DARK HOUSES a gripping detective thriller full of suspense

by Helen H. Durrant

  “Perhaps they need to be. The killer could well be one of them.”

  “Do you know something?”

  “I know you’re wasting time.” Laycock leant back in his chair. “In that letter he says it’s just the beginning. You need to move fast before another lass ends up butchered. Or perhaps you don’t care.”

  “Firstly, that letter could be from anyone. Cases like this attract all sorts of weird phone calls and correspondence, even confessions. Secondly, me and my team do care. We care very much. It’s us that have to speak to family members, attend crime scenes and post-mortems. Do you imagine that we enjoy that? We do things in the course of our work that other folk can’t even begin to imagine,” Greco replied with cold fury in his voice.

  “So it’s tough.” Laycock was dismissive. “But that’s the job. If you can’t hack it, I suggest you pass it over to someone who can.”

  Greco was wasting his time here. He reverted to the usual formula. “We are following a number of leads. I cannot discuss with you any progress made to date. You know that. I suggest you attend the press briefing with the others and only print what we give you.”

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? He chose me because he must know my reputation. I won’t be gagged. I’ll print what I damn well want and you can’t stop me.”

  “You’re quite right. But first ask yourself what good that would do.”

  “My readers are hungry for information. They want to know what you’re doing. They want to know if the streets of Oldston are safe. I intend to tell them.” Laycock got up and left.

  DCI Green entered the room. “I heard most of that. You tried, Stephen, but the bastard will print whatever salacious gossip he thinks fit and to hell with the truth. That letter might be scathing about us, but it doesn’t give any details about the killings. We should be thankful for that at least.”

  “Has the original letter gone to the Duggan?”

  “Yes. Laycock handed it in — after he’d taken a photocopy of course.”

  “Sir!” Craig Merrick stuck his head around the door. “We’ve had the care home on the phone. The nurse got back to us. Grace had asked if anyone had visited the women and if they had keys to the houses. The nurse said she could do with speaking to someone about it.”

  “I’ll see to the press, Stephen,” Green said. “You go and speak to her.”

  * * *

  “Both women, Mrs Baxter and Mrs Johnson, came here recently. Neither can cope alone anymore. Then, after I spoke to your officer something occurred to me,” Lorraine Hopkirk told Greco. “She was asking if she could speak to the women about access to their old houses, particularly about who would have had a key.”

  “Are the women able to talk to me?”

  “Not really. Doreen Baxter might, but you have to catch her just right. Mostly she tends to ramble.”

  “So how do you think you can help, Miss Hopkirk?”

  “We offer a lot more here than residential care. We have a day centre and we operate a carer service for the local council. Before both women came to live here they had visits several times a day from a carer. To get them up, washed, make sure they had food, that type of thing.”

  “Does that mean that your staff would have keys?”

  “No. The same carer doesn’t visit the same patient each day, so all keys are kept in a safe at the house. We fit a small metal box to an outside wall which can only be accessed by a four digit code. That way all of our carers can get in at any time.”

  “And both the houses had these safes?”

  “Yes. Since they were terraced houses the safe would be situated on the wall at the back of the house near to the electricity and gas meters.”

  No one had mentioned noticing these, but it was worth another look. “A small metal box, you say?”

  She nodded. “Of course there may well be other people who had a key but in these cases, I doubt it. Neither women had close relatives and before our involvement they spent most of their time alone.”

  “I see. How many residents do you have in a similar situation? I’m thinking of someone who has come here recently. Someone who has left an empty house, an old house needing work, and one with a key safe, possibly from that same area.”

  “We have a few. I’d have to do you a list,” she said. “Someone recently arrived? Most of our residents have been here a while and the properties they left behind have been re-let or sold by now. But there is someone. Dora Stevens came to us a week ago. She lived on Pierce Street. That property is on the market and it will need a lot of work.”

  “So where is the key to her house now?”

  “Still in the key safe, I suppose. Eventually the safes are taken down and the keys given back to the landlord or the new owner. In the case of the two ladies you are interested in, this hasn’t happened yet. There is no rush, you see. If the properties are rented we wait for the nod from the landlord. Each safe has a telephone number on it and they can ring in when they want it removed.”

  “Can I have the address of the house on Pierce Street?”

  “Number forty-two.”

  It was worth a look. According to the letter, the killer didn’t intend to stop. He would be looking for his next house.

  “The man we’re looking for could have a connection to this place. He knows the system. If you see or hear anything you think might be relevant, let me know.” He handed her a card.

  “You think a man who comes here, who visits a relative, perhaps even his mother, could be the killer?”

  Greco didn’t comment. “Did you have reason to contact Jessie Weston the night before last — ask her to come in?”

  “Jessie, yes. Her granny is in here. She was being difficult, becoming overwrought. Jessie had always said she would come, whatever time of day or night it was. She was the only one who could calm the old lady, you see.”

  This was useful information. Greco knew he should return to the station and find out about the outcome of the press conference, but he didn’t have the stomach for it. Instead he decided to have a look around the two properties again, and see if the key safes were still intact.

  Looking at a detailed map of the area, he could see that all three streets were very close together. Pierce Street was exactly halfway between the other two. Greco parked his car on Arnold Street and walked to number eight. The street was dark and gloomy. There was only one street light and it was positioned at the far end. It didn’t so much illuminate the area as cast weird grey shadows. All the houses looked badly in need of attention, with crumbling brickwork and rotting window frames.

