by David Hodges
‘Unfortunately, we’ve very little else to go on at the moment,’ she finished almost apologetically, fully aware of Roscoe’s malicious grin as he sensed that she was waffling. ‘It seems that just after the place was closed down, following the murder and allegations of sexual abuse, the fire in the admin wing destroyed everything, including all records held there, and, as I’ve explained, the case file on the murder seems to have completely vanished, together with any reference to the name of the kid responsible. We even checked National Archives, but they don’t hold the specific information we require.’
Hennessey grimaced. ‘This all sounds mighty convenient for someone and I hate to think what it could suggest, knowing some of the high-profile figures who have been exposed in recent sex abuse scandals. But that inquiry is for another day and not for the here and now. I have to say, though, that the suggested connection between the decades-old murder of an alleged pervert like Alistair Scarsfield and the current targeting of two elderly women seems to me to be less than conclusive, and I wouldn’t want us to get so hung up on this that we exclude other avenues of inquiry. Despite the tenuous links you have come up with, including your run-in with the dosser, it is still entirely possible in my view that George the letter writer is a totally different person to George the killer, and that we could be putting two and two together to make five.’
She flicked the fingers of one hand with apparent impatience.
‘Nevertheless, staying with your hypothesis for a moment, what about this journalist – Brookes – who you say was carrying out an investigation into the sexual abuse allegations at Talbot Court? Any luck with him?’
Kate hesitated, conscious of the fact that Hayden was supposed to be following that one up that afternoon.
‘We … er … haven’t managed to trace him yet, ma’am,’ she said, clearing her throat to hide her embarrassment. ‘The problem is, we don’t know who he was working for or whether he was freelance – and it was a long time ago, of course, so it’s possible he is no longer with us.’
‘Your digging expedition so far seems to have been a total waste of time then?’ Roscoe interjected, his malicious smirk broadening.
After feeling humiliated himself, he was obviously keen for someone else to suffer the same fate.
Kate glared at him defiantly. ‘Not at all, guv. I am still convinced that there is only the one George, that he was a victim of sexual abuse while at Talbot Court, that he stiffed Alistair Scarsfield and that he is now targeting these elderly women.’
Hennessey sighed heavily. ‘But I come back to my earlier query, Sergeant. Why would being abused at Talbot Court cause this George to target these women? I can’t see them being part of some nasty paedophile ring, even when they were younger.’
‘Perhaps they failed to protect him, turned a blind eye or, as I suggested before, were themselves female staff at the orphanage who were somehow involved in the shenanigans—?’
‘But why strike now, after a lapse of what must be almost fifty years, and where could George, or whatever his real name is, have been all this time anyway – in suspended animation?’
Kate bit back the angry reply that had formed on the tip of her tongue. ‘There could be any number of reasons for that,’ she replied coldly. ‘He could have been in prison or in a secure mental hospital, but without a name it is obviously impossible to carry out any realistic search. However, it did occur to me that he might be a relative – a nephew perhaps – who is targeting his own aunts rather than elderly women at random, as first appeared likely. So, I got Hayden to make some inquiries into Elsie Norman’s maiden name, working on the assumption that the nephew is likely to have the same surname as her and could be known to us.’
‘Good move. And?’
Kate shrugged. ‘Her maiden name turned out to be Quigley, but a search on the PNC produced a negative result, so we’re back to square one.’
Roscoe’s grin faded, to be replaced by a resentful scowl on the realization that his number two had exonerated herself after his earlier criticism and had actually out-thought him.
Hennessey, on the other hand, nodded approvingly. ‘Nice work anyway, Sergeant,’ she acknowledged. ‘That closes one avenue of inquiry. But as a next step, perhaps we should try and establish for certain what family ties Elsie Norman may have had. In view of the fact that Mabel Strong also seems to have been attacked by the same individual, there’s a chance she could be a relative of the deceased – maybe even her sister – and would be able to help us with a bit more info when she is well enough to be interviewed.’
