Callum sniffed. The harsh chemical taint of deodorant and air freshener. ‘Someone’s trashed the place.’
Franklin rolled her eyes. ‘You’ve never been in a teenage girl’s bedroom before, have you?’
A collection of posters were stuck to the ceiling above the bed. Popstars and boy bands, a couple of rap artists. Lots of bare chests, tattoos, and flowing hair.
One particularly oily-looking git was posing on a motorbike, surrounded by unfeasibly breasty women in bikinis. They were all pouting at him, as if he were God’s greatest creation, instead of a wee nyaff with a shaved chest, stupid facial hair, and a tattoo of a fox poking out from the waistband of his Calvin Kleins.
Franklin followed his gaze. ‘Look at them. How are little girls supposed to develop a healthy body image when they’re confronted with the Size-Zero Silicone-Mammary Brigade at every turn?’
Callum settled onto the edge of the bed, between a pink fluffy jumper and a pair of leather shorts. Frowned out at the devastation. ‘Long as I live, I’ll never understand you lot.’
‘Try harder.’
He picked up a green sock with orange penguins on it. ‘Monaghan raped a guy in Blackwall Hill, but the victim dropped the charges.’
‘So?’
‘Not sure.’ The sock got tossed onto the floor so Callum could pull out his mobile phone and scroll through the contacts list till he got to ‘MCDONALD, DR A’.
She picked up on the first ring. ‘Hello? Ash?’
‘Alice, it’s DC MacGregor. From the Divisional Investigative Support Team?’
‘Oh … I see.’ Not doing a very good job of hiding her disappointment. ‘Anyway, thanks for sending over the file on Tod Monaghan, I’ve been through it and compared it to the behavioural evidence analysis we did on the initial victim set, well, I say “initial victim set”, but it isn’t, is it? I mean we don’t know who the first victims were, we just know about Glen, Brett, and Ben, but then we can’t factor in the first two without an ID to do a victimology work-up from, does that make sense?’
Sort of.
‘Monaghan might have grabbed someone else. We’ve got a crime scene in Shortstaine, mother and daughter abducted, blood everywhere.’
Franklin leaned back against the chest of drawers, arms folded. Watching him.
‘To be honest, that doesn’t sound likely, I mean we’ve got all these other victims and they’re all men and it’s very unusual for a killer like this to cross a gender gap once established and—’
‘The daughter’s anorexic and she was on the phone to a friend when it happened. Her friend recorded the whole thing. And right at the end, he tells them, “They’ll worship you. You’ll be a god and they’ll worship you.” So I thought …?’
‘Ooooh, now that is interesting. It’s conceivable that there’s someone else going around Oldcastle abducting people and turning them into gods, but it’d be a huge coincidence, wouldn’t it, I mean absolutely massive, so if we work on the assumption that it was actually Tod Monaghan, then we’d need a compelling reason to justify his sudden change in victim-gender selection, because it tends to be pretty consistent with serial offenders, oh, it’s different if they don’t differentiate to start with, but when they make a definite choice they tend to stick with it.’
‘But we’re not likely to have two god-making nutbags on the go, are we?’
‘There would have to be a reason for him to suddenly stop selecting male victims and you shouldn’t call people “nutbags”, these are human beings just like you and me only wired a bit differently due to their brain chemistry and upbringing. Dehumanising them by calling them “nutbags” doesn’t help anyone; it doesn’t matter how horrible the things they do are, they’re still human beings. We should try to remember that.’
Which was pretty much the same speech he’d given Willow last night. ‘Sorry.’
‘According to the notes: eight years ago, Ted Monaghan goes to a picnic area in Moncuir Wood that’s a well-known pickup spot for gay men, only there’s an argument, the young man he wants rejects him and Monaghan becomes violent. Leaves. Comes back half an hour later with a hammer and tries to beat the young man to death. At the trial Monaghan insists he wasn’t looking for sex, because he isn’t gay, and that the young man attacked him. The jury doesn’t agree and he serves six years for attempted murder.’
