Kennedy 01 - Into the Shadows

by Shirley Wells

  ‘Tony Hutchinson?’

  ‘Headmaster of the primary school,’ Molly explained.

  ‘His wife Liz has a drink problem.’ That last came in a hushed whisper.

  ‘Does she?’

  ‘Yes. Mind you, I reckon I’d turn to drink if I were married to him. He’s all right, I suppose, but a bit of a know it all. Reckons he’s cleverer than the rest of us. S’pose he is, but no need to rub it in, is there?’

  ‘There isn’t,’ Grace agreed.

  By the time they left the vicarage, they’d heard the life stories of most of Kelton’s residents.

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ Grace said, as they got in the car, ‘we’re going to see this Hutchinson chap.’

  ‘May as well,’ Max replied.

  Tony Hutchinson had already been questioned and his story about being at the school when Alice Trueman was murdered checked out. Max was curious, though. No one had bothered Jill for a year. Now, just when she moves to Kelton Bridge, someone starts paying interest. Some creep was trying to frighten her, and it had to be connected with her move to Kelton Bridge. As far as he could discover, the only person who’d mentioned her work had been Tony Hutchinson when chatting to Molly Turnbull.

  Max would have liked to talk to the man at home, he always preferred speaking to people on their own ground, but he didn’t want to hang around Kelton Bridge all afternoon so he drove them up to the school.

  Dozens of kids were chasing each other round the playground when they arrived yet, at the sound of a bell

  droning out, they formed two orderly lines and walked back into the building. Max was impressed. He was also surprised at how many kids attended the village school.

  Kelton Bridge was bigger than it looked, though. Two large estates had been built within the last ten years, which must have doubled the village’s population.

  After a quick word with the school secretary, they were immediately shown into the headmaster’s office. The school building was old, and the office, with its modern desk, state-of-the-art computer, and executive leather chair came as a surprise.

  “I assume you’ve come about poor Alice,’ Tony Hutchinson said when they’d shaken hands. ‘A terrible thing.

  I don’t think anyone has come to terms with it yet.’

  ‘I’m sure everyone wants the culprit found as much as we do,’ Max agreed. ‘It’s difficult to move on until then.

  Now, I know you’ve spoken to us before, but I’d be grateful if you could tell me all you can about Alice. At the moment, we’re hoping that someone can think of something and put us on the right track.’

  The office window overlooked a large field with a rugby pitch and hockey pitch marked out. No children were making use of the facilities on this damp, grey day.

  ‘Does Jim Brody look after this?’ Max asked, nodding at the pitches.

  ‘No. Our groundsman is ex-Man United,’ the headmaster informed him with a touch of pride. ‘Here, take a seat.’

  Max and Grace pulled lightweight blue chairs close to his desk and sat.

  ‘I’ve thought and thought about Alice,’ Tony Hutchinson said, ‘and yet there’s nothing - well, nothing of importance.

  She was a very popular woman, the sort any husband could be proud of, the sort that got on well with the other women in the village. Always willing to help. A very unselfish person.’

  ‘What about friends? Or enemies?’

  “I can’t think of a single enemy’ Tony fiddled with his pencil. ‘Do you know, I’ve never heard anyone say a bad word about her.’ He smiled. ‘And that’s rare in a village like this.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure it is.’

  ‘But friends - she didn’t really have close friends. Or none that I knew of. She wasn’t the type to go on girls’

  nights out or anything like that. She seemed happy enough with her family. I always believed that was enough for her.’ He put his pencil down on the desk. ‘I’m sorry I can’t be of more help, but there’s nothing else I can say.’

  Molly had called Alice Trueman a saint, and Max was beginning to believe it. No one’s life was this squeaky clean.

  ‘When was the last time you saw her?’ Grace asked.

  ‘Ah, that’s easy. Mary and Gordon Lee-Smith live at the manor and they’d invited us to a bonfire party. Alice was there with Jon and young Michael.’

