by Michael Kerr
“Don’t hold your breath.”
“I won’t, Eddie.”
As Matt and Pete left, Eddie came to the door. “Hope you get your man,” he said.
“I’ll give you a bell if we do,” Matt replied, raising his hand in a wave without turning around.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
WHEN Matt and Pete walked into the squad room, Phil Adams was still on duty, sitting in front of a console with a mug of stone-cold coffee next to him. At two other desks, DCs Dean Harper and Marci Clark were also working their machines, scrolling through data. Everything that could be done was being done. All the original suspects – and more besides – were being put under the microscope.
“Yeess!” Phil shouted, punching the air.
Matt jumped. The piping hot coffee he was pouring splashed on the back of his hand and he cursed.
“I got the link,” Phil said. “It’s Kirstie Marshall’s husband.”
The team gathered around the DC and looked at his monitor.
“Spell it out, Phil,” Matt said as he patted the reddening blotch on his hand with a damp tea towel.
“Dennis Marshall was foreman of the jury at Ted Roberts’ trial.”
“But Roberts is dead,” Pete said. “He came out of Belmarsh with terminal cancer and only lasted three months.”
Matt patted Phil on the shoulder. “Nice one, son. If it looks like chicken, and tastes like chicken, then it probably is chicken.”
Matt went upstairs to see Tom, to let him know that they had located Foley and eliminated him as a viable suspect. He did not elaborate on the night spent at the holiday park, just gave Tom the pertinent facts and the team’s discovery that the missing woman’s husband had been on the jury that had found Ted Roberts guilty of rape. It had been Raymond Preston – then a DCI – who had headed up the case against him.
“Roberts is dead,” Tom stated.
“Yeah. But this didn’t die with him. Someone has decided to make everybody they consider responsible for him being sent down, suffer. We have to assume that all the prosecution team and the other eleven jurors, or more likely their families could be targets.”
“You think it’s a relation?”
“It has to be. Once we knew Roberts was dead, we had no reason to dig any deeper. Not when we were sure that Eddie Foley was our man.”
“Are you positive that Foley isn’t conning you?”
“One hundred percent. He hasn’t got the strength to abduct a bag of sugar. The man is too preoccupied with dying, Tom.”
“What’s your next move?”
“Interview Roberts’ widow and any close family members.”
“Wouldn’t surveillance on any male relative be a better approach?”
“Time isn’t on our side. We need to flush him out before he abducts anyone else.”
“What about Kirstie Marshall?”
Matt gave it some thought. “There’s every chance that she’s already dead. Whatever we do, I have the feeling that she’s a lost cause. Rattling his cage may cause him to put whatever future plans he has on hold.”
“Okay. And now you think we know the motive and likely victims, ask Beth to try and come up with a tentative profile.”
Matt phoned Beth with the updated information.
“I need more, Matt. This could be a disturbed son, or maybe the widow and son. Or a brother of the deceased. Narrow it down and call me back.”
“Where will you be in a couple of hours?”
“At home. I’m catching up on paperwork.”
“I’ll call you if we get anything.”
“Call me whether you do or not.”
Matt and Pete pulled up outside the semi in Edmonton. It was in a quiet, tree-lined avenue. The thirties-built house boasted double glazing and was fronted by a small, neat garden. It was hard to believe that a brutal rapist had lived here, cloaked by middle-class respectability.
Pete pressed the bell push and they heard the ‘ding-dong, Avon calling’ chime sound in the hallway.
The door was opened by a slim brunette wearing a deep-red roll neck sweater and Spanish style lace print trousers. Matt thought her to be in her fifties, but still attractive, with a trim figure and pleasant features.
“Can I help you?” she said.
Matt showed her his warrant card. “Shirley Roberts?” he said.
She nodded. “What do you want?”
“We need to ask you a few questions, Mrs. Roberts. May we come in?”
She led them into the lounge. A large Persian cat leapt from the sill in the bay window and streaked past them.
“Sit down, please,” Shirley said. Her attitude towards them was not hostile, but a little reserved, which was only to be expected.
“Do you have any idea why we are here?” Matt said, searching her face for reaction; a ‘tell’ that would give him insight as to whether she knew more than she might be willing to say.
“No, Inspector, so please don’t play games. Just ask your questions and leave.”
“The daughter of the policeman who headed up the case against your late husband was abducted and subsequently raped and murdered.”
“Well, that’s one you can’t pin on Ted, isn’t it?”
Matt ignored the caustic retort. “And now, the wife of the foreman of the jury that found Ted guilty has been snatched.”
Shirley frowned. The fine lines around her eyes and on her brow deepened. “You think I did these things?” she said, her expression transforming into a look of astonishment.
“No,” Matt said. “But we consider it likely that someone close to Ted is responsible. Do you have children? Sons?”
“Ted was childless.”
“Who’s the young guy?” Pete said, pointing to a gilt-framed photograph on the mantel of the York stone fireplace. It depicted Shirley standing next to a teenage boy.
“I was married before. That’s my son, Paul.”
“Ted’s stepson,” Matt said.
“Yes.”
“Was Paul close to Ted?”