Franklin waved a hand at Callum. ‘At least put it on speakerphone.’
‘Sorry.’
He pressed the button and a tiny Dr McDonald voice sounded in the pigsty room. ‘Five months after Monaghan gets out of prison he’s back in Moncuir Wood, only this time he doesn’t go looking for a willing partner, he attacks and rapes a different young man. When questioned, Monaghan claims he isn’t gay and that he’s the real victim. Again. The young man later drops the charges when his car gets set on fire.’
‘So we know Monaghan’s violent.’
‘Well, yes, but when he starts turning people into gods, they’re always young men, probably because it’s young men that he likes, only he can’t admit that, because it contradicts his self-image as a manly man, even though he’s been having sexual fantasies about them for as long as he can remember, which is why he hangs out in this bit of the woods where it’s easy to find someone to explore his sexuality with, only he can’t reconcile his sexual needs with his strict upbringing and ends up venting this cognitive dissonance destructively, until one day he rationalises it into something more positive.’
How did she manage to keep talking for so long without taking a single breath? How was that physically possible?
‘He decides to take the objects of his sexual confusion and turn them into gods, he’s venerating what he can’t allow himself to physically realise, so their gender is very important to him and the only way he’d change that pattern is if something serious happened, and I mean something revelatory, because he’s been planning and fantasising about this for so long, but now it’s all different, and it would send him right out of his comfort zone, so I’d expect to see a lot more violence when things don’t go exactly as he’s planned and he has to improvise his way out of trouble.’
Callum frowned. ‘He didn’t improvise anything. We heard him on the recording: he cons his way into their home – pretending he’s looking for his missing son – and then attacks them. Blood all over the kitchen. Drag marks in the hall.’
‘Ooh … Now that’s interesting, I mean he’s all softly-softly with the young men he attacks, but the women are there to be subdued quickly and violently. Maybe they don’t deserve subtlety? Maybe women need to be put down hard and fast? What do we know about Monaghan’s childhood?’
‘Nothing that isn’t in the file.’
‘I think it’s a safe bet he had a very difficult relationship with his parents. Probably an abusive father and a submissive mother. She’s beneath contempt. She never loved him properly. Father had the right idea – women are dirty, subhuman things that have to be trained like dogs. Chained up and beaten …’
Silence.
Franklin checked her watch.
‘Alice?’
‘Sorry, thinking. Monaghan knew we were looking for him, it was in all the papers. He’s feeling threatened and embattled and he needs more gods to protect him. He’s running out of time, so he has to cut corners. You say the daughter’s anorexic? Well, why starve a young man when you can just abduct a young woman who’s done all the hard work for you?’
Callum grinned at Franklin. ‘That’s what I said.’
She rolled her eyes.
‘That means the mother is surplus to requirements and if there’s blood everywhere, it’s probably hers. It’ll still take a few days to purify the daughter to make sure she’s worthy of godhood, but I’d be shocked if the mother isn’t already dead.’
Sodding hell.
Callum stood. ‘So there’s still a chance we can save Ashlee?’
‘Not much of one, but yes.’
‘Thanks.’ He hung up and turned to Franklin. ‘Any ideas?’
‘Monaghan had to transport them out of here somehow: car, or a van.’ She hauled out her phone. ‘The initial investigation must’ve done door-to-doors.’ Her thumb poked at the screen for a moment, then she held it to her ear and wandered out onto the landing. ‘Yes. DC Franklin, I need to speak to DS McCready …’
Two could play at that game.
Callum put a call in to the CCTV team. Listened to it ring. Crossed to the window and pulled back the curtains.
The other side of the street still glowed like a packet of fluorescent Fruit Pastilles. This part of Johnson Crescent formed the bottom curve of a big U-shape, so anyone on the left or the right would have a clear view of anything suspicious. Assuming they didn’t come down with the traditional Oldcastle amnesia and—
‘Greetings!’ A woman’s voice, crackling with faux-American cheesy cheer. ‘You’ve reached the magnificent Closed-Circuit Television Department, where dreams really do come true. How may I direct your call?’
