Tom Douglas Box Set 2

by Rachel Abbott

  The door opened, and a tall man with dark hair greying around the temples smiled pleasantly at Tom. He looked to be in his late forties. ‘Hello. Can I help you?’

  ‘My name’s Tom Douglas. I’m a detective with the Greater Manchester Police, but I’m not here on police business right now. I wondered if I could have a word with you, please? It’s about Leonora Harris.’

  The man’s expression changed. The smile stayed on his lips, but his eyes lost some of their sparkle.

  ‘Ah Leo. Yes, do come in, Tom. I’ve heard a lot about you.’

  Julian Richmond showed him into an ultra-modern kitchen that Tom loved. The shiny dark red units gave the room a warmth in stark contrast to the view outside the windows of gloomy clouds hovering above a large back garden. Julian turned off the radio and pressed a button on a coffee machine. Tom perched on a bar stool set beside a dark grey granite central island and Julian waited for the beans to stop grinding before he spoke.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind coming into the kitchen. It’s the only part of the house I can stand. I made the mistake of letting my ex-wife choose our home, and then she upped and left me with a house that’s not going to be easy to sell. But I’m trying. Milk?’

  ‘Kitchens work fine for me, and no, thanks,’ Tom said.

  ‘How is Leo?’ Julian Richmond asked.

  Tom watched the man closely as he spoke.

  ‘I had a call from Leo’s brother-in-law a couple of days ago. His wife, Ellie, hadn’t heard from Leo for a week or so, and when I called at her apartment there was no sign of her. I gather she’s not been there for some days and I was wondering if you knew where she was.’

  Julian Richmond handed Tom an espresso and placed a sugar bowl within reach. He leaned against the Aga rail, holding his coffee in both hands.

  ‘Please call me Julian. I’m not sure I can help you, though. I haven’t seen Leo for a few days.’

  ‘Have you spoken to her?’ Tom asked.

  ‘No.’ Julian wasn’t looking at Tom; he was staring into his coffee cup. Tom said nothing and waited for the other man to break the silence.

  After about thirty seconds, Julian gave a small sigh as if the recollection pained him and said, ‘I asked Leo to come with me to Haydock Park last Saturday – we had invited some of our top clients. Leo had been with me to Cheltenham so I thought she would enjoy it. That time it was just the two of us. Well, it was supposed to be, although we bumped into a few of my younger colleagues, which didn’t please her. Leo said she wasn’t ready to go public, so a corporate day at Haydock was a non-starter.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  Julian looked at Tom and appeared to be weighing him up. He then nodded, as if Tom had passed some test or other and deserved the truth.

  ‘I’m afraid I made the mistake of asking if she was taking me to her niece’s christening last Sunday, and it didn’t go down well. We had a bit of a row. I was cross and disappointed, but it didn’t last long. Two days later, I’d calmed down. I tried to call her, but she didn’t answer her phone or her mobile, so in the end I went round to her apartment but I didn’t get any answer.’

  Tom had interviewed many people in his time, and he hadn’t the slightest doubt that Julian Richmond was telling the truth.

  ‘I called round and asked the neighbours to let me in,’ Tom said. ‘Leo’s clothes were all over the bedroom. It was a tip, and that’s not like the Leo I know. Does that mean anything to you.’

  Richmond looked shocked. ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘And she never mentioned going away?’ Tom asked.

  ‘Not a word. It wasn’t much of an argument. I may have rushed things, but I never thought it would mean our relationship was over.’

  ‘What about the flowers? Didn’t she respond when you sent those?’ Tom asked, remembering what Luca had told him.

  Julian Richmond looked confused. ‘Flowers? I didn’t send any; I went in person. If somebody sent her flowers, it certainly wasn’t me.’

  Tom’s phone rang, interrupting the momentary silence.

  The caller was Becky. ‘Tom, you need to get back into town. Where are you?’