Roscoe cleared his throat. ‘I’ll see to it,’ he muttered, glowering at Kate.
Hennessey nodded. ‘Excellent. But back to what we were just discussing before we got side-tracked and staying with the possibility that there is a link between the Talbot Court business and the present case, we still have no rational explanation for the fifty-year gap we were talking about.’
‘Our killer might have been living abroad or in the services and just returned home,’ Kate said. ‘But I still think the most likely answer is that he was in prison or in a secure mental hospital and has only just been released – though, as I’ve already said, we would need a name to check that out.’
Roscoe, clearly still smarting over the fact that he had been upstaged by Kate, gave a disparaging snort. ‘Released after nearly fifty years?’ he sneered. ‘That would have been one hell of a sentence. What could he have done to deserve that? Wiped out half the population of Manchester or Liverpool with nerve gas?’
Kate’s lips tightened. ‘You forget people like Ian Brady and Myra Hindley, guv,’ she retorted. ‘They were put away in the mid-sixties for the Moors Murders and both were still inside when Hindley died in 2002, while Brady himself has only just pegged it.’
Hennessey stood up, reaching for her coat, which she had draped over the back of her chair. ‘Whatever,’ she snapped, seemingly tiring of the hypothesizing. ‘We need to concentrate our minds on catching this creature before he kills again. At least we have something of a description to put out to the media – if indeed that is our man.’
Roscoe’s eyes narrowed. ‘Do you think that’s a good idea?’ he growled. ‘If the scumbag sees it in the press, it’s likely to panic him into changing his appearance.’
Hennessey nodded, unsurprised by his interjection as his hostility towards the media was well known. ‘A valid point, Ted, but at the same time, it might produce some useful public sightings and it will also serve to put our elderly residents on their guard before he pays someone else a visit. We can’t afford to miss this opportunity.’
Roscoe scowled. ‘I don’t like it.’
She smiled without humour. ‘I’m not asking you to, Ted, but in the meantime, I want you to get hold of Mabel Strong’s carer again and see if we can try for an E-FIT of the old lady’s attacker. If we move quickly enough, we might be able to get a good likeness of our man out to the media in the next twenty-four hours.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Before that, however, there is another incident room briefing requiring our presence. Then I have what I expect to be a very lively press conference to attend. Wish me luck!’
Kate stood up quickly as Hennessy marched smartly from the room, but Roscoe remained seated in his chair, blowing a bubble with his chewing gum as he glowered after her.
Happy families, Kate mused grimly, then felt a stab of acid in her stomach as that thought prompted other disquieting thoughts about Hayden and the suspicions still festering inside her.
*
Patient 174 sat for a long time in the allotment shed, every now and then peering through the side window for any sign of pursuit. But there was none and the allotment appeared deserted.
Taking a deep, trembling breath, George leaned back against the wall of the shed – fists tightly clenched, head swimming, heart hammering out a rapid erratic beat in a barely suppressed fit of angry frustration. How could things have gone so terribly wrong? Wasting Mabel Strong should have been
a piece of cake – just like the murder of Elsie Norman – but instead, it had turned into a complete and utter disaster, which had the potential to ruin everything.
True, no one could have anticipated the carer putting in an appearance at exactly the wrong moment, but aborting the whole job and simply running away had been plain stupid. Wasting that slip of a girl in addition to the old woman herself could have been accomplished with relative ease, and at least that would have ensured there were no witnesses. Now the police were bound to have a description to circulate, which meant finishing all that had been planned was going to be a lot riskier.
Okay, so it was highly likely that Larchfield Security had hit the panic button themselves by now and, if so, Old Bill would already have the description of their dangerous absconder anyway. But there was a chance that the break-out had still not been detected or if it had, that the psychiatrist’s body had not yet been discovered – allowing a few more hours’ grace at least.
