The Tangled Lock (The National Crime Agency Series Book 3)

by Bill Rogers

  ‘He is generally regarded as being overconfident,’ Swift continued. ‘And below average on the empathy continuum, as a result of which his application to become a detective was only narrowly approved. His initial training tests placed him in the centre of the average to above-average IQ range. His role places him in a position of power vis-à-vis the complainants. He lives alone, having been divorced . . .’ Andy turned to Ram, eyebrows raised in a question.

  ‘Two years ago,’ said the intelligence analyst.

  ‘Two years ago. The grounds cited were . . .’

  ‘Irretrievable breakdown resulting from his unreasonable behaviour,’ Ram supplied. ‘I’m waiting for the transcript to discover the exact nature of this unreasonable behaviour.’

  Jo made a mental note to go and see Henshall’s former wife as soon as practicable, probably after he had been arrested, in case she might tell someone else, who might then alert him that he was under investigation.

  ‘All of these factors,’ said Swift, ‘are wholly consistent in relation to both scenarios. Serial killer, and sexual predator.’

  He raised one finger as a warning.

  ‘However, there are elements of the known behaviour of our unsub that are not consistent with the known behaviour allegedly attributed to DC Henshall.’

  ‘Such as?’ said DCI Ince.

  Swift frowned. ‘I find it easier to order my thoughts in a form that is most likely to meet the brief required of me when I am neither prompted, nor interrupted.’

  His tone was completely neutral. A simple statement of fact. It had the desired effect.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Ince. Jo sensed the apology was both rare and difficult for him to give.

  ‘That’s alright,’ Andy said cheerfully. ‘Now, where was I?’

  Nobody dared to prompt him.

  ‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘The unsub. In addition to the known characteristics attributed to DC Henshall, we have the following. The unsub’s modus operandi suggests trichophilia, an obsessive fetishism in which the person finds human hair sexually arousing and/or erotic. There is no evidence of actual sexual arousal or penetration on his part. He kills his victims using a garrotte constructed from twisted human hair. He leaves a signature in the form of knotted human hair in his victims’ oral cavity. And he removes a lock of hair as a trophy of his subjugation and annihilation of his victims. None of that is consistent with DC Henshall’s known behaviours, or his alleged attacks on the complainants. Ergo, Henshall and the unsub are not one and the same person.’

  ‘It’s not impossible though, is it?’ said Ince sceptically. ‘You can’t be that certain. This is only an opinion surely.’

  Swift sat up straight, removed his glasses, took that small blue microfibre cloth from his breast pocket, and began to polish the lenses.

  ‘In my humble opinion,’ he said, ‘it’s about as likely that the two are one and the same as it is that President Putin will retire and found a transgender religious order in Texas.’

  Jo suppressed a smile.

  ‘But Henshall is a credible suspect in relation to the allegations made against him,’ said Ince.

  ‘Absolutely,’ Swift replied. ‘I’d bet my MZ Charly on it.’

  ‘Nice place you’ve got here,’ said DCI Ince.

  The meeting had broken up. The others were preparing to go home. Andy to his wife and children. Ram to his lonely apartment.

  Jo followed his gaze to where the purple floodlit outlines of The Lowry Theatre and footbridge were perfectly mirrored in the still waters of the Huron Basin. Myriad white and gold lights from the buildings on the far side led the eye east past MediaCityUK to the red-and-white toast rack of the Manchester United stadium, and north to where the city was laid out like a fantasy model village. It was hard to accept that a serial killer had chosen to make this his playground. Easy to see why it was so hard to find him.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It is. Not that I get much time to enjoy it.’

  Ince glanced at his watch. ‘I’d better get going. I have to brief the Deputy Chief about our plan to bring Henshall in early on Sunday morning. I take it you want to be there.’

  ‘Are you kidding?’ she said. ‘I’m the one who started the ball rolling.’

  Ince nodded, and fingered the collar of his donkey jacket. ‘When this is put to bed,’ he said tentatively, ‘I don’t suppose . . .’

  ‘Go on,’ she said.

  ‘You’d fancy coming out for a drink with me. Or . . . a meal.’

