying, we’ll drag him back here, kicking and fucking screaming.’ In his heart, though, he knew his prisoner’s claims would prove to be true. Peter Spencer wasn’t the man they were looking for.

  16

  Grav sat opposite Doctor Jenny Rees, his GP for over twenty years, and unbuttoned his shirt as instructed. She listened to his heartbeat for thirty seconds or so before returning to her seat with the hint of a frown on her heavily lined face. ‘You can do your shirt up.’

  Grav fastened three buttons, left the top one open, and stuffed his polyester tie into his trouser pocket. ‘What’s the verdict, Doc? Have I passed the MOT?’

  ‘You’ve got angina. You know that. And you’re not looking after yourself like you should be. You need to take this seriously if you want to live for very much longer.’

  ‘I’m taking the tablets you gave me. What more do you want?’

  She shook her head, exasperated to be having the exact same conversation yet again. ‘Come on, up you get. Let’s get you weighed.’

  ‘Oh, do I have to? You weighed me the last time I saw you.’

  ‘Let’s just get on with it, shall we? Is there really a need to be so damned awkward every single time?’

  He stepped on the scales.

  ‘You’ve put on another four pounds.’

  ‘Only four? It could be worse.’

  The doctor returned to her seat for a second time and waited for Grav to do likewise. ‘Morbidly obese is the technical term. You’re about five stone overweight. It’s time to do something about it.’

  ‘Yeah, but I had my shoes on.’

  ‘They’re not made of lead, are they? What happened to the diet sheets I gave you?’

  ‘They’re in the house somewhere.’

  ‘Have you thought of actually reading them?’

  Grav shook his head. ‘It’s this case I’m dealing with. It’s all -consuming. I’ll focus on the diet once we’ve caught the bastard. There’s too much happening just now to think about losing weight.’

  ‘There’s always some excuse. You’ve been saying the same thing for years. How much beer are you drinking these days?’

  ‘Seven or eight pints.’

  ‘A week?’

  ‘A day.’

  She shook her head and scowled. ‘What about the whisky?’

  ‘One or two a week.’

  ‘Glasses?’

  ‘Bottles.’

  ‘For goodness sake, Grav, how you’ve survived for as long as you have is a complete mystery to me. You’re in a high- stress job; your blood pressure’s through the roof, and your lifestyle’s tantamount to suicide. Please tell me you’ve cut down on the cigars?’

  This time it was his turn to shake his head. ‘I’ve tried, but with the pressures of work and all that, I need them like food and drink. They keep me sane.’

  The doctor’s glasses slipped to the tip of her nose. ‘Why have you bothered coming to see me? You don’t listen to a single word I say. If all my patients were as stubborn as you, I’d give up and go and lie on a beach somewhere warm for the rest of my life.’

  ‘I need some more tablets.’

  She picked up her prescription pad and sighed. ‘Is that it?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Just ring in next time. There’s a good lad. Don’t waste my time unless you’re willing to take some responsibility for your health. I haven’t got a magic wand I can wave. The tablets can help, but they�
�re not enough in themselves.’

  ‘What good did it do Heather? She was doing all the right things, but she was the one who died.’

  ‘Fucking cancer! There, I’ve said it for you.’

  Grav smiled thinly. ‘Precisely.’

  ‘Have you thought about retirement?’

  ‘Funnily enough, my detective chief superintendent asked me the exact same thing fairly recently. I think she wants me gone.’

  ‘And what did you say in reply?’

  ‘That they’d have to drag me out of the police station when the day finally comes. If I’m not a copper, what the hell am I?’

  ‘You might live a bit longer, if you pack the job in. Have you thought about that?’

  ‘Yeah, but would I want to, Doc? You know exactly what I’m talking about. You’re still here, after all these years. You’re even older than I am.’

  Jenny Rees scribbled her virtually indecipherable signature in black ink and handed him his prescription with a trembling hand. ‘You’ll be looking for a new doctor, if there’s any more of that. There’s only so much of your cheek I’ll take, however long we’ve known each other.’