  ‘I’ve heard about the party,’ Max said. ‘A friend of mine was there. Jill Kennedy. Did you meet her?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Hutchinson’s face lit up. ‘We had a lovely long chat. Of course, you’ll have worked with her when she did that profile for the serial killer?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘Fascinating work - hers and yours.’

  The last thing Max would call his work right now was fascinating. Soul-destroying was more accurate. All it consisted of was talking to hundreds of people, one of whom might have something of interest to say, and wading through endless paperwork. He was dog tired and getting nowhere.

  ‘My wife thought I made a nuisance of myself,’ Hutchinson added. ‘She didn’t think I should have sounded so enthusiastic about Jill’s work. After all, she must have felt bad when that chap hanged himself. You all must.’

  Felt bad? He wouldn’t be surprised if Jill still had nightmares.

  Not that she’d admit it.

  ‘There was evidence linking the man to the murders,’

  Max said carefully.

  ‘And he matched Jill’s profile. Fascinating stuff.’

  That word again - fascinating. Few people found it fascinating. Most were appalled that the killer was still on the loose. Many drew comparisons with the Yorkshire Ripper and the force’s inability to catch him, too.

  ‘This party at the Lee-Smiths’ place,’ Max said, changing the subject. ‘How did Alice appear?’

  ‘Her normal self,’ Hutchinson said. ‘She looked happy enough, didn’t seem to have a care in the world.’

  ‘She was with her husband, yes?’

  ‘Yes, and Michael. They all seemed happy. But why not?

  They were just a normal family’

  Life in a normal family didn’t involve having your throat cut from ear to ear. Well, not in Max’s experience.

  ‘What colour car do you drive, Mr Hutchinson?’

  ‘What?’ He laughed at what he considered the absurdity of the question. ‘Grey. A dark grey BMW. Why?’

  ‘Just curious. Do you know anyone who drives a red van?’

  “I do,’ Hutchinson replied, still laughing. ‘The postman!’

  More serious, he went on, ‘Drives like a maniac, too.

  Always in a hurry, that lad.’

  ‘So I believe.’

  That lad was Carl Astley. He was twenty-six years old and enjoyed the challenge of delivering mail in record time. When Alice Trueman was murdered, however, he’d been on a fortnight’s holiday in Cyprus with his girlfriend.

  ‘Dead

  cheap at this time of the year,’ he’d told Max, ‘and still lots happening.’

  His replacement was Will who was coming up to retirement.

  On the day Alice was murdered, he’d finished his round early and had been on his allotment, with witnesses, when Jonathan Trueman saw the red vehicle.

  ‘Can you think of anyone else who drives a red van or a red car?’ Max asked.

  ‘How long have you got?’

  ‘I’d be grateful for some names,’ Max told him, ignoring his sarcasm.

  Hutchinson wrote down half a dozen names and

  handed the slip of paper to Max. However, there was nothing else to be learned and they left soon afterwards.

  ‘That was a waste of time, guv,’ Grace complained.

  Not entirely, Max thought. At least he’d found someone who, to him at any rate, had an unhealthy interest in Jill’s work. A fascination even.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Jill couldn’t sleep. She’d put the radio on quietly, hoping that would take her mind off things, but the inan
e chat between the presenter and his female guest was so irritating that she’d switched it off. She tossed and turned, thumping her pillow into shape, but it was no use. Her mind was too full.

  She still hadn’t visited her parents and the guilt was really kicking in now. Perhaps next weekend. She owed them. Given different parents, she could have turned out like Anne Levington, a sixteen-year-old prostitute.

  The River View estate had bred more than enough wastrels. It brought a whole new meaning to that old joke, What do you call a scally in a suit? Answer: The accused.

  If you came from River View, it was too close to the truth to be funny.

  Without her mum pushing her at school and constantly reminding her that education was the only path out of River View, things would have been very different for Jill.

  Mum had worked at every job going - cleaning at various places during the day and pulling pints at night. At the time, Jill had been closer to her dad. It was to him she’d gone for fun and laughter. It was he who’d shown her the thrill of doubling or, more often, losing her pocket money on racehorses. Dad she had idolized, yet Mum was responsible for the person she was today. Her education, her qualifications, her work, her cottage - without her mum, she’d have none of that.

