by Martina Cole
Chapter Forty-three
Jeanette Cole was a sprightly octogenarian, and she prided herself on her rude good health and her ability to still look after herself without the need of assistance. Her small bungalow was kept pristinely clean, and she was often to be seen in her garden weeding. Her garden was her pride and joy. Since losing her husband eight years earlier, she had lavished all her love and care on her plants. Her garden was also her way of interacting with people, and she loved to stop and have a chat with her neighbours.
Now, as she walked to the shops to pick up her Daily Mail, she was humming to herself happily. Mr and Mrs Patel were lovely people and always had a kind word for her; she was usually their first customer at six in the morning, and they often had a cup of tea waiting for her which she appreciated. Habitually an early riser, she loved the quiet of the early morning before the world came to life.
Though she had only been blessed with one child – a daughter who she had buried at nineteen from cancer – she still felt she had been very lucky in that she had been a mother and had married a man who she had adored. Jeanette Cole felt she had been a fortunate woman in many ways; she had experienced love and affection and she was still going strong without a real ache or pain to complain about. That was the secret of happiness she believed – remembering what you had and enjoying every day.
Today, though, she was shocked to see a distraught Mrs Patel sitting on the kerb outside her shop crying uncontrollably. Hurrying now, she went to the distressed woman and, as she put her arm around her, she heard Mr Patel shouting into the telephone that the police had to come immediately.
It wasn’t until later that she found out that a young girl had been discovered on the waste ground behind their shop and she was dead. Tortured and murdered and dumped like rubbish, and poor Mr and Mrs Patel had found her as they had pulled up at the back of their shop to open it for the day.
Jeanette Cole, being the level-headed woman she was, made hot sweet tea and stayed with Mrs Patel until the police arrived, all the time wondering what kind of world they lived in where a young girl could be so brutally slain. But she also remembered the Grantley Ripper and it seemed that, once more, their little town was being stalked by a murderer. It was on days like this she hoped to meet her daughter and husband again sooner rather than later.
Chapter Forty-four
Annie Carr looked down at the body of the mutilated child and felt a sense of futility wash over her. Whoever this fucker was, he knew exactly what he was doing and where he was doing it. He was a local all right – he knew this place like the back of his hand. No CCTV images, nothing to even say he had been there – nothing except a dead girl who was barely recognisable.
He had burned her hair off, she was without fingernails, and the blowtorch had been put to good use once again. What this child had endured was too horrific to contemplate. Her genitalia were gone; it seemed he was keeping more than a few trophies.
The back of the Patels’ shop had no cameras, nothing. On either side of them were empty shops. They were situated at the end of a terrace of houses that had all seen better days and were now no more than bedsits. This fucker was far too clever by half. He was evading every camera. He had planned his dump sites like he planned everything else; with a frightening precision.
She looked out once more over the waste ground that was on the outskirts of Grantley and which was accessed by the woods where Kylie Barlow had been found. There was nothing to say a vehicle had been there, no tyre tracks, nothing.
As Megan McFee arrived, Annie looked at her, hoping against hope that she would find something – anything – that they could use to hunt this fucker down. But she was afraid she wouldn’t put money on it.
Chapter Forty-five
Kate and Annie sat in Kate’s kitchen, smoking and drinking whisky. Kate had a copy of everything, and, as she looked it all over, she shook her head in bafflement.
‘How can he come and go without anyone even noticing anything? For fuck’s sake, Annie, you can’t fart these days but it’s documented somewhere.’
Annie shrugged in answer. ‘Your guess is as good as mine, Kate. It’s like the fucker is invisible.’
Kate poured them both more Scotch and said seriously, ‘He’s a local. He knows the area too well. However he’s transporting these girls, it’s without anyone even noticing. That tells us he fits in, that he can move around without attracting attention. His dump sites are both in or around the woods, so that tells me he knows them well. I don’t think he has a vehicle as such. No one has reported hearing a car, so what does he do? Park up and carry them? Neither girl weighed much.’ Kate understood only too well the frustration that Annie was feeling; she had been there herself. ‘Listen to me, darling – you have to keep focused. I know what it feels like to think you can’t pre-empt this bastard. But believe me, he will make a mistake. They always do.’
Annie swallowed her drink down and said wearily, ‘I know that, Kate, but it’s so fucking hard to do nothing except wait till this fucker gets a bit too clever. He kept Kylie two days nearly, but Destiny was gone and dumped in half that time. The press are baying for blood – you can’t escape those fucking cameras. And don’t get me started on all the online shit.’
Kate nodded but said forcefully, ‘I know it’s the last thing you need on top of everything but you have to block it out, Annie, and focus on the case. He’s honing his craft, darling, and he will do it again. Remember that the girls were best friends. It’s like he’s targeted them especially, isn’t it? So whoever this is, Destiny must have felt a level of safety with him, or he abducted her somewhere he knew he was safe. It’s like a puzzle, remember that. You have to find the link that will make all of this become clear. I assume there’ll be memorials happening for the girls? You need to make sure there’s a big presence as, chances are, he will be there in some capacity. Whoever this is, he won’t want to miss out on seeing the devastation of his handiwork.’
