‘You were good. Despite the handicap.’
‘Handicap?’
Fighting back the urge to laugh he answered, ‘The foreign language.’
She narrowed her eyes. ‘Ooh, you Sassenach. You’ve some need to talk with that Yorkshire hill-farmer accent.’
He let out a hearty laugh. ‘No, you did good. It was a good conference. You got everything across. The TV did you proud. As I say, I’m surprised you got home so early, I thought you would have been inundated with calls.’
‘The phones weren’t exactly red-hot when I left. Half a dozen of the team are staying on until midnight to see if anything comes in after the ten o’clock news.’ She took another sip of her wine. The unexpected muffled ringtone of her work mobile grabbed her attention. She diverted her gaze towards her work bag. Setting down her glass she began guddling around in its side pockets. Fishing out her phone, she hurriedly gazed at the screen. She didn’t recognise the number, but a call on her BlackBerry could only mean one thing.
She answered it.
A female, with a slightly gravelly voice, said, ‘Superintendent Leggate. This is Detective Sergeant Macey, Metropolitan Police. I’m sorry to bother you at home. One of your officers gave me your number.’
‘No need to apologise. How can I help you?’
‘I saw you on the news. The Press Conference.’
‘Oh yes, is this to do with the case?’
‘I think so. I believe I may have something, which may be of interest to you.’
‘What do you have for me, DS Macey?’
‘It’s about the locket. The locket with the initials JC. I think it’s come from one of our jobs.’
- ooOoo -
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Day Fourteen: 31st March.
Richmond upon Thames.
Hunter stopped beneath the canopy, at the entranceway of Richmond railway station, and took in his first glimpse of the town. Before him two lines of slow moving traffic, in opposite directions, jostled by. Blaring horns sounded everywhere. He checked his watch: 12.30 p.m. Only just gone lunchtime. And yet, the chaotic scene reminded him of rush hour back home.
He watched as two black cabs swung away from the main road and pulled into the station rank in front of him. He took a step back, set down his bag and avoided making eye contact with the cab drivers.
A young Japanese couple brushed past him and jumped into the back of the first cab. Within seconds the taxi was whipping away from the kerb and forcing its way into the nose-to-tail congestion.
He became suddenly conscious of Grace setting down her suitcase beside him. He heard her give off a long sigh and grab a lungful of air.
‘Where’s the race?’ she exclaimed.
He glanced down at her footwear, black patent leather court shoes, and then met her gaze. ‘Grace, don’t blame me if you can’t keep up. I can’t help it if you need to make a fashion statement with non-sensible shoes for the occasion.’
She dropped her gaze. ‘There’s nothing wrong with these shoes. These are Vivienne Westwood. It’s better than looking like a dog’s dinner.’ She fussed her coat around her. ‘Who did you say would be meeting us?’
Inside his head, Hunter re-ran the previous night’s phone call from Detective Superintendent Leggate. ‘We’ve just had a breakthrough.’ Her excited voice had opened. She’d told him that she had received a phone call from a Detective Sergeant in the Metropolitan Police who had informed her that the locket found on Gemma Cooke’s body had come from one of their jobs. ‘I need you and Grace to go down to London tomorrow and meet up with someone from Richmond CID,’ she’d said and finished by telling him to pack an overnight bag and given him the name of the officer he would be liaising with.
‘DS Macey,’ he said, turning to Grace. He cast his eyes back to the busy street. ‘See if you can see anything that remotely looks like a police car.’ Just as he’d finished speaking, a white Vauxhall Astra pulled into the kerb, taking up the space left by the departed taxi. The front passenger door sprang open. A slim built, long-legged, woman, wearing a dark blue trouser suit, jumped out. ‘You two look like you’re lost,’ she said, with a throaty, broad, East End drawl. She held out a hand. ‘It is DS Kerr and DC Marshall?’
Her gravelly voice reminded Hunter of the singer Bonnie Tyler. He took her hand and shook it. ‘Hunter,’ he responded, meeting her gaze. He was immediately drawn to her striking features – not just her pretty face, but also the colour of her shoulder-length bob of dyed hair. Copper red. And, as for make-up, she could give Grace a run for her money.