  Jo fought to keep a straight face. He had clearly not done his homework, which was bad news for a detective. She, on the other hand, had. Ince had two children, and his marriage of twelve years was rumoured to be on the rocks. The last thing she wanted to do was humiliate him when they still had to work together.

  ‘Ask me again nearer the time,’ she said. ‘Right now I’m too knackered to even contemplate it.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ he said.

  The two of them headed for the door. ‘By the way,’ Ince said, ‘who was that Charlie that Swift was talking about?’

  She laughed. ‘MZ Charly. It’s his precious electric scooter. Believe me, if Andy is prepared to gamble that, you might want to think about betting your house, your car, and everything else you’ve got on it. Henshall may not be our unsub, but I’m afraid he’s as guilty as hell.’

  Chapter 22

  SUNDAY, 7TH MAY

  11.45PM

  Flora inhaled slowly, paused, then drew in a deep draught of clean air that pushed the smoke and vapour into the furthest recesses of her lungs. She rested her back against the wall, and waited.

  Fifty seconds later cannabinoids leaped the blood–brain barrier. Her pulse quickened. She was now acutely aware of the traffic on Cheetham Hill Road, several streets away. The street lights seemed brighter, more intense. Time stood still.

  The door of the Queens Arms burst open. She heard the sound of bubbling conversation from within, and raucous laughter. Two middle-aged men emerged, swaying unsteadily. The shorter of them stopped to zip up his black leather jacket. His companion spotted her, and nudged his friend, knocking him off balance, so that he fell back against a wooden picnic table.

  ‘What the feck!’ he cried, struggling to push himself upright.

  ‘Would you look at this?’ said the taller man. ‘Are they getting younger, or are we getting older? Does your mother know you’re out, sweetheart?’

  ‘Leave her alone,’ said Shorty. ‘You don’t know where she’s been.’

  ‘Oh but I do,’ the other retorted. ‘That’s the thing. That’s why I wouldn’t be asking for more than a kiss.’

  He stepped towards her. ‘How about it, sweetheart? A little freebie for Uncle Jack?’

  Flora took a final toke, and dropped the stub on the ground, grinding it beneath the toe of her shoe. She unclasped her handbag, slipped her hand inside, and began to walk diagonally away from them.

  Never completely turn your back, Natalia had taught her. Make sure you can see them from the corner of your eye. If they start to follow, get your hand on your spray. If they keep coming, turn and point it at them. Feel for your rape alarm with the other. That usually stops them. If not, use both and then get the hell out of there. Don’t stay in the area. Go home. There’s nothing more dangerous than a wounded animal.

  Flora’s heart was pounding now, her anxiety magnified by the cannabis. Her hand tightened around the canister. His companion had hold of his arm and was pulling him back.

  ‘Leave her, Jacky,’ he mumbled. ‘She’s not worth it.’

  The tall man hurled a stream of abuse at her, hawked from the back of his throat, and spat on the pavement with the finality of a full stop.

  Part of her was sorry he hadn’t kept coming. Flora would love an excuse to use her spray. Just once. How the hell would he have explained to his wife – the worst ones all had wives or partners – the dye on his face and clothes, which would take days to remove, and the foul sulphurous odour of garlic? Come to that, ho
w would this one have explained the 130-plus-decibel screech of the alarm, which would surely have brought people, curious, from the pub. She had never used the canister except to warn them off. On those occasions when men had hurt her, it would have been impracticable, and potentially deadly dangerous, even to try. That was the dilemma they all faced. Knowing which ones to warn off. Sensing which ones might turn nasty before it was too late to do anything about it.

  She clicked the clasp shut, thrust her hands into the pockets of her coat, and turned right to begin the Collingham Street circuit. Had Natalia been with her, she might have chanced the much more lucrative stretches between Red Bank and Cheetham Hill Road, but a pimp for some of the other girls had warned her off once tonight, and she wasn’t going to risk it again.

  It was miserable here, and dark. The security lights above one of the steel-shuttered factories lit a narrow path beside the storage units.