Annie put her head in her hands; she looked so tired and so dejected that Kate put her arms around her and hugged her.
‘Killers like this want to shock, they love to know that their actions have far-reaching consequences. It’s why they do it. Look at George Markham. He posed those women and girls for maximum effect. This fucker is the same. He gets off on the fear, not only of his victims but also of the people around them. You just have to keep in there, girl. I guarantee you a pattern of some kind will eventually emerge, and you will see it and you will find him.’
Annie sighed heavily. She was full of Scotch and full of self-pity. ‘But look at the fucking Yorkshire Ripper. The police caught him by accident—’
Kate put a hand up to silence her. ‘You can’t let yourself think like that. What you do now is start from the beginning, and you interview everyone again and you sift through the evidence. Don’t let yourself be defeated because, believe me, Annie, this fucker is going to do this again – and sooner rather than later.’
Annie nodded. She knew that Kate was right, but seeing the destruction of that young girl had really affected her. Because, once again, it seemed there was literally nothing to go on.
Chapter Forty-six
Margaret Dole was tired out but she couldn’t go home. She was once more looking through everything the girls had ever posted, no matter how obscure. There had to be something somewhere that might give them a chance of finding the man the media were calling the new Grantley Ripper. They were reminding the world of George Markham and his reign of terror and implying that this man was in some way connected to him. It was pathetic and, worse than that, she knew a lot of the people would swallow it all hook, line and sinker.
It didn’t help the police in any way; every fucker with a grievance against a neighbour or workmate was ringing in, flinging accusations right, left and centre. It was always the same with these cases – people used them as a means to settle old scores. And with the added bonus of the internet, forums were popping up all over the country with amat
eur detectives sharing their opinions. Margaret was monitoring these, too, because the chances were the man responsible was holding forth himself, satisfied that he was anonymous.
It was the proverbial needle-in-a-haystack scenario. She rubbed her eyes and drank some more of her cold black coffee. What she wouldn’t give for a line of amphetamines now! Wake her up properly and give her that edge she so desperately needed. Like a lot of police she knew, she used recreational drugs regularly, especially when she had a weekend off.
As she trawled through the inanity of the murdered girls’ social media history and read all of their friends’ posts too she wondered what kind of society would produce the ruling classes of the future. True, there were some touching tributes to Kylie and Destiny, but on the whole, she had never read such banal rubbish in her life, and she had to remind herself constantly that these were young girls trying to fit in with their peer group. But there was nothing of note, just the usual schoolgirl spats, not even anything that could be classed as bullying. These all seemed like nice kids whose existence didn’t raise any red flags and who seemed completely unaware that every word they wrote could be accessed by anyone with the nous to do so.
It was no wonder that a lot of women who were attacked or murdered these days had been stalked on their social media first. People checked in wherever they were, tagged who they were with, and basically gave complete strangers access to their whole lives.
One thing Margaret Dole was convinced of was that no one would ever be able to police the internet. It was an impossibility, especially for the computer literate. There were teenagers who could hack into the US Space Station without any problems whatsoever; young men and women dropped bombs on people like they were playing a computer game by controlling drones.
Privacy was a thing of the past, yet this fucker had killed twice and no one had even caught a glimpse of him. But she would find something on him. She was determined. No one, absolutely no one, could hide for long.
She went back to her fishing, and prayed that she would find something that would give them a lead of sorts.
Chapter Forty-seven
Patrick Kelly was at his restaurant in Brentwood, Essex, where he had arranged a lunch with Joseph. They needed to talk seriously without the women or the children about. He was excited, looking forward to forging a bond with this new son of his. Every time he thought of the word ‘son’, he felt a tightening in his guts.
He sipped at his glass of red wine and looked around him happily. This was a good earner, and it was regularly packed both for lunch and in the evenings. Kate had helped with the décor, which was as understated as she was, but it looked impressive – from the black granite bar top to the pristine cotton tablecloths. The menu was small but, as Kate said, too much choice could be intimidating and often made people think that a lot of the food was pre-prepared and reheated. There was a chocolate soufflé on the dessert menu which, diners were informed, would take thirty minutes to prepare. As she had predicted, it was the most-ordered item. All the food was locally sourced and of the highest quality; Patrick was proud of this place and he had every right to be.
His Kate was a shrewdie all right, and he understood that everything going on was taking its toll on her. She was trying so hard to accommodate him and his new-found family, but he knew her better than she knew herself. He had put himself in her place, and he admitted he wouldn’t be too thrilled if the boot was on the other foot. But Kate, being Kate, was doing her best to help him in any way she could, and he loved her for it. Renée would have raised the fucking roof off the house if she had known.