“They got on fine. But Paul was closer to his real father.”
“What is Paul’s surname?” Matt said.
“Sutton. But Paul would never harm anyone. You have no right to persecute my family.”
“Mrs. Roberts, this is a murder investigation,” Matt said tersely. “We have to eliminate any and every possible suspect. Did Ted have any brothers or sisters?”
“No. He was an only child.”
“What about his parents?”
“His mother walked out when he was a teenager. And his father died in prison.”
“What about Paul? Where is he now?” Pete said.
“I...I have no idea. He left home shortly after Ted died. He sometimes phones me, but I haven’t seen him for months.”
“Why is that?” Matt said.
“He’d started taking drugs. His personality changed. I was prepared to stand by him, but after a while I gave him an ultimatum; get help, or get out. He got out.”
They left with a photograph of Paul Sutton, and his details.
“Do you think she’s on the level, boss?” Pete said.
“I don’t know. The bond between a mother and son can be stronger than super glue. But I think we have enough probable cause to get authorisation for a phone tap, and a search warrant for the house. There’s every chance that she’ll warn him off. I want two of the team watching the place from now on, around-the-clock. We’ll stay close by until they arrive. For all we know he was on the stairs listening to every word. If he was, then he’ll do a runner.”
When DCs Dean Harper and Mike Henton turned up, Pete explained the position, showed them the photograph and impressed on them that Sutton should be regarded as armed and extremely dangerous. If he was the killer, then he was mentally disturbed and capable of any act.
Shirley watched from behind the curtains as the car pulled away and turned right at the end of the avenue. She then ran through to the kitchen, lifted the phone and held
it for a few seconds, before dropping it back in its wall-mounted cradle. No, they would expect her to make contact with Paul. She would have to be as sneaky as the police. Not that Paul was guilty of the crimes they had all but accused him of committing. He was and always had been reserved, even introverted, but was no killer. It was what happened to Ted that had changed him. The shame and humiliation of his stepfather being locked away for rape had darkened his outlook and been the direct cause for his getting in with the wrong crowd. The heroin had changed his personality, but not to the point that he would start abducting and killing women...Surely. He had gone into denial over what Ted had done. If it hadn’t been for the DNA proof, then maybe even she would have believed Ted’s vow that he was innocent. But Paul had loved his stepdad. He had turned up at the hospital and stayed close for the last few days of Ted’s life. And when Ted had taken his final breath, a part of Paul had died with him. He had then withdrawn into an even deeper place and become a stranger to everyone; maybe even to himself.
Shirley left the house by the back door, crossed the avenue and cut through a walkway not wide enough for a vehicle to follow. She then ran to where a bus was just pulling up to the stop outside the post office, boarded it and kept low in a seat near the rear. After four stops she got off and found a telephone box.
“Yes,” Paul said.
“It’s me, love. How are you?”
“I’m fine, Mum. What do you want?”
“Be nice, Paul. I don’t want anything. I phoned to tell you that the police have been at the house, looking for you.”
“Why?”
“Somebody killed the daughter of the cop who arrested Ted. Now another woman has gone missing; the wife of the foreman of the jury who found him guilty.”
“What has any of that got to do with us?”
“You’re a suspect. Tell me you had nothing to do with it.”
“Of course I didn’t, Mum.”
“Then will you talk to them?”
“No. I don’t trust them. They would fit me up for it with circumstantial evidence.”
“What will you do?”
“Keep my head down until they catch the real killer.”
“What if they find you?”
“They won’t. But don’t phone me again, Mum. And if you have this number written down, burn it. I’ll call you, soon.”
“Okay, Paul. I love you, son.”
“I know. Don’t worry. It’ll all sort out.”
He ended the call. Went over to the crusher and pressed the button, and as a Honda Civic begin to buckle and groan in the jaws of the giant steel vice, he smiled. The plods weren’t as dumb as he’d thought. But it was like a computer game with ascending levels. They had got past level one, but would never find their way up through the defences he had in place. He was the games master and they were just so many pawns, to be sacrificed at will. There had always been the chance that the relationship between Ted Roberts and Paul Sutton would be discovered. The problem was, for them, that they had no idea what he looked like now, or what identity he had assumed.
After the Honda had been converted into a cube and ejected, he walked back across the yard and stopped to pet Hannibal, before going inside the house to make some lunch for his guest.
He could hardly wait for the next morning, when Marshall would receive the photo. That would make the bastard wish he had found some excuse to evade jury duty. Didn’t people understand that every action produced a reaction? Obviously not. He had no problem, and would not allow anything to interfere with his plans. For the time being he would enjoy himself with Kirstie.
When he opened the door, she was squatting over the bucket, relieving herself. He backed out, pushed the door to and gave her time to finish. It didn’t cost anything to have manners.
“I’ve got bacon sandwiches and coffee. Okay?” he said.
“Beggars can’t be choosers,” Kirstie said.
He liked her grit. It would dissolve on Boxing Day, when he clipped off a finger, ear or nipple, and recorded her response. But that was still a few days off. There was no need to look that far ahead. Live in the moment.