‘Voodoo? It’s Callum.’
The accent disappeared. ‘My God, there’s a blast from the past! You’ve not been on the scrounge for a favour since last Wednesday. I was beginning to worry.’
‘I’m looking for a car, or a van, involved in the abduction of a mother and daughter.’
‘What, straight into it? No foreplay?’
‘Your husband says I’m not allowed to get you all fired up and horny. Aggravates his lumbago. The vehicle would have been in the area this Wednesday evening, between seven and nine p.m.: Johnson Crescent. I need to know where they came from and where they went afterwards.’
‘Got makes and models?’
‘Depends if you believe the door-to-doors or not. Probably best to do it blind so we don’t miss anything.’
‘Hmmph, you’re not asking much, are you? Let’s see what we can see …’ The sound of fingers dancing across a keyboard. ‘There’s no CCTV cameras on that street. Nearest I’ve got is Johnson Park, at the wee shopping centre.’ More clicking. ‘We’re having a birthday party for Ian next week: sixtieth. You should come. Bring the lovely Elaine, we’ve not seen her for ages.’
‘Yeah … Not so lovely. We’ve split up.’
‘Callum MacGregor! You do not get a young lady pregnant and then—’
‘I didn’t. It wasn’t mine.’
Clickity, clickity, clickity.
‘Oh, Callum, I’m so sorry. I’ve got ANPR cameras on Camburn Roundabout, one at the traffic lights just before you hit the woods, and another outside ASDA on the Brechin road.’
‘It’s probably a van, but any car big enough to hide two bodies in the boot is worth a punt.’
‘Are you sure the baby isn’t yours?’
‘She’s been shagging DCI Reece Sodding Powel for about a year. Probably longer.’
‘Then you should definitely come to the party. My daughter’s just dumped her idiot husband and she could do with a shoulder to cry on.’ Clickity click, click, click. ‘This is probably going to take a while. I’ll have to get back to you.’
‘Thanks, Voodoo.’
‘And I mean it about the party, Callum, you and Becky would be perfect together. She’s smart; she’s pretty; she’s always got her head in a book; and she never, ever—’
‘Bye, Voodoo.’ He hung up. Stood there, staring out at the brightly coloured houses.
Maybe Oldcastle’s answer to Yente was right?
Maybe her daughter was perfect?
And maybe he deserved to be happy for a sodding change?
It wasn’t as if Elaine gave a—
‘You OK?’
He turned, and there was Franklin, frowning at him. ‘Hmmm?’
‘Looked like you were miles away.’
‘Any luck?’
‘Couple of residents mentioned a small grey van parked up the road. One old lady saw a big blue Transit, but nobody else did. And there were three sightings of a big Red Land Rover driving erratically around the time of the nine-nine-nine call. McCready’s got two DCs trying to chase them down.’
At least it was a start.
Callum went back to his phone and called Mother.
50
Franklin made a big show of looking at her watch. Again. ‘We’re going to be late.’
‘No we’re not.’
To be fair, the traffic was terrible. Whichever moron on the city council thought it was a good idea to dig up the main road through town on the same weekend as that stupid music festival in Montgomery Park needed a stiff kick in the backside. And then a punch in the balls.
The dual carriageway was down to one lane in each direction, crawling with eighteen wheelers; coaches; buses; cars; all blending in an exhaust-fume symphony of grey that stretched from the Camburn Roundabout as far as the eye could see. Didn’t help that the rain was on again.
The line of cars ahead of them snaked through the slalom of orange traffic cones, crawling across the central reservation and onto the opposite lane. Then stopped.
Callum cleared his throat. ‘OK: how do we trick Gareth Pike into giving up the name?’
‘Lie to him.’
‘I mean, it’s not like I can threaten to put him in jail with a bunch of sex offenders, is it? That’s his idea of a social club.’
‘You could offer him something, then take it away? Pretend you’ve found another source and they’ve already given you the name, so the best Pike can do is corroborate it if he wants any concessions at all?’