  Number eight was locked, with police tape still across the front door. He took a narrow path to the back of the house. There was more police tape across the back gate but it was rickety and loose.

  The backyard was small. He crossed old square flagstones with deep cracks between each one. He avoided stepping on the cracks. In one corner was a small shed. Perhaps it had once been an outside toilet. These houses were old. According to an engraved stone at the front, they were built in the 1890s. He could imagine how difficult it would be for an elderly woman to manage a property like this. Keeping it warm would be a losing battle for a start.

  There was a small amount of light coming from the kitchen window next door, but it wasn’t much help. As his eyes became accustomed to the dark, Greco could see two meters. Both were at one end of the wall next to the fence separating this house from its neighbour. To the left of these was a foot square imprint on the wall, and small holes where something had been removed. The key safe!

  Greco took his mobile from his jacket pocket and rang the station. Speedy answered.

  “I’ve found something at Arnold Street. I want forensics down here to take a look and a uniformed officer to keep an eye out.” He told Speedy about the keys. “I’m going to check Archibald Street next. It is possible that a house on Pierce Street will be set up for the next one. I’m going to check on it before I call it a day. The nurse at the care home has
a new resident from there, and her old house fits the profile. I could be way off beam but it’s worth a look.”

  Archibald Street was exactly the same. The key safe was missing, somehow removed from the outside wall at the back. Greco rang it in and moved on.

  Greco walked the few hundred yards to the next house. He went over his conversation with Suzy. He had expected her to jump at the chance of remarrying, but she hadn’t. Why was she holding back? After all, it had been Suzy who wanted to restart the relationship. So what was going on? Why had she said she wanted him if she couldn’t commit? He would have to talk to her again, try and understand what was going on in her head.

  Pierce Street wasn’t as claustrophobic as the others. The houses were a little bigger and they had small front gardens. The street was wider too, with parking bays marked on the road. Number forty-two had a ‘sold’ sign above it. Harvey & Son were the agents again. Greco walked to the top of the street and made his way down the back way between Pierce Street and the houses in the neighbouring road. The house number was painted in gleaming white on the back gate. Someone had already started the refurb. The gate was bolted from the inside. Feeling over the top edge, Greco slid the bolt open and went in.

  “There’s no one there!” A woman’s voice called out. “And there’s nothing to steal either. The place has been cleared.”

  It was the next door neighbour.

  “I’m the police!” he called back. “I’m just checking the yard. Has there been anyone else here recently?”

  He heard her laugh. “Hundreds.”

  “Prospective buyers?”

  “And workmen. Bloody nuisance with their noise. One of them had his radio blaring at midnight. I had to bang on the wall.”

  “Are they local, the workmen?”

  “No idea, love. Don’t pay much attention. Mostly it’s the white van brigade.”

  “Thanks.”

  Greco looked around the yard. He couldn’t see any meters but there was a small metal box fixed under the kitchen window. It was labelled with an address for social services and a phone number. The key safe. So if this house was the next target, the killer hadn’t finished his preparations.

  Chapter 9

  Day Three

  “She swore at me.”

  “Is that why you made such a flaming mess?”

  “Her language was bad. I had to make her stop. I did things right — what the voices told me to.” It was alright, though. He was pleased. He was grinning back.

  “Glad it wasn’t my place you trashed.”

  “I couldn’t help it. I did what the voices said. I did everything right. The mess wasn’t down to me. It was her.”

  “It’s okay, Neville. Just calm down.”

  “Can I do another one? I’m getting the hang of it now. It’s fun.”

  “We’ll see. Depends what the voices say.”

  “I hear them.” Neville tapped his head. “They don’t leave me alone. They want me to do another one. You should hear what they say.”

  “Take your pills, Neville.” He handed him a bottle.

  They were small and white and they made Neville sleep. The other ones, the ones from the doctor, had made the voices go away. These made them louder. But that didn’t matter, because the voices were his friends now.

  “I know who I want next. I’ve seen her.”

  “It doesn’t work like that, Neville.”

  “I keep thinking about it. I want to go out.”

  “No. You’ll get into trouble on your own. You stay here and don’t answer the door. I’ll be back after work.”

  “Will the police come?”

  “No, Neville. They don’t know it’s you. They don’t know who it was. And we’ll keep it that way.”

  “Can I tell them? I won’t be ‘Naff Neville’ then, will I?”

  “No. You’ll be mad Neville and they’ll lock you up.”

  “I’ve got to go to Springbank today.”

  “You don’t need that place.”

  “Mrs Rowcroft — Edna — says I do. She thinks going there is doing me good.” He missed Edna. She was nice. She was a big, comfortable woman and she smiled a lot. She smiled at Neville, and no one else did. “No matter how much I swear or carry on, she doesn’t shout at me. She’s on my side.”

  “It’s an act. That’s what she wants you to think. I’m on your side, Neville, and I’m the only one who is. Understood?”

  “She’ll go on at me if I don’t go.”

  “I don’t want you wandering around. Like I said, you’ll get into bother.”

  “I won’t.”

  He was losing it. Neville winced as he slammed a mug down on the table. He’d gone too far.

  “Do as you’re told. Stay put and give us both a break.”

  * * *

  They were all in by eight the next morning, even Speedy. Tension was high. They wanted to catch the killer. Greco told the team about the key safes and set about updating the incident board. The words ‘loud music’ caught his eye.

  “A woman on Pierce Street said the bloke she thought was a workman played his radio loud. It got