‘DS Macey. Scarlett,’ she said and nodded backwards into the car. ‘My partner spotted you.’ She smiled, revealing a perfect set of teeth. ‘He thought you looked like cops. No offence.’
‘None taken,’ Hunter hoisted up his bag.
She shook Grace’s hand and then opened the back door of the unmarked car for them. Then she went to the rear and popped the boot. ‘Come on, let’s have your bags. We’re going to take you for some lunch. There’s a nice pub just a couple of minutes away.’ She checked their faces with an enquiring look. ‘You are ready for some food, aren’t you?’
Hunter met Grace’s look. She nodded. He went to the boot and dropped in his bag. ‘That sounds good,’ he said, taking Grace’s bag from her grasp and placing it beside his. He slammed down the hatchback.
As they climbed into the back seat, Scarlett said to Grace, ‘Nice shoes.’
Grace targeted Hunter with a sarcastic smile as she closed the car door.
The Duke pub, was as DS Scarlett Macey had promised, only a few minutes’ drive from the railway station. It had the outward appearance of being a traditional pub, but inside the decoration had an updated contemporary flair.
Making for a table, set in a far corner, Scarlett said, ‘They serve nice food here.’ She dragged out a chair and plonked herself down. ‘Tarn will get the drinks.’
Hunter eyed Scarlett’s colleague. The man, who looked to be early thirties, was slightly smaller than himself, and of bigger build – but in a broad muscular way. He had short fair hair and strong facial features.
With a questioning look Hunter said, ‘Tarn?’
The man smiled. ‘It happens every time. Long story, short. My mother and father were fond hillwalkers when they were young. They called me Tarn, and my sister Heather, because of their love of the countryside. He shook Hunter and Grace’s hand. ‘Tarn Scarr.’
‘Tarn Scarr,’ Grace repeated. ‘You should be an actor with a name like that.’
‘Just don’t say porn star.’ His eyes sparkled. ‘Right, what can I get you? I know what you Yorkshire folk are like for your beer. They do hand-pulled real ale here.’
‘I’ll come to the bar with you,’ Hunter offered. ‘I’ll see what they’ve got. My partner prefers wine.’
When Hunter and Tarn returned, Scarlett and Grace were busy in conversation. As Hunter set down the drinks, he’d couldn’t help but think that the pair were chatting as if they were old friends, catching up.
Scarlett peeled her eyes away from Grace and looking up, met his. ‘Don’t worry we’re not talking job without you. We’re talking fashion. Exchanging tips.’
Hunter slid a glass of wine towards his partner. ‘Now, why shouldn’t I be surprised to hear that.’ With his foot, he hooked out a chair and sat down.
Scarlett picked up a menu, and looking around the table said, ‘Shall we order some food and then get down to business?’
They talked while they ate. Hunter told DS Macey and DC Scarr about the investigation they were running, especially how they were linking the 1988 murder of Polly Hayes, to the recent killing of Elisabeth Bertolutti, because of the T-shirt. He also told them of the CCTV image they had of the masked man in Sheffield, and how, from the witness, Linane Brazier, they had an exact visual comparison of the person who attacked Elisabeth. Finally, he told the two detectives about Dale and Scott. He watched the DS and DC exchange glances, but there was no recognition of the
names in their looks. He said, ‘We’re certain they’re brothers, but unfortunately we don’t have any surnames. But we think they might be from around here, or at least they could live around the London area. Our witness met them in different bars around theatreland and got the impression, from talking with them, that they lived down here.’
Scarlett Macey downed the remains of her lager. She licked her bright red lips. ‘That’s interesting what you’re saying about trophy exchanges, because as I told your boss we’re certain that the locket – the one with the initials “JC” on it – belonged to a woman who was attacked here in Richmond in nineteen ninety-seven.’ She put down her glass. ‘How did you come across that? Was it found at one of your crime scenes or was it from someone you arrested?’
‘It was found on one of our victims. She was wearing it.’
DS Macey swapped glances with her colleague again. ‘The trophy exchange thing again. Although with our job, the woman wasn’t killed.’
