THE BLEEDING HEART KILLER an absolutely addictive crime thriller with a huge twist

by Bill Kitson

  After thanking Jane for her time, Nash handed her his card. ‘If you think of anything else, or if you feel in need of protection, please let me know.’

  * * *

  ‘Why did you ask about the other jurors who voted for a guilty verdict?’ Clara asked as they drove away. ‘Is it because you believe they will be in less danger than those who voted for the acquittal?’

  ‘Partly, but it isn’t only that. As Ms Broadbent was talking, I realized what has been plaguing me ever since we worked out the possible jury connection as the motive for Georgina Drake and Henry Maitland’s murders.’

  ‘And that was?’

  ‘Why did the killer single those two out? If there were nine who voted for an acquittal, why pick on those two rather than the other seven? Admittedly, we don’t know that the killer has stopped, but it seemed curious that he targeted two jurors, before shifting his attacks to a prosecution witness, Richard Graham, and Detective Hoyland, who investigated the case. Now we know the reason. It was because they exerted their influence to sway the rest into voting the way they did.’

  ‘That makes sense.’

  ‘Yes, but how did he know?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘How did the killer know to pick those two, rather than the others? In fact, how did the killer know who was on that jury?’

  ‘Perhaps he was in court during the trial and recognized them.’

  ‘Possible. However, that argues for chance intervening. And I don’t believe this killer is the type to leave anything to chance.’

  ‘What other alternative is there? Unless he managed to get the jury list from the Ministry of Justice in the same way that we did.’

  ‘I doubt that. You can’t simply go to the Ministry and demand a list from a specific trial. There are strict safeguards in place. For one thing, you have to state the reason for making such a request. I don’t for one minute believe telling them that you want it so you can murder members of that jury would be considered as a valid reason, do you?’ Nash added dryly.

  ‘No, I suppose not. In that case, I fail to see how the killer picked Drake and Maitland.’

  ‘There is only one way. Either the killer was in the jury room and witnessed the way they influenced the others. Or he’s working in conjunction with someone who was in that room. And the most likely people to be willing to cooperate with him would be the jurors who voted guilty.’

  ‘Wow, Mike, that’s really clever.’ Mironova stopped, aware that she had gone too far. ‘For you, that is,’ she added swiftly. ‘You don’t suspect Jane Broadbent is involved, do you?’

  ‘You know me — let’s see what we can find before we jump to any conclusions. What we need to do now is concentrate on the accused, Dale Harvey and Chad Wilkinson, and hope Viv and Lisa manage to track down the remaining nine members of that jury.’

  * * *

  ‘How is the great juror hunt going?’ Clara asked when she and Nash returned to the CID suite.

  Pearce looked up from his computer screen. ‘It’s early days, but we’ve done pretty well so far. We’ve located most of the other nine.’

  Lisa Andrews swung round on the typist’s chair she was using. ‘Two of them are dead: one male, one female. From natural causes,’ she added swiftly, seeing the look of speculation on Nash’s face.

  ‘One of them has emigrated to the land of paella and San Miguel,’ Pearce chipped in, ‘he’s now ensconced on the Costa del Fortune with his ugly gold-digger mistress. Those are the words of his estranged wife,’ he added with a grin. ‘And another of the men on the panel now lives and works in Helston, Cornwall.’

  ‘We found one of the jurors easier than the others,’ Lisa took over the account, ‘but that was because he’s in Felling Prison. I think he should be safe in there, don’t you?’

  ‘I’d certainly hope so,’ Clara responded. ‘What is he in for?’ She was momentarily sidetracked from their main objective.

  ‘Embezzlement. He got seven years. He was head of the trustees for a pension fund, but apparently he considered his pension had greater priority than all the others.’

  ‘I’ve never understood why crimes against property seem to merit harsher sentences than things like assault,’ Clara commented.

  ‘That’s because judges don’t let ordinary people near enough to attack them, but they do have big houses with lots of possessions that are worth stealing,’ Nash told her.