He wondered what his Mandy would have made of it all. One thing for sure: she wouldn’t have had a minute in her day for Bella. That was one irritating cunt! He did wonder how some men ended up saddling themselves with women they should have run a fucking mile from. Patrick could see Bella pricing his life in her head, and was under no illusions that, if he didn’t have so much poke, she would not have given him the time of day. She was more than capable of using the children as a ransom, and he’d have to swallow his knob and go along with whatever she wanted if he wanted to see them. It might stick in his craw but he was willing to do it for access to those kids.
The boy Joey was a Brahma, a nice lad with good manners and an easy way with him, and that little Mandy – or, as he must learn to say, Amanda – was so like his baby girl, it brought tears to his eyes just looking at her bright countenance. Bella seemed like she’d done a good job bringing them up, he had to give her that much at least.
As Joseph walked in, Patrick felt a rush of pride that this handsome, well-set-up man was his flesh and blood. As they shook hands he could see the staff watching, and wondering what was going on. He usually did his dodgier deals well away from here, and only visited with Kate and, occasionally, a local councillor or dignitary. He couldn’t help wondering if they noticed the resemblance between him and Joseph, because it was there. His sisters would have loved this, and he was sorry they were no longer around to meet this handsome man and make a fuss of him. But knowing Violet especially, she would have started World War Three with Bella and caused more harm than good.
He smiled at the thought and, as he poured Joseph a glass of wine, he said casually, ‘I have to admit, this is a good day for me.’
Joseph smiled easily. ‘I have been looking forward to it myself, Patrick.’ He sipped the wine and raised an eyebrow in appreciation. ‘Now that is a decent Merlot.’
Patrick grinned. ‘Only the best, my son, only the best!’
For some reason that broke the ice and they laughed together, gathering glances from more than a few of the female diners in the restaurant.
‘I can’t help wondering if your mum knew this would happen? If she knew we would get on, like?’
Joseph smiled. Her passing was still raw, and he said seriously, ‘I miss her every day. She worked her arse off to give me a chance in life and she was a good mother, bless her. Loving and wise in her own way. You know something, Pat? She warned me about Bella, but I couldn’t see it then. She was a wise old bird. Not educated, but she had an insight that comes from life, from experience.’
Patrick was nonplussed for a moment at the man’s complete honesty, and he felt he owed him the same honesty back. ‘She was a good sort was Ruby. I turned to her when my wife was dying of cancer. I’m not proud of it, but I needed someone and Ruby was there. I wish she had told me about you, I really do. But I suppose she thought she was doing the right thing, and I do admire her for that.’ A waitress approached the table to take their food order and he waved her away impatiently before continuing. ‘All I can say is she did a fucking blinding job with you, son, and I thank God every day that she finally told you about me before it was too late.’
Joseph smiled and raised his glass. ‘To Ruby – my old mum, and a fantastic lady.’
They toasted her together, and Patrick felt the pull of this man – his son, his flesh and blood – and, as he saw the tears in the other man’s eyes, he felt just how big a loss Ruby had been. Once more, he wished he could have watched this young man grow up, even if it had only been from a distance. But Patrick Kelly was, above all, a realist and he knew that you couldn’t change the past, no matter how much you might wish you could.
Kate said to him once that the past is a foreign country, but he had never really understood her meaning until now. She was always quoting people; she was a big reader, whereas he was happy with Ludlum and Wilbur Smith. Last book he had read was a Lee Child, and he had escaped into the world of Jack Reacher, though he did like some non-fiction stuff too. But his Kate, she really read, and she had educated him in her own way over the years.
‘To Ruby O’Loughlin! God rest her soul.’
They smiled at each other then, as if they had come to some kind of understanding, but in reality they had just bonded over the only thing they had ever had in common: Ruby O’Loughlin.
Patrick waved over the young waitress and they ordered their food
, completely at ease in each other’s company.
Chapter Forty-eight
DC Ali Karim and Annie were impressed when they arrived at Stephen Carter’s house; it was not what they had been expecting in the least.
Annie had been looking for a legitimate reason to follow up with a home visit and the tragic discovery of Destiny’s body had provided that. Ali got out of the car and pressed the buzzer for the gates, announcing their arrival. As they were admitted and parked the unmarked car on the huge driveway, they raised their eyebrows at each other. It was a new build, and it had a ranch-style look that gave it a sprawling aspect. It was a big property and not exactly what you would expect a child at Grantley Comprehensive to live in.
As they approached the front door, a large man walked out, smiling welcomingly. He had a bald head and huge muscular arms covered in tattoos, and he hailed them into his home with a cockney accent that was at odds with his surroundings. ‘Come inside, my old woman is just making a pot of tea. Stephen is out playing tennis with his mate, but he will be in as soon as I call him.’
Annie had no difficulty believing that; this man had a presence about him that made her think that most people did what he told them.
They walked through a spacious hallway and into a huge state-of-the-art kitchen. A small, slim woman with thick blond hair and an easy smile was making the tea, and Annie and Ali were immediately put at their ease by the cosy domestic scene. There were about two acres of garden, including a swimming pool visible through the large kitchen window, and they were impressed despite themselves.
‘You have a beautiful home, Mrs Carter.’