  Where was Natalia now, Flora wondered? Why had she left without saying goodbye? After all they had been through together. The two of them leaving Dunakeszi with her cousin, and the promise of jobs in England. The cousin introducing them to that monster Arpad and then disappearing. Their passports and papers taken away. Locked in separate rooms. Raped. The two of them forced into a brothel near King’s Cross. It was Natalia who hatched the plan. Hitched a lift for them with a Polish lorry driver. Persuaded the owner of the Hungarian food store to rent them a flat above the shop. And then she had suddenly disappeared. Her few belongings gone. Just that note left behind.

  Got to move on. Sorry. Look after yourself. XXX. N.

  It made no sense. But then nothing in Flora’s world made sense any more. All she saw was a road stretching ahead leading nowhere. A road just like this one.

  He cursed silently. It had taken forever for those two idiots to move on. Then, just as he was about to break cover, the door of the public house had opened again and two couples emerged. Finally the streets were empty. Now the girl was gone.

  He left the shadows, crossed the road, and turned into the street he had seen her take. One small van had entered this street while he had been waiting. He could only hope that it was not a punter, or if it was, that she had turned him down. Otherwise he would have to try his luck in the crowded triangle, fraught with difficulty, between North Street and the A665. There were risks worth taking. Ones that set the pulse racing. But there were limits he had set himself. Even here in this carnal backwater, this fetid tributary. The same police patrol car had cruised by twice in the past two hours. Close enough for him to see the garrulous driver and his bored companion, one hand on the grab handle, the other cradling a Styrofoam beaker. Too close for comfort.

  The moon emerged briefly in a gap between menacing clouds. He glimpsed a moving silhouette up ahead, and a flash of gold in the moonlight. Gold, the colour of her flaxen hair. His hand moved to the locket around his neck. He smiled, and hastened his steps.

  The quarry was marked.

  The hunt was on.

  Chapter 23

  MONDAY, 8TH MAY

  A pale glow, low on the horizon, heralded the dawn of a new day. The first of countless days this young woman would never experience. One that would bring grief knocking at the doors of her parents, family, and friends. Grief fuelled by guilt and rage, which would haunt some of them for the rest of their lives.

  Jo had no idea if the sickness in the pit of her stomach was down to the shock of rising yet again in the early hours or anticipation of what lay ahead. Not that it mattered. All that counted was catching the sick bastard that was killing these women. Bringing a crumb of comfort to the bereaved in the form of justice, whatever that really meant. Above all, preventing him from doing it again, and again.

  She tucked a wayward wisp of hair beneath her hood, wiped droplets of rain from her eyes with the back of a gloved hand, and trudged through the stream of water running from the crown of the road.

  Up ahead, two telescopic LED lights shone 1,200 unforgiving lumens on to the scene below. Casting shadows. Illuminating the protective suits of the figures bent over the small skip. Five faceless hooded creatures straight from a horror movie. There was even a cameraman.

  One of the figures moved. In the gap he left behind, a pathetically thin arm hung limp over the side of the skip. A ghostly slash of brilliant white beneath the stark lighting.

  The skip was tiny. Four foot long perhaps by two and a half feet high. Twisted as though it had been dropped from a great height. A mass of red-brown rust, and random flakes of yellow paint. Jo stepped into the space that had been vacated, and swallowed to suppress the sudden rush of bile rising from her stomach.

  The young woman lay on her right side. Knees tucked in. The right arm hidden from sight. Her head and shoulders lay propped up against the rear end of the skip. Sodden long blonde hair all but obscured her face. She wore what under normal circumstances would have been a stunning red dress, with a sexy square neckline, short sleeves, and a scoop back with an exposed zipper. A belt marked the start of a full-circle, fit-and-flare-style skirt that had risen up to expose alabaster legs and thighs.

  The figure beside Jo turned to face her.

  ‘Glad you could make it,’ said Max. ‘But I assumed you’d be calling on DC Henshall.’

  There was no criticism implied.

  ‘I wanted to see this first,’ she said, ‘so that we knew exactly what we were dealing with. DCI Ince has gone to check in with the surveillance teams. I said I’d join him shortly to bring him up to speed. Then we’ll move in.’