Either way, the situation called for a strategic rethink and the number one priority was to get rid of the Fedora hat and coat. The psychiatrist’s gold-coloured driving glasses, which had been in the glovebox of his car, would have to go too – and maybe it would be wise for a change of hair colour. It shouldn’t be difficult getting hold of some sort of hair dye, but a change of clothes could be problematic. It would be the height of folly to walk into a shop to buy new gear dressed in clothes that might already have been described in a police press release. On the other hand, simply dumping them and trying to do the same thing in just an open-necked shirt and trousers on such a cold day would attract just as much attention.
It was then that George spotted the scarecrow, the long, shabby raincoat draped over its skeletal frame stirring faintly in the breeze, the grey cloth cap tilted at a jaunty angle on its misshapen turnip head. At once a slow smile of satisfaction spread over Patient 174’s pale face, but the blue eyes exhibited no expression whatsoever, remaining as cold and lifeless as those of a corpse on an undertaker’s gurney.
CHAPTER 10
The second incident room briefing lasted just three-quarters of an hour. There was little new information of any consequence, apart from that which Kate and Hayden had to impart, and they ended up having the floor for much of the time, with questions and suggestions toing and froing across the room until Deidrie Hennessey called a halt to it all and hurried to her press conference with Roscoe.
Kate’s head was buzzing as she made her way down to the canteen. So much had happened since the sinister letter had been delivered to the police station and all sorts of fragmented thoughts were rolling around her brain – so many ifs, buts and maybes that she needed some peace and quiet to consolidate them. But she was interrupted en route.
The young uniformed sergeant stopped her on the stairs before she was even halfway down. He was on the way up and had a wad of paper under his arm.
‘Sergeant Bradley,’ he announced with a cheery grin. ‘Jacob Bradley. I’ve been designated Incident Room Admin Officer.’
He counted out three of the sheets and handed them to her. ‘Month’s shift duties for your team,’ he said. ‘I’ve just been photocopying the lot – bloody bind, I can tell you, but there you are.’
She studied the topmost sheet for a second. ‘Lates all week, is it?’ she said ruefully.
He nodded. ‘Rest days Friday and Saturday – everyone has to have a day off, you know. Regulations and all that.’ He grinned again. ‘Hayden could take you out to dinner somewhere.’
She treated him to an old-fashioned look. ‘Yeah, right,’ she retorted drily. ‘I can see that happening.’
The canteen was empty and just closing when she walked in. One of the staff in a stained white apron was disappearing back into the kitchen, having apparently just finished swabbing down the tables. After six, the teams on late duty would have to rely on local takeaways for meals. No wonder there were so many fat police officers about with that sort of calorie intake, she mused. And Hayden was one of them.
Grabbing a coffee from the urn that had been set up in one corner, she helped herself to a currant bun that had been left with a couple of others on a plate, deposited some change on the counter, and drew up a chair at one of the recently swabbed tables, wrinkling her nose at the strong smell of disinfectant that came off the gleaming plastic top.
So where was Hayden, she asked herself, automatically staring about the empty room. She had left him with the job of trying to trace the journalist, Leslie Brookes, who had made the sexual abuse allegations about Talbot Court, but it was unlike him not to have made a bee-line for the canteen before it closed – all those sticky buns and lardy cakes normally proved irresistible to him.
She frowned, thoughts of her other half immediately reawakening her sense of unease now that the pressures of the murder investigation had eased for a few moments. She just could not forget the smell of perfume on the shirt in the dirty linen basket and the trace of lipstick she had found on the collar. However much she tried to dismiss the suspicions from her mind, they refused to go away. She shouldn’t have simply put the shirt in the wash, but tackled Hayden about it first. She realized that now, but at the time she had been scared – scared of hearing something she didn’t want to hear and scared of what that could mean for their future together.
Unwittingly dropping some sugar lumps from the dish on the table into her mug, she stirred the coffee with her biro, then made a face when she took a sip. Bugger it! She didn’t take sugar. What the hell was the matter with her?