  Sadly for Anne Levington, she hadn’t had a mum like Jill’s. She’d had an absent drunk for a father, and a mother who’d kicked her out. She was sixteen! Just a kid. But perhaps that was in her favour. Valentine’s victims had all been in their early thirties. Jill thought he was fond of children. If he’d been abused as a child, or if his siblings had, either physically or mentally, it was likely he’d have an affinity with them. Perhaps she was wrong about that, too.

  What exactly drove Valentine? God, how many times had she asked herself that?

  He was strong, they knew that much, and the victims never had long to fight for their lives. Other than the marks of strangulation, and the hearts cut from their skin, there were no bruises or lacerations. He treated their dead bodies with a degree of respect. It was as if, once he killed them, they were no longer prostitutes and therefore objects of hatred to him, but decent human beings again. He was cleaning up the world single-handed.

  Oh, she hoped young Anne was safe. The thought of Valentine attacking her, a child, made her sick to her stomach. The photo given to the media had shown Anne in school uniform. There weren’t any more recent photos.

  None had been taken in the last two years.

  ‘Her hair’s red now,’ her mother had said in an emotionless TV interview. ‘Or it were the last time I saw it.’

  Jill switched on the bedside lamp and glanced at the clock. It was nearly midnight. She picked up the phone and hit the button for Max’s mobile. It was answered almost immediately.

  ‘Hiya.’

  ‘Sorry, did I wake you?’

  ‘No, I’ve only just got in. What has you awake at this time of night?’

  ‘Anne Levington.’ She got straight to the point.

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘What do you know about her?’

  She could hear the chink of a bottle hitting a glass, and then liquid being poured.

  ‘She has three sisters, aged eight, nine and eleven,’ Max told her, ‘and they’re all at home. I gather it was left to Anne to look after them all - the mother was pretty much out of it. However, the father seemed to hold the family together until he was made redundant, lost his own father and discovered his wife had had an affair - all in the same week. He went on a drunken binge and left the lot of them.

  He’s been living in Ireland, but he’s on his way back to England. The mother’s a nasty piece of work, and threw Anne out. Told her it was time she fended for herself and stopped relying on handouts. Anne started begging, then turned to prostitution.’

  Jill shuddered. How on earth was a sixteen-year-old expected to cope on the streets? Apart from anything else, it was the middle of November and bitterly cold. Her heart wept for the girl.

  ‘It’s not like Valentine to choose such a young victim,’

  she pointed out.

  “I know,’ he agreed, ‘but sixteen-year-olds look a lot older these days. Her eleven-year-old sister could pass for sixteen.’

  Jill heard him take a swallow of what she suspected was whisky.

  ‘She is young, and that’s in her favour,’ he went on, ‘but I don’t like it.’

  Jill didn’t either. So long as Valentine was on the loose, and God, he was proving difficult to find, there would be more missing girls to worry about, more lives snuffed out.

  ‘What do you know about Tony Hutchinson?’ he asked, and the change of subject took her completely by surprise.

  ‘The headmaster? Not a lot. He’s not a person I could warm to. I gather his wife has the same problem,’ she said, ‘as I sensed some bitterness and resentment between them.

  Mind you, I’ve only seen them together once, at the party at the manor, so they might have had a tiff or something that night.’

  “I wasn’t too keen, either. He seems interested in you, though.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  “I don’t know,’ Max admitted. ‘He just seemed to have an unhealthy interest in you and your work.’

  ‘Oh, that. He’s just a general pain in the arse. He started a psychology course apparently. He’s harmless enough.’

  ‘Sure?’

  Now she came to think of it, Jill didn’t know what to make of Tony. That evening at The Weaver’s Retreat, she’d felt distinctly uncomfortable in his presence. Could he be the crank sending her photos and cards? If it was him, it would be a relief in a way. Better Tony Hutchinson than Valentine. But why would he do such a thing? Because he was jealous of psychologists and the glamorous way they were portrayed in newspapers and TV dramas? Did a headmaster’s lot seem dull by comparison? Did he feel he was twice as clever and could have caught Valentine single-handed by now?