  ‘Tut-tut, Mike, such a cynical view of our justice system. What about the other jurors?’

  ‘Two of the men live locally. We rang their homes but they were at work. The wives confirmed that they were both in good health, and we’ve arranged to go visit them this evening,’ Pearce told them.

  ‘That’s good work, both of you. So that leaves two that you haven’t told us about. What do you know about them?’

  ‘The reason we haven’t told you is because we don’t know anything. We’ve got one male and one female.’ Pearce frowned with frustration. ‘I looked for the woman juror, but I drew a blank at her address. The neighbour told me she’s working away — has been for a while, but she doesn’t know where. In desperation, I did an online search. She’s listed as a single occupier for council tax, but there’s no record of her owning a car or having a driving licence. I couldn’t find anything more about her; nothing. Unfortunately Potter is a common surname, especially round here. The only thing I did wonder about was this.’ He passed over a sheet of paper. ‘I copied it from the Gazette. I know it isn’t a direct connection, but the name’s the same.’

  Nash read the article, peering over Clara’s shoulder. It was the inquest report following a young girl’s suicide. ‘That is really sad, but I can’t see a link, can you, Mike?’ Clara asked.

  Nash was still reading. ‘No,’ he agreed after a moment, ‘not to this case, but I don’t think we ought to discount it altogether. We may not see a link at present, but then neither did we see how our murder victims were connected until recently. Maybe this girl was related to the juror, but even so, I can’t see how that ties into anything else. However, I see Hoyland gave evidence at the girl’s inquest, which is why I think we should keep it in mind. I also find it intriguing that none of the girl’s family or friends were called to give evidence at the inquest.’

  Nash looked across at Andrews ‘What about the one you were trying to find, Lisa?’

  ‘The other juror’s name was Ian Jackson. Doctor Ian Jackson,’ she stressed the title. At the time of the trial he was a junior doctor at Netherdale General, but about a year after the trial he quit suddenly. After that there is no trace of him. None whatsoever,’ she emphasized her words with a chopping motion of her right hand.

  Nash blinked; his surprise evident. ‘I know a lot of people disappear, but I would have thought you’d always be able to track down a doctor.’

  ‘I thought so, too,’ she said, ‘so I rang the NHS and asked them that very question. Their answer was that if there was no trace of Jackson, that could only mean that he had stopped practicing medicine.’

  ‘He could be working in the private sector, couldn’t he?’ Clara asked.

  ‘He could, but he’d still be on record as soon as he wrote up a prescription for a patient. Anyway, they promised to look into it, but I’ve no idea how long it will take. They’re short-staffed, apparently.’ Lisa rolled her eyes and shook her head.

  ‘They don’t have a monopoly on that,’ Nash grumbled. ‘Much of the time it’s an excuse to give things a low priority. Keep on top of them, Lisa, and let me know when you have a result.’

  * * *

  It was another twenty-four hours before Lisa was able to report, and it wasn’t good news. ‘They told me they do have an Ian Jackson, but he isn’t the one we’re looking for. None of the information I gave them about our man fits, apparently.’

  ‘OK, Lisa, I want you and Viv to make it your priority to find out what happened to this man. Forget the other missing juror for now; this doctor is getting to look more and more
like our killer.’

  ‘I’ll go round to the home address we have on the juror’s list, see if anyone there can help.’

  ‘I wonder if we ought to check Stanton’s background as well,’ Clara suggested. ‘I know the file states he had no living relatives, but it might be worth double checking. If there is a connection between Stanton and the victims, isn’t it far more likely that someone close to Stanton is the killer, rather than a disgruntled jury member?’

  ‘Good point, Clara. Viv, will you do that while Clara and I continue with the leg work?’

  * * *

  Next day, Lisa reported back. ‘I went to the Jackson house. One of the neighbours told me the parents are away: “They’re visiting their son in America. He’s a doctor, you know.”’

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘Can you spare a few minutes for Roy Archer?’