Hunter quickly pushed himself back in his seat. ‘What, she’s still alive.’
‘Very much so. I spoke with her this morning on the phone. I’ve fixed up for you to meet her this afternoon. I’ve told her I’ll be taking a photo of the locket for her to see – to confirm it’s hers.’
Hunter gave Grace an excited flash of his eyes. ‘That’s brilliant news.’ He returned his gaze to DS Macey. ‘Did she get a good look of her attacker? Did she give a description at the time?’
She screwed up her face. ‘Honest answer? Don’t know. But, somehow I don’t think so. I only got this information myself yesterday evening. An ex-colleague, who used to be on my team – he’s retired now – rung me after your boss had been on the news. He was the one who recognised the locket. Apparently we had a series of break-ins and attacks on women during the nineteen nineties and he was a member of the team who worked on them. And you’re going to find this next thing I tell you very interesting. Especially with what you’ve just told us. You see the person who attacked the witness, you’re going to see this afternoon, wore a mask.’
After lunch, Hunter and Grace booked in at the small hotel they were staying in, left their bags in their rooms and then jumped straight back into the waiting CID car.
DC Scarr took the A316, Twickenham Road out of Richmond; DS Macey had told them the witness now lived in Teddington.
She checked her notes, and then talking back over her shoulder said, ‘The person we’re going to see is called Janice Crampton. She’s a solicitor’s clerk who deals with property conveyance. I’ve got written down here that she was attacked in her home in July nineteen ninety-seven. I don’t know the full ins-and-outs of the job yet because the paperwork hasn’t turned up. I’ve got this just from the initial crime report. It’s recorded as an aggravated burglary. It says here that Mrs Crampton was confronted by a masked man in her bedroom, but we now know there was more to it than that.’
Quarter of an hour later they pulled up in front of a reasonably modern, three-bedroom, detached house. The four decamped and made their way up the tarmac driveway.
Janice Crampton had the front door open before they had time to ring the doorbell.
DS Macey flashed her warrant card.
‘You said it was to do with my locket. Have you caught him?’ Janice Crampton was a petite, thin-faced, dark-haired, woman, in her early forties. She wore a blue and white striped T-shirt and jeans.
Hunter stepped forward. ‘I’m from South Yorkshire Police. It’s to do with a murder investigation I’m involved in up there.’
Her face took on a shocked look. ‘A murder. Goodness me.’ She stepped to one side. ‘Come in.’
They all traipsed down the hallway. Mrs Crampton led them into a lounge-cum-dining room, which was light and airy. She offered them an armchair and sofa. She chose an armchair with her back to the large bay front window.
‘A murder to do with my locket?’ she said, sitting down.
Hunter leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. ‘I’m afraid I can’t go into all the details, Mrs Crampton, but suffice to say, we think we’ve recovered the locket you reported stolen in nineteen ninety-seven. It was found on a female who’s been murdered. Does the name Gemma Cooke mean anything to you?’
Her eyes drifted up to the ceiling. She pondered for a moment and then returned her gaze. ‘No, should it?’
‘That’s the victim’s name.’
‘And she’s the woman you found my necklace on?’
‘We believe so. Would you take a look at this photo?’ He slipped to the edge of the sofa, and held out the colour photograph of the locket found on Gemma Cooke’s body.
Grace began taking notes.
Janice took the photo out of Hunter’s grasp, scrutinised it for several seconds and then nodded. ‘That’s mine. See, those are my initials on it. My husband bought it for my twenty-first.’
Hunter took back the photograph. ‘I want to ask you some questions about how you had this stolen, if you wouldn’t mind?’
‘Course not. Anything, if it’ll help catch who did this. Do you think it’s the same person who took my locket?’
‘It’s a possibility.’
Janice Crampton met Hunter’s gaze. ‘We had to move after it you know. We couldn’t rest. Neither of us. Every little noise at night and we’d be up. We slept with a baseball bat beside the bed for months until we moved.’
Hunter kept eye contact. He gave her a reassuring look. ‘I don’t want to cause you any undue distress, but it would really help if you could go through what happened to you.’