  ‘Bramhall. Why, what’s up?’ Into his head flashed an image of Leo. Please, no, he thought.

  ‘You’re not going to like this, Tom, but we’ve got another body.’

  30

  The young woman’s body had been squeezed into a narrow space between two arches of an old brick railway viaduct in the Castlefield area of the city and was held upright by the cramped space. The victim’s sightless eyes gazed at nothing, the blood from her gashed throat staining her clothes. It had taken a while for her to be found because it was Saturday morning and the route under the viaduct led to office buildings that were deserted at the weekend. If it hadn’t been for one keen young woman who had decided to put in some extra hours in her new job, the body could have gone undiscovered until Monday morning. As it was, the girl who had found the body was almost hysterical and a pair of paramedics were dealing with her.

  Tom stood quietly for a moment, taking in the scene, visualising the moment when the woman’s body had been so callously left for some unfortunate passer-by to discover. Becky stood silently by his side, waiting for him to give some sign that she should speak. He turned towards her and gave a brief nod.

  ‘All we know up to now,’ Becky said, her voice low, ‘is that the girl who found her was on her way into work at about eight this morning. She said she hated walking under this bridge because she was always a bit spooked by that gap.’

  Becky pointed to the place where the victim’s body had been displayed – the only word to describe how she had been positioned – a space between two huge brick arches. The woman’s body had been pushed in, facing out towards the path, her back against an old supermarket trolley, her throat slit from ear to ear.

  A train sped overhead, the vibration seeming to run down the walls and into the earth below. Tom could only imagine what a shock it must have been to see a woman, sitting, staring out onto the road.

  Tom crouched down in front of the body. The woman was perhaps in her early thirties. It was difficult to tell because it was clear she had had a hard life. Her skin was pitted with old acne scars, and her top lip was puckered in the way of a heavy smoker. It wasn’t easy to imagine how she normally looked because of the hair and the make-up. A long dark wig had been roughly stuck on her head, and it had slipped sideways. Her lips had been painted with bright red lipstick, smudged around the edges.

  ‘He’s making a statement,’ said Tom. ‘He’s tried to make her look the same as the first one, so the looks have to be significant. He obviously couldn’t find anybody to fit the bill so he’s used props – the wig, the lipstick. Do we know who she is?’

  Becky shook her head slowly. ‘No. We couldn’t find any identification on her. I hate to generalise, but the micro skirt and high-heeled boots suggest she may have been a prostitute – although I know half the girls in Manchester go out looking like this now. But she had a few packets of condoms in her bag – different flavours, et cetera, so she could give men what they wanted, I suppose. If she was simply a woman on a night out with friends, she would have had some money on her, and she didn’t have a penny, so if she was a prostitute she could only just have started work.’

  ‘Her money could have been stolen,’ Tom suggested, although he knew that wasn’t the case. He knew exactly what this was. ‘Has anybody checked her leg?’

  He looked over at Jumbo, who had been keeping unusually quiet. He nodded his large head, his huge creamy eyes sorrowful.

  ‘She’s not wearing tights. Her legs look like she’s been slapping fake tan on – they’re a bit orange at the ankles. But at the top of her left leg there are three parallel cuts, deeper than the last one. And I think the doc will confirm that they were made before death this time – there’s a lot more blood.’

  Tom felt the woman’s pain for a moment and left the tent, walking away from the scene. He needed to think.
A few metres away a narrow track led down from the path to the canal. He wasn’t sure if it was still the Rochdale Canal or the Bridgewater – he would need to get a map to clarify that. The area was crawling with canals. He wondered why the woman hadn’t been disposed of where she was unlikely to be discovered. It had to be because the victims – both of them – were intended to be found. They were a message to somebody. Last time there was a third victim, although fortunately she had managed to save herself. Was this one going to be the second of three?

  12 years ago – early June

  The incident room was filling up. It was time to admit that the team was floundering. They had two murders and an attempted murder, but they still hadn’t made any progress. To Tom’s surprise his boss suggested they employ a profiler.