  The Netherdale Gazette editor Becky Pollard frowned at her secretary’s question. She didn’t like Archer, and was already beginning to wonder why her uncle had hired the man as a crime reporter, and how she could go about replacing him. He’d been employed just before her return and he didn’t know the area, having been based in Manchester previously, and as far as Becky could see, he didn’t care much for the routine a reporter normally followed. Becky had known several crime reporters, top-class ones, and had even spent a short period of time in the role herself. Archer belonged to a type she recognized only too well. Lazy, willing to let anyone else do the work for him, and happy to write up stories as long as he wasn’t inconvenienced by the trouble involved in gathering the news. She also suspected that Archer would be more than happy to sacrifice truth and accuracy for the sake of filling the column inches.

  ‘Very well, if I must, but if he’s in here longer than five minutes, interrupt me with an urgent call.’

  Back in the outer office, Becky’s secretary jerked a thumb in the direction of the connecting door. As Archer walked towards it, the secretary made a careful note of the exact time. She didn’t like Archer either.

  ‘Sorry to intrude, Becky.’ Archer didn’t look or sound sorry.

  ‘Make it brief, and the name is Ms Pollard.’

  Ignoring the rebuke in her tone, Archer continued. ‘The thing is, I’m coming up against a brick wall about these murders. The police won’t cooperate. In fact they won’t even admit they are murders. They’re persisting in calling them unexplained deaths. I’ve tried talking to that Fleming woman, but she won’t budge an inch. It isn’t even as if she’s heading up the enquiry. It’s being handled by the hick from the sticks.’

  Becky was proud of the fact that her expression didn’t change sufficiently for Archer to notice. ‘Who are you referring to?’

  ‘The man’s name is Nash. He’s supposed to be in charge at Helmsdale. Why they’re letting a deadbeat DI from a piddling little place like that take charge of a major investigation like this mystifies me.’

  ‘Really? I can see that it does baffle you, but then you are new to this part of the world, aren’t you?’

  Archer’s response was little short of hostile. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘It might help to excuse your abysmal ignorance. In the meantime, I suggest you check out the files before you go around slagging off local law enforcement officers. And while you’re at it, start living up to the job description on your business card. It says “crime reporter”, so get out there and investigate instead of waiting for the stories to come to you. Now you’ll have to excuse me. I have work to do.’

  ‘But what am I supposed to do?’

  ‘I said that was all. Close the door on your way out.’

  * * *

  That evening, Archer confided in a colleague, one of the few who didn’t mind drinking with him. ‘That bloody woman’s got it in for me. I can feel it. I reckon she’s a lesbian.’

  ‘Who are you talking about? Not Becky Pollard? I think you’ve got it wrong there.’

  ‘Well, I don’t see any man in her life, and I can understand that with an attitude like she’s got. She damned near bit my head off because I said something about the bum the local coppers have put in charge of those murders.’

  ‘Who do you mean?’

  ‘That comedian Nash. I bet the most serious crime he’s ever investigated is a kiddie shoplifting sweets.’

  ‘And you said all this to Becky Pollard?’

  ‘Pretty much, yes.’ Archer saw the astonished expression on his colleague’s face. ‘What of it?’

  ‘Apart from getting your facts completely wrong, you mean? Nash is a highly successful detective. Rumour has it he’s turned down the promotion to Detective Superintendent at least twice. Did you know he used to be in the Met?’

  ‘Really? So what did he do that got him demoted to a market town in Yorkshire then?’

  ‘You’re old enough to remember the Marston case, the serial killer?’

  ‘Yes, that was a reporter’s dream of a job — if you worked in London. Oh, you mean this Nash bloke was the one that arrested him?’

  The other man just looked at him over the rim of his glass.

  ‘OK, so maybe I did get it a bit wrong, but there was no excuse for her to go off on one like that.’

  ‘I suppose being new to the area means you don’t know any better. Buy me another pint and I’ll explain how doubly lucky you are.’