‘Do you want me to go back through that night?’
Hunter nodded. ‘If you wouldn’t mind.’
She crossed her legs. ‘Well it happened on a Friday night. Me and Garry hadn’t been married long. Just a couple of weeks, and we were still in the habit of going out every Friday to meet up with our friends. We always went into town and on that night we’d arranged to meet up with our best man and his girlfriend from our wedding. We went to a few pubs and then around midnight-ish we decided to call it a day.’
‘So you came straight home?’
‘Well, I did. Garry said he was hungry so he stopped by a kebab place. There was a queue, so he told me I needn’t wait, and that he’d catch me up, so I left him. I actually got home before he managed to catch me up.’ She took a deep breath. ‘The house was in darkness, which surprised me, because I was sure I’d left the hall light on before we’d gone out. I remember letting myself in and trying the switch but the light didn’t come on. I thought the bulb must have blown. Then I tried the upstairs light and that wouldn’t work either, so I thought we’d had a fuse. I didn’t know how to sort it, so I thought I’d leave it until Garry got home. I was busting for the toilet and went upstairs to the bathroom. That light wouldn’t work either. Then I went into the bedroom.’
Hunter spotted the sudden face change.
She bit down on her bottom lip. ‘The curtains were open and so there was enough light for me to see. I’d just taken off my locket and put it on the dressing table when I spotted the things laid out on the bed.’
‘Things?’
‘Yes, there was my black dress, I normally wore to “do’s” and my black bra and knickers. I can remember thinking Garry must have done it for when we got in. You know what I mean. And then this man jumped out from the wardrobe.’ Her look froze. ‘This masked man. And not a ski mask. It was like out of a horror film. I just screamed. And as I did so, I heard the front door open. Garry had come in. He heard me straight away and came running up the stairs. The man just punched me. In the stomach. Knocked the wind out of me. And then he ran. He thumped Garry as well. In the face. Almost knocked him back down the stairs. I heard him go into the back bedroom. Garry went straight after him but the man had got out through the window. He was so quick. He must have opened it beforehand.’
‘And so he escaped?’
She nodded. ‘We had a kitchen extension. It was a flat roof. He disappeared over
the back fence. We rang the police straight away, and it seemed only like minutes before the first policeman arrived, but he’d long gone.’ She pointed a finger towards the photograph Hunter still held. ‘And that’s when I discovered he’d taken my locket. A couple of detectives came and Forensics fingerprinted everything but they told us the burglar had been wearing gloves. And that’s when one of the detectives told us how lucky we’d been.’
Hunter creased his brow and threw her a questioning look. ‘What did he mean by that?’
‘Well, what he did?’
‘What he did?’
‘Yes, with the lights. It wasn’t the fuse. The man who broke into our house had taken out every bulb. And then, there was the rope.’
‘Rope?’ Hunter was suddenly conscious that he was beginning to sound like a parrot. He qualified his comment with, ‘Where does rope come into it?’
‘Beside my dress and underwear he’d left some lengths of rope. The CID man said it looked as though he’d left it there to tie us up.’ The colour drained from her face. ‘You can see now why I said neither of us could rest. We had a lucky escape. I just kept re-living it. We had to move. Even when we got in this house I couldn’t settle. It took me the best part of two years to get over it. If you can call it that. I can still see that night now. Even after all this time.’ She shuddered.
‘I was going to say I can imagine it. But I can’t. It must have been an awful experience.’
‘You bet it was. I had nightmares about it.’
‘If I can ask you another question?’
‘Course. I find I can talk about it now, without breaking down.’
‘You describe the man as wearing a mask and said it was like out of a horror film? Can you describe it?’
‘Well, as I say, the only light I had was from outside, but it was fairly good light. It was still the middle of summer. As I say it wasn’t a ski mask or anything like that. This was made of sacking or something similar. It was loose and baggy. And I recall these really dark eyes and this weird stitched up mouth. It looked like it had been sewn up to look like jagged teeth. It was pretty scary looking, I can tell you.’
Coming, Ready or Not Page 18