  ‘We need someone to tell us who we’re looking for – what his motives are – and where the fuck he’s hiding, because we’re making bugger-all progress.’ DCI Victor Elliot glared at Tom as if it was solely his fault.

  Tom ignored the look. A profiler was a good idea, although he still couldn’t quite reconcile himself entirely to these murders being the work of one man. The modus operandi was different for each crime – the first a slit throat, the second a strangling and the third – failed attempt – a suffocation. And then there was the Swedish girl’s comment that her attacker was being watched.

  The incident room was crowded with standing room only at the back when the profiler arrived. A young American woman with cropped white hair and startling green eyes, she had everybody’s attention within seconds.

  ‘There are a significant number of irregularities in this case, and if this is one man he’s behaved in an inconsistent manner, which concerns me. I’ve looked at the victimology, and that in itself is unusual. Their backgrounds would be less relevant if these had been opportunistic attacks, but that clearly isn’t the case. These were carefully planned killings of strategically selected victims. They were chosen for their looks.’

  ‘The three lines on the victims’ legs are important. Have any of you heard of the “power of three”?’ she asked. She cast her eyes around the room and everybody stared back, but nobody spoke.

  ‘It’s a concept that some people believe in: that the number three stands for that which is solid, real, substantial, complete – for example the three dimensions of length, breadth and height which are necessary to form a solid. There are three great divisions that complete time: the past, the present and the future. Thought, word and deed complete the sum of human capability; animal, vegetable, mineral – the three kingdoms of the natural world. I could go on. For some people, three is such a powerful number that everything has to be finished in threes for them to feel safe. A famous physicist, Nicola Tesla, was so obsessed with the number that he used to walk round the block three times before he would enter a building.’

  She paused and again looked around the room, taking them all in, but her gaze settled on Tom, who instantly felt guilty about his scepticism.

  ‘If this is his driver, he will try to kill one more girl to replace the failed attempt. She will look like the other three, but this time he will be sure to finish the job. I’m using “he” throughout this presentation because, as we know, the chances are that the killer is a man. However, “he” could just as easily be more than one man.’

  She paused and every eye was on her.

  ‘But there’s another theory that fits the profile. I would like to suggest to you that there was only one victim that mattered to the killer. Only one person who had to die. The others were decoys, added to confuse us. Three may have been chosen as the best number to ensure the police were chasing their tails trying to find a link between the victims when there isn’t one. And if only one of them had to die, the most important job is to work out which of them it was.’

  Tom continued along the canal bank. Twelve years ago he had waited to see whether another victim would be found, and it had never happened. Did that mean that nobody else had died, or simply that the other body or bodies had not been discovered? And were there going to be three this time too – three women, but potentially only one for whom there was a motive for murder? And if so, which?

  The problem with motives was always the same. What seemed clear and right to the killer could be meaningless to anybody else, and guessing motive was like guessing the outcome of the National Lottery.

  He couldn’t forget the misidentification of the first victim this week, and he couldn’t drive Leo’s face from his mind. Was she going to be the next victim, and if so was she the real target? Leo, where are you? He was no nearer finding her. Had the woman standing opposite police headquarters been Leo, and had he missed the chance of helping her? The only thing he knew for certain was that somebody had sent flowers to her, and that somebody was not Julian Richmond, whom Tom believed when he said he had no idea where Leo was. And what had happened to the flowers?

  Tom tried to convince himself that Leo’s similarity to the other women was purely coincidental, and that of course she wasn’t going to be the next victim. But he didn’t believe in coincidence. Years of experience had taught him that to dismiss anything as coincidence was a sure way of missing something vital. It was a lazy excuse for not investigating things properly, and he wasn’t going to put Leo’s life at risk.

  As if to jerk him back to the present, Tom heard Becky shouting to him, and he turned and climbed back up the hill towards the crime scene, more certain than ever that Leo was in serious danger but not knowing from whom, or why. He needed to talk to Ellie. Maybe Leo’s sister would have some idea.