  He stood up and smiled. ‘Thanks, Jenny, it’s appreciated as always.’

  ‘Look after yourself, Grav. And get yourself straight to casualty if those chest pains get any worse. You’re a heart attack waiting to happen.’

  17

  Charles Turner loved the world wide web. It provided opportunities. Easy access to potential victims, that’s what he told himself, and he used it to his full advantage at every opportunity. He’d created numerous false identities, being careful to protect his identity, and targeted carefully chosen young women who met his preferred victim profile perfectly. They had to be just right. No compromises. The right height, the right build, the right level of intelligence – that was especially important. What was the point of a victim who didn’t fully appreciate the hopelessness of her predicament when she finally faced death? The hunt was amusing; the period of imprisonment entertaining and informative as they struggled and begged and pleaded for release, but it was that final moment that made all the risks worthwhile. The shock, the disbelief, and then, their final resigned acceptance. Wonderful! And it was time to do it all again. Time for the next in line. Yes, the long game provided an acceptable distraction; Emily’s time would eventually come – when it best suited him. When she’d fully served her purpose. But what about the now?

  The solicitor lay back on his king -sized bed, opened his laptop, adjusted his reading glasses, and stared at the screen. There were four candidates on his current shortlist. Four young women ideally qualified to fulfil his wants and needs. But which one to choose?

  He unfastened his trousers and slipped a hand into his underpants as he studied the first profile. Sally, lovely Sally. Her hair was right, her figure just about spot on, and she was a graduate too. That was in her favour. But was it worth driving all the way to London to collect her? It wasn’t totally out of the question, but surely there had to be a more convenient alternative online, or in the red light districts he’d hunted to good effect in the past. Someone who lived outside the immediate area, but not too far away.

  He began moving his hand up and down, increasing his rhythm, as he studied option two: Zoe, a nice enough name. She met all his requirements. A neck that needed squeezing, and she lived in Cardiff. An art student, she’d do, wouldn’t she? Of course she…would. Ah, she was almost perfect. Why look any further? The remaining three could wait for another day. It wasn’t as if they were going anywhere.

  He moved his hand faster still, let out a loud, wide- mouthed groan as he ejaculated, and wiped himself with the corner of the cotton quilt cover before picking up his laptop and typing:

  Hello Zoe, it’s Michael. How are you doing?

  Her reply was almost instantaneous.

  Oh, hi, Michael, I was hoping to hear from you again. How’s life with you? Are you still managing the gallery?

  He laughed. It was easy, almost too easy. She was like a lemming: rushing towards a cliff edge, desperate to jump off.

  All’s good, thanks. Couldn’t be better. And, yes, that’s why I’m contacting you. I’ve had a cancellation. If you’d like an exhibition, now’s the time.

  Really? I haven’t sold a single painting yet. Not even one!

  Well, now’s your chance to change all that. Van Gogh had the same experience. He was ahead of his time.

  I love his stuff.

  I was very impressed by the digital images you sent me. You’re a unique artist, a new fresh and innovative talent in the world of art.

  LOL. My lecturers don’t seem to think so.

  You know what they say. Those who can’t do, teach. They’re fools. They lack the required insight to identify real talent. Ignore them. I’m glad to have discovered you. An exhibition would be good for you and good for the gallery, I’m certain of it. We’ll get your name out there and make a few quid in the process. It’s time to let the art -buying public know all about you. It’s your time.

  Thank you so very much. I really can’t believe my luck. When have you got in mind?

  It’s a last- minute cancellation. We’ll need to act quickly if you’d like to make the most of the opportunity. It’ll take a couple of days to display your work to its very best advantage. Can you get to Caerystwyth tonight? We badly need to get on with things, if you want to go ahead with an exhibition.

  Oh, I’m a poor student. I haven’t got a car.