Abandoning the coffee and her bun, she climbed to her feet and headed back out into the corridor, intending to return to the incident room to find Hayden. As it turned out, however, she found him before she had gone more than a few yards.
She heard his voice coming from one of the witness interview rooms as she was passing the half-closed door and stopped in mid-stride, reaching for the door handle. Then abruptly she froze, her eyes narrowing. It was apparent from the one-sided conversation that he was on the telephone, and that the conversation had nothing to do with police work.
‘I can’t risk it, old thing,’ she heard him say. ‘She might suspect something.’
Kate’s senses reeled and she clutched at the door post for support, feeling sick.
‘Of course I want to see you,’ she heard him add, ‘but it will have to wait until I can slip away.’
He gave a loud, exasperated sigh. ‘I know that, but I’m on a murder investigation and I can’t just disappear for a couple of hours—’
There was a pause, then he said quickly, ‘Look, I have to go. I’ve got your mobile number. I will ring you when I see an opportunity.’
Gritting her teeth, Kate pushed the door open. Hayden was leaning against the windowsill with the receiver of the wall telephone still in one hand, and his eyes widened as he slapped the phone back on its cradle.
‘What are you doing in here, Hayden?’ she rasped. ‘And who were you talking to?’
He swallowed hard and she could almost see his brain working in the restless movement of his eyes. ‘Oh that,’ he replied. ‘I was … er … ringing the secretary of the classic car club about the … um … next meeting.’
‘Oh, who was that?’
‘Josh Tomlinson. I was telling him I might not be able to make it because I was on a murder inquiry.’
She nodded slowly, a tight set to her mouth. ‘Always refer to him as “old thing”, do you?’
He swallowed again and treated her to a weak grin. ‘Call everyone old thing, you know that – like I call you old girl. Sort of hang-up from my public school days.’
She hesitated. It was on the tip of her tongue to grill him further about the things she had overheard him saying – why he was evidently so keen to see the mystery person he had been talking to, exactly what it was he couldn’t risk, and whether the ‘she’ he had referred to was actually his own wife. But for some reason she once again copped out on a confrontation.
‘So what a
bout that journalist you were supposed to be trying to trace?’ she asked instead. ‘Ringing the classic car secretary more important than that, is it?’
‘’Course not,’ he retorted, his face reddening at the rebuke. ‘I’m already on to that, but it was a long time ago and will take time.’
Before she could take him up on that, she was rudely interrupted by the station’s tannoy system.
‘Detective Sergeant Lewis,’ the metallic voice blasted, ‘contact Detective Inspector Roscoe urgently.’
Pushing past Hayden, Kate grabbed the telephone and dialled the internal number of the SIO’s office.
‘Get your arse up here pronto,’ Roscoe rasped down the phone. ‘There’s been a development.’
‘A development?’
The DI swore. ‘You a bleedin’ parrot now, Lewis?’ he snarled. ‘Just get up here, will you? Our psycho’s been sighted.’
Slamming the telephone back on its cradle, as Hayden had done a few moments before, she turned back through the door. ‘Get on with what you’re paid to do,’ she snapped over her shoulder. ‘But this isn’t over, believe me.’
Unbeknown to Hayden, she meant that in more ways than one.
*
Travelling in the front seat of Roscoe’s battered Honda Civic was not for the faint-hearted. It was hard to imagine that the DI had ever been on the obligatory police training course all officers were required to pass before they were authorized to drive in their official capacity, or that he had even managed to get through the basic MOT driving test. In fact, his reckless, ham-fisted method of car control was almost legendary. He demonstrated that now as he negotiated the narrow lanes across the Somerset Levels through a newly arisen mist with Kate clinging desperately to the front passenger seat, an expired filter-tip cigarette clinging just as desperately to his bottom lip as he growled an explanation for their haste.
‘Bastard was spotted stripping a scarecrow in an allotment this side of Street,’ he said.