He brought a wooden chair in from the other room and made himself comfortable. He liked looking at her. She kept the blanket around herself, which slipped from one shoulder or the other several times, to reveal a seductive glimpse of her breasts. After she had eaten, she sipped at the coffee.
“How would you like a shower and some clothes to wear?” he said.
“I’d like that a lot,” Kirstie replied.
He helped her to her feet and led her through into the other section of the cellar. He had covered the tools on the bench with a sheet, so as not to alarm her unduly.
“There,” he said, removing the handcuffs and pointing to the cubicle in the corner of the room. “Take your time.”
Sliding open the door, Kirstie let the blanket drop to the floor, and stepped inside. There was a plastic moulded shelf with soap, shampoo and a sponge on it.
Ten minutes later she emerged from the steamy interior feeling clean and invigorated.
He studied her dripping, naked form, then handed her a thick bath towel. “There’s a sink, and a hairbrush and stuff,” he said, pointing to the other corner of the cellar.
Wrapping the towel around her, Kirstie went over to the wash hand basin and saw a toothbrush still in its box. Alongside it was a fresh tube of Colgate and a plastic hairbrush. She brushed her teeth, glad to be able to freshen her mouth, and then brushed her hair. Her heart sank a little as he ushered her back into what she thought of as a dungeon. But changes had been made. There was a camp bed with what appeared to be a clean mattress and bedding. And the bucket was gone, replaced by a sturdy dark-blue chemiloo. On the top of the bed was a sweat top and bottoms, and a few magazines and even paperback books.
“I’ve decided to make your stay as comfortable as possible,” he said. “Please get dressed, then sit on the bed.”
She did as she was told. This was an opportunity to make a move against him. But no, not yet. He seemed tense. It was as if he expected her to try something. She knew she would get another chance, when he was more trusting and his defences were lower.
After she had pulled the grey sweatpants on, he bent down, quickly retrieved a steel shackle from beneath the camp bed and fastened it to her ankle, securing it with a small padlock. The chain attached to it was approximately fifteen feet long, bolted to a metal ring that was set into the wall at the rear of the cellar.
“There. That’s got to be better than handcuffs, eh? You have a certain amount of freedom, Kirstie. Stay as sweet as you are, and only good things will happen. Now, slip those sweats down and kneel at the side of the bed.”
She gave herself to him, again, and was horrified to find herself responding physically. She actually pushed back to meet his slow deliberate strokes, closing her eyes and thinking of Dennis and Faye. A part of her knew that only by pleasing this monster would she be able to affect a situation whereby he may become a little negligent and cease to consider her as being of any threat to him. Being forced to have sex was bad enough, but to gain any gratification from it was a sickening prospect, that she would not allow to happen.
“Did you enjoy that?” he said after withdrawing and pulling up her pants.
“Yes,” she panted, turning her head, to be kissed tenderly on the lips.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“WORK on the premise that it’s him,” Matt said, placing a glass of cabernet on a coaster next to where Beth was reading through everything he had given her on Paul Sutton.
It was eight p.m. Matt and the team had been trying to trace Sutton all afternoon, but had drawn a blank. Since the young man had left home, he had ceased to officially exist. He had somehow forged himself a new identity. All they knew was what Shirley Roberts had told them, plus information furnished by teachers at the school he had attended. They were also contacting known friends and ex-schoolmates, hoping for a break. Matt had left the squ
ad room at a little past seven and driven to Beth’s apartment.
Beth took a sip of her wine. “You have a new prime suspect who has dropped out of circulation. The most recent photograph of him is of how he looked as a teenager. All you know is that he was or still is a junkie, and that some of the teachers who taught him said he was studious but a loner, who had no real friends and wasn’t a team player. Does that cover it?”
“Yes. Can you work that into the mix and come up with a miracle pen picture of the type of creep we’re after?”
“I’ll do what I can. But if it is him, then you already have a good idea of what his aims are. And you know he’s a twenty-three-year-old on a mission to avenge the death of his stepfather.”
“I’ll rustle up a cheese omelette or something while you mind hunt. Okay?” Matt said.
Beth went to her computer, opened a file and typed in a heading: Paul Sutton, now working on the premise that Roberts’ stepson was the killer. Her evaluation of the criminal acts were, that this was an emotionally disturbed young man, who as a teenager had suffered the trauma of his stepfather being imprisoned for being a rapist, but had not stopped caring for the man, and been subsequently unable to cope with the second and permanent loss, when Roberts was released, but then died. The ensuing acts had been carefully planned. He was intent on making the people who he held responsible for his loss suffer equally and on more than one level. The crimes were fascinating from a psychological point of view. His reward was ultimately the emotional stress and pain that someone close to the actual victim was put through. But he would also enjoy the sexual domination and violent treatment that he made the abducted person suffer. He even went a stage further, or had with Laura Preston. She had been returned, murdered, and with a recording of her last pitiful moments. There were no half measures with this psychopath. He was motivated by such hate, that he was driven to totally devastate the loved ones of the deceased. It graphically illustrated just how damaged he had been by Roberts’ death. He could not assimilate it and move forward as ‘normal’ people were able to.