  Archer replenished their drinks. ‘Go on then, tell me why I’m lucky,’

  ‘You’re lucky that you got out of her office alive, and you’re lucky you’re not singing treble. As a career-enhancing move I can’t think of anything more disastrous than what you did this morning.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘You picked the worst possible person to spout off about Nash to. Not only did he save Becky Pollard’s life on two separate occasions, but rumour has it that for quite some time the two of them shared the same duvet, and there is talk that she still carries a torch for him. If I was you I’d keep my eyes on the “situations vacant” columns.’

  * * *

  Back in the Netherdale Gazette building, Becky picked up her phone and dialled Nash’s direct line at the office. There was no reply, and her subsequent calls to his home line yielded no better result. She refrained from leaving a message, judging the subject matter to be too important to trust to voicemail. It was an hour later, at her fifth attempt, that he answered his landline. Becky pictured her former lover, and part of her wished she was there with him. ‘Mike, it’s Becky.’

  ‘Hi, Becks, this is a surprise, where are you? In London?’

  ‘Don’t you know?’ She decided to tease him. ‘What sort of a detective are you? I’ve been back for almost two months now.’

  ‘Back? Back where? In Netherdale?’

  ‘So much for the paper’s circulation figures. I’ve taken over from my uncle. I did tell you I was coming back. I’ll have you know that you’re talking to the editor of the Gazette, no less.’

  ‘I am suitably impressed, and abashed. I’m sorry, Becks, I had absolutely no idea. But then we have been a bit on the busy side.’

  She felt a shiver of excitement course through her veins at his use of the pet name. No one but Mike called her Becks, and the fact that he’d said it, not once but twice, might mean a lot. She had risked their relationship twice. On both occasions it had been her stubborn independent streak, putting her career above their feelings for one another that had caused the split. Would Mike be prepared to risk being hurt a third time? Or was she reading too much into his use of that name?

  ‘How’s it going? Settling into the hot seat all right?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s been OK so far, but I’ve hit a slight snag, which I hope you can help me with. I was talking to our crime reporter this morning, the man’s a bit of a jerk, and he was whingeing on about being stonewalled by the police over these murders.’

  ‘I see, and you thought you could use our relationship to get some information out of me, did you?’

  Becky should
have been warned by the tone of his voice, but she was too intent on her own agenda to notice. ‘That’s not exactly it, Mike. I simply wanted to give you chance to tell your side of the story, that’s all.’

  ‘And there was me thinking you had called me for old times’ sake. But then, I should have remembered that our relationship never did mean as much to you as it did to me. Personal feelings and happiness have to come a distant second behind ambition and a successful career, don’t they?’

  Becky winced, both at the words and the harsh bitterness in his voice. ‘That’s not true, and you know it,’ she protested. Even as she issued the denial, Becky realized that she wasn’t fooling herself, let alone Mike. He was right; she had put her career first.

  ‘OK, let’s deal with this once and for all. At present we’re treating the deaths as unexplained and we’re not releasing any further information until our investigation is complete. I’m sure if your reporter took the trouble to attend the Chief Constable’s and Detective Superintendent Fleming’s media briefings he could have discovered as much for himself. I have no further comment to make. Good evening to you, Ms Pollard.’

  The next second, she heard the unmistakeable sound of the dialling tone. He had hung up on her. Mike, of all people. And he’d called her Ms Pollard, not Becks, or Becky. How dare he treat her like that? Her eyes filled with tears of anger and mortification at the coldness of the rebuff.

  She sat behind her desk staring at the wall, her thoughts a jumble of emotions. Once she’d cooled off a little, she recognized that Mike had been quite within his rights to be offended. She had been trying to use him, as he’d suggested, using their relationship to wheedle information from him. There was a difference, though. The old Mike, the Mike she had fallen head over heels in love with would not have reacted that way. He would have laughed it off, taken her wiles in his stride; teased her about the lengths she would go to for a story. He certainly would not have been so curt, abrupt, rude even. Had she done that to him? Was this the straw that had broken the camel’s back?