  What about a bus, or a train?

  I could catch a bus, but what about the paintings? Some of them are a bit on the large side.

  Ah, yes, of course, I should have thought. But no worries, if you get the paintings ready, I could pick you up in a couple of hours and take everything straight to the gallery. How does that sound?

  She paused for a second or two before responding.

  Is this for real? I can’t believe it’s happening. Things like this just don’t happen to me.

  Well, it’s happening now, but no pressure. It’s up to you. Shall we go for it?

  Oh, why not? It means missing a few lectures, but I’d regret it forever if I didn’t take advantage of such a great opportunity. They don’t come along very often. My friends are going to be seriously jealous. They’ll wish it was them.

  That’s excellent, Zoe, you’ve made the right decision. I’ll pick you up at eight o’clock sharp, if that’s convenient?

  That would be great. Thank you!

  How many paintings are we talking?

  I’ve got twenty -one altogether. I hope that’s not too many?

  Twelve would be ideal, given the wall space, but let’s bring them all. We can decide which to display to your best advantage once they’re in situ. I’ll borrow a van from a friend, rather than bring my car. That seems best. We wouldn’t get the bigger ones in my convertible.

  This is all very exciting. I can’t wait!

  I just need your address.

  She began typing again and sent it with the click of a button.

  Got it. I’ll see you at eight sharp. I’m glad to be a part of your journey from obscurity to fame in the art world. We’re all provided with signposts that lead us towards our destiny. You’ve had the wisdom to follow them. Not everyone has the courage or foresight to do that. Congratulations! Your life’s about to change forever.

  The aged, ill -kept van, on indefinite loan from a criminal contact who owed him, wasn’t the most reliable form of transport, but it served its purpose with its unremarkable appearance and cloned number plates. It took Turner approximately ninety minutes to reach Cathays, the heart of Cardiff’s studentville, and another ten to finally locate Zoe’s shared lodgings in a surprisingly quiet side street, with adequate parking spaces on both sides of the road. He switched off the tired engine and exited the vehicle, raised his coat collar high, and pulled his peaked cap low to cover as much of his face as possible.

  Turner approached the three -storey stude
nt abode in the orange sodium glow of the street lamps and pressed the middle of five bells as instructed. He only had to wait a matter of seconds before a slim, nineteen-year -old student, with purple hair, opened the door with a beaming smile on her pretty face.

  He stood and stared, momentarily unsure of what to say or do.

  ‘Is that you, Michael?’

  ‘Yes, yes, it is.’

  ‘Is everything all right? I’ve got the paintings ready; just like you told me to.’

  He swallowed twice, resisting the impulse to scream at her and hit out. ‘You’ve done something different to your hair. It was ginger in your photo.’

  Her smile disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. ‘Is there a problem?’

  The bitch, the total fucking bitch. ‘No, not at all, I just didn’t recognise you at first, that’s all.’

  She smiled again. ‘Are you going to come in for a cup of something before we head off? I could introduce you to my friends. They’d love to meet you.’

  He pushed up his sleeve and made a show of checking his watch, looking at it for a second longer than necessary. ‘No, we’d better make a move. The quicker we get to the gallery, the better. I don’t want to leave it too late. I’ve an early start in the morning.’

  Zoe glanced behind her into the dimly lit communal hallway. ‘Okay, everything’s ready and waiting. Where did you park the van?’

  He considered walking away in search of more suitable prey but decided to stand his ground. The purple colour could pose potential difficulties – the dyeing process may prove more complicated than usual – but it was far from insurmountable. The purple- headed caterpillar standing before him could morph into a beautiful butterfly in his hands. A Red Admiral ready to die.

  ‘Are you okay, Michael?’

  He shook himself, suddenly back in the present. ‘Sorry, I was lost in thought. It happens sometimes. I was just wondering about the best places to publicise your work. I can get the local papers involved easily enough, maybe even the nationals. We can have a chat about it on the way.’