  31

  When Maggie woke up on Saturday morning after a pitiful couple of hours of restless sleep, she turned onto her side and reached out for Duncan, expecting to find his warm naked back waiting for her to cuddle up to. But the other side of the bed was empty, and the memory of the last two days hit her like a stone. Her eyes swam with hot tears and she buried her face in the pillow.

  Her resolve to call the police had wavered during the night. While she and the children had been eating their pizzas the evening before, she had admitted to Josh that she was a bit worried about his daddy, and Josh had seemed relieved that finally she was telling him the truth.

  ‘So am I, Mummy, but he’ll be back. He loves us,’ Josh had said.

  ‘I know he does, Joshy. I suppose we need to trust him right now.’

  The words she had spoken to Josh kept piercing her thoughts. She did need to trust him. But was that the right decision?

  ‘I don’t know, I don’t know,’ she sobbed. She wanted life back the way it had been, and she knew that the moment the police were involved, any chance of that was gone forever.

  She pushed her tired limbs up and out of the bed and shuffled into the bathroom with barely the energy to lift her feet. After five minutes standing under a blast of hot spray from the shower she began to feel alive again. The dull ache of loss was still there, but it was starting to feel like an old friend. She was getting used to it.

  Leaving the children to sleep on, she went downstairs and made a strong cup of coffee and sat down at the kitchen table, her chin resting on one upturned palm. Was there anything else she could do that she hadn’t thought of that might help her unravel the mystery of who Duncan was? She had one idea, but only one.

  She pulled her laptop across the table towards her and found the picture she was looking for – a rare photo of Duncan taken when he wasn’t looking. He was convinced he wasn’t very photogenic, but Maggie had always thought that was nonsense. She grabbed her handbag and pulled out the article from the Manchester Evening News. Carl Boardman was a friend of the lad who had been knocked over and killed. Were they friends of Duncan’s?

  Maggie logged onto Facebook, found Carl Boardman’s page and sent him a message, asking if he knew the man in the attached photo. She gave a rather weak excuse that she was trying to track this man down, and she had remembered he had a friend called Carl Boardman. Carl seemed fairly active on Fac
ebook, so she was hopeful of a quick response. She knew how unlikely a positive response was, but she couldn’t sit here and do nothing.

  She looked at the printout and read again about the amazing woman who had fostered all those children. If – and it was a big if – Duncan had kept a page from a newspaper, in theory the article of interest could be on either side of the sheet, so Maggie decided to check if Patricia Rowe had a Facebook page. She was probably well into her seventies by now, but it was worth a try.

  As she trawled through the inevitably long list of Patricia Rowe entries she spotted the letters MBE next to a photo of an elderly lady surrounded by children. She had found her. Mrs Rowe didn’t seem to post much herself but shared posts from other, much younger people, and Maggie guessed the lady was keeping tabs on the children she had looked after. There were no posts shared for the past two months, though.

  One old post made Maggie’s eyes fill with tears.

  To my lost children: if you are reading this, please get in touch. I loved every one of you when you lived with me, and I need to know if you are all right now. You’re all equally special to me, so I will continue to post this message on Facebook in the hope that you will call me. My number hasn’t changed, nor has my address. Here are some pictures to remind you of the happy times. With love always, Pat.

  Linked to the post were a number of albums, and Maggie could see they focused on children of various ages. She was sure Patricia Rowe would have been a great person to know. She decided to send her a message with a picture of Duncan too, but again she didn’t hold out much hope of a positive response.

  By late morning, Maggie had heard back from Carl Boardman. He said he didn’t recognise the face she had posted – he didn’t know the guy. So that avenue was closed for now. And there was nothing from Patricia Rowe. It wasn’t a surprise, but it was frustrating.

  She was about to close her computer and go and find the children when she heard a crash. It had come from the garage.