‘Might work …’
‘He has to want something, everyone does. So what does Pike want?’
‘South-facing cell with a nice view. Seriously: like he’s reserving a room at the Ritz.’
‘Good luck with that.’ Franklin pulled a face. ‘We’re definitely going to be late.’
‘Look, there’s nothing we can do about the traffic, OK? Put the radio on or something.’
Franklin crossed her arms. ‘Put on the blues-and-twos more like.’
He tried not to sigh, but it didn’t work. ‘We’ve been over this: you hit the nine-nine-nine button and the GPS starts recording, and the dashboard camera starts recording, and …’ He tapped his fingers against the steering wheel.
She turned in her seat. ‘What?’
Last night – outside Willow Brown’s house. When he’d arrived, lights and sirens blaring, that big black Mercedes was just pulling away. Not exactly the kind of car you’d expect to see swanning about Kingsmeath. No: drive something like that down there and you’d be lucky to get home with all the wheels and doors still on it, never mind the hubcaps. So why was it there, on Manson Avenue? Why would—
‘Callum!’ Franklin poked him in the arm. ‘We’re moving.’
He blinked.
The cars up ahead had shuffled forward twenty yards.
A horn blared behind him, followed by a rising chorus of angry beeps.
He slid the Mondeo up to the car in front’s rear bumper.
It couldn’t have been Willow’s dad’s Mercedes, could it? He’d gone up in the world, if it was … Mind you, since when was being a wife-and-child-beating scumbag any barrier to success?
With any luck, the dashboard cam had got the Merc’s number plate before it disappeared around the corner. Then it wouldn’t matter how ‘not a snitch’ Willow and her mum wanted to be – a quick check on the Police National Computer would spit out the wee sod’s name, address, and inside-leg measurement.
And speaking of PNC checks, what the hell had happened to the one he’d requested on all Irene Brown’s old boyfriends? Have to chase that up. Honestly, you had to stand over people beating them with a stick to get anything done.
‘… sometime today?’
‘Hmm?’ He looked up and the gap had opened in front of them again. ‘Sorry, miles away.’
Franklin thumped back in her seat. ‘Knew we should’ve gone the other way.’
> ‘Everything round Montgomery Park is shut for the music festival, everything near the park is all tailbacks and diversions. Doesn’t matter which way you go, you’re just as stuck.’
‘Gah …’ She clicked the radio on and a throbbing bassline and kick-drum beat burst into the car.
A woman’s voice, rich and dark, amplified over the top: ‘Come on, let me see those hands in the air! Yeah!’
More drum and bass.
Franklin stared out of the passenger window. ‘What happened when you went to pick up your stuff, last night?’
‘Sing it with me: You are the fish in my sea.’
A crowd roared it out, like a football chant. ‘YOU ARE THE FISH IN MY SEA!’
Callum’s shoulders itched. ‘You know: the usual. Powel banging on about how we’re all adults and they didn’t mean for it to happen.’
‘You are the birds in my tree.’
‘YOU ARE THE BIRDS IN MY TREE!’
His good hand tightened on the wheel. ‘Said Elaine never loved me. She was just going through the motions.’
Franklin nodded. ‘He is a bit of a dick, isn’t he?’
‘You’re the honey in my bee.’
‘YOU’RE THE HONEY IN MY BEE!’
She clicked the radio off again.
The traffic crawled forwards.
A cough. Then Franklin puffed out her cheeks and sighed. Picked at a stain on the dashboard. Sighed again. ‘OK, so Pike wants to go to prison, yes? What if you threaten to take that away from him?’
‘We caught him molesting himself to a video of two little boys being raped. He’s going to prison and he knows it.’
‘Hrmmm … What about telling him you’ll put out a statement about how helpful he’s been in exposing whatever ring he’s part of? Soon as he gets inside they’ll tear him apart.’
The traffic crawled forward another six foot.
‘Or, how about— Sod.’ She hauled out her phone. ‘DC Franklin … Uh-huh … Hold on, I’ll put you on speakerphone.’ She pressed the button and held the phone up.
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