  The figure opposite her spoke. It was Nick Carter. ‘Can’t see it being him though. Not with two pairs of eyes on him all night.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be the first time someone gave a surveillance team the slip,’ Jo said.

  She sensed the reproach in his eyes, and instantly regretted her words.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean . . .’

  To hide his embarrassment, Nick stared down at his hands, gripping the sides of the skip. Gordon shrugged it away. Max stared at her quizzically. She said nothing. She didn’t need to. All of her BSU colleagues knew the story of how the Cutacre killer had plucked her from under the noses of such a team. But not who else had been involved. Max would piece it together eventually.

  ‘Is it the unsub?’ Jo asked, breaking the silence.

  ‘If it isn’t,’ said Nick, ‘it’s a copycat who knows every detail of the unsub’s modus operandi.’

  Dr Carol Tompkins lifted a handful of sopping-wet strands of hair away from the victim’s neck, revealing the telltale circular bruising. With her other hand, she gently tilted the head towards them. Sweetheart lips the colour of the dress surrounded a gaping mouth, in which was visible a tangled mat of raven hair. It seemed to Jo a cruel humiliation. An evil, senseless desecration.

  ‘A trophy?’ Jo asked.

  The police surgeon’s hands let the hair go, and gathered up some more strands at the nape of the neck. The uniform length was interrupted by a three-inch-wide by five-inch-long gap where the hair had been excised.

  ‘He’s becoming more ambitious,’ Max muttered. ‘At this rate he’ll be removing it all.’

  ‘When did she die?’ Jo asked.

  ‘Between three and six hours ago,’ said Tompkins.

  ‘Between 11.30pm and 2.30am,’ said Nick needlessly.

  ‘Probably closer to midnight than two thirty,’ said the doctor.

  ‘Did she die here or was she moved?’ Jo asked.

  Carol Tompkins carefully unzipped the dress and pointed to the light purplish discolouration along the side of the body lying against the end of the skip. ‘Based on this livor mortis, I would say here. Or very close to this spot.’

  ‘That’s where we found one of her shoes,’ said Jack Benson from the opposite end of the skip.

  Jo turned and stepped back to see where he was pointing. A yellow CSI marker was partly submerged in a pool of water close to the fence a yard or so from where Carol Tompkins was standing
.

  ‘The other one,’ he said, ‘was fifteen yards further away up against the fence. Where we also found the coat we believe she must have been wearing, and her handbag. We are working on the assumption that she was killed over there, lifted up, and carried to this skip, where he then dumped her.’

  ‘I would suggest laid rather than dumped,’ said Tompkins. ‘I don’t see any evidence that she was dropped, although we won’t know for sure until after the post-mortem.’

  Jo was staring at three large waste bins on wheels – one red, one blue, one beige – between here and the spot where the belongings had been found. Closer still was another, larger static bin, containing scrap metal. Above them towered a corrugated-iron fence, behind which the tip of a heap of scrap metal threatened to topple over on to the street.

  ‘Why did he choose this skip,’ Jo asked, ‘rather than one of those bins?’

  ‘Because he wanted to display her, not hide her?’ Max suggested.

  ‘So she’d be found sooner?’ said Nick.

  ‘Because it was easier to drop her in. Hardly any lifting required,’ Benson proposed.

  ‘Or all three,’ said Jo. ‘Who found the body?’

  ‘Security van man,’ said Gordon, pointing towards the other end of the street, where a white van with a roof-mounted amber beacon response light, and a pair of halogen floodlights was parked up with its sidelights on. ‘Canine Protect Security Services. They do two sweeps a night of all of the industrial units round here. His dog found her stuff first and then this.’

  Jo turned back, and stared at the body. ‘If you have her bag, do we know who she is?’

  ‘There was nothing in it to tell us that,’ said Gordon. ‘But local officers have been busy speaking to some of the other sex workers. We’ve got a street name for her. Clara. Eastern European. Only been on this patch for a couple of months. She used to have a friend with her until a week or so ago. Kept themselves to themselves. Rumour has it she lives over the top of a Hungarian food store on Bury New Road.’

  ‘Nick and I were just about to make our way there,’ said Max.