  ‘I’m sure he’s harmless,’ she said slowly, ‘but you’re right, he is very interested in my work. He’s another Silence of the Lambs fan,’ she added with a sigh.

  ‘He’s a cocky sod.’

  ‘Yes, he is.’

  ‘So,’ Max said slowly, ‘what’s keeping Anne Levington on your mind? Are you thinking of taking Meredith up on his offer?’

  She didn’t know. All she knew was that there was no hiding from Valentine. Until he was caught, there would be no peace for any of them.

  “I keep feeling I should help if I can. Meredith’s right.

  I’ve got good qualifications and a lot of experience behind me.’

  ‘Exactly!’ Max sounded pleased.

  ‘Hopefully, Anne Levington will turn up safe and sound,’ she said.

  ‘Hopefully,’ he agreed. ‘But until Valentine’s caught, there will be others who don’t.’

  On that chilling note, Jill said goodnight.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Jill had been sitting with her laptop on her knees, typing up all she could remember of Valentine. Amazingly, despite trying her damnedest to forget, she knew the case by heart.

  When she answered her door to find Michael Trueman standing there, she couldn’t have been more pleased.

  ‘A visitor! Wonderful. Just the excuse I need. Come in, Michael.’ Again, she was going to do most of the talking and hope that, by doing so, she could coax him to relax with her.

  She switched off her computer, put it back on the desk, and took him into the kitchen.

  ‘If I’ve come at a bad time, just say so,’ he murmured shyly.

  ‘You couldn’t have chosen a better time. It’s lovely to see you, and to have some company. Some days, I get so involved in my writing that I don’t speak to a soul all day.

  I’ll be getting cabin fever if I don’t watch out.’

  He was already stooping to stroke a cat.

  ‘That’s Tojo, the one who adopted me,’ she explained.

  ‘She doesn’t look so sorry for herself these days, the fat thing. When I got her, she’d alrea
dy been spayed, but she often looks as if she’s about to give birth to half a dozen kittens.’

  ‘She’s lovely,’ he said, and he sounded wistful.

  Perhaps no pets had been allowed at the vicarage.

  ‘Sam’s upstairs, asleep on my bed,’ she went on, ‘but he’ll amble down to see you in a minute. And Rabble, the old one, is eyeing up birds in the garden. She’s far too old and stiff to catch them now, thank heavens, but she still likes to sit and scowl at them.’

  He smiled at that, then stooped to pick up Tojo. The cat, always delighted to be the centre of attention, sat happily in his arms, purring loudly. Tojo loved rough and tumble, and enjoyed nothing more than a boxing match with Sam, but Michael was infinitely gentle with her and she responded by giving his fingers a touchingly light lick.

  The scene reminded her of the story Tony Hutchinson had told her, of the way Michael had worried about the injured bird he’d found.

  Michael was a gentle, sensitive person who needed a lot of love. He needed to feel secure, yet he looked very frail and vulnerable right now. More than that, he looked ill. He had a green, washed-out look about him, like someone who’d spent the last eight hours being seasick.

  ‘Do you have any pets?’ she asked.

  ‘No. Mum always wanted a cat, and we had one for a while, a stray kitten that used to call for food, but my father doesn’t like them.’

  An only child with no pets must have a lonely existence.

  ‘What about friends? Do you see any of their pets?’

  ‘Not really.’

  He was more interested in Tojo than anything else and, probably without thinking, wandered into the sitting room and sat in the armchair. Tojo was more than happy to sit on his lap.

  ‘Tell me about this girlfriend of yours then,’ Jill suggested lightly, sitting on the floor facing him. ‘When do you manage to see her? Does she work?’ She saw his hesitation. ‘Don’t worry, my lips are sealed. Not even Olive Prendergast manages to wheedle gossip out of me.’

  His smiles when they came were worth waiting for.

  They changed his whole demeanour, making him look like a young man who would enjoy fun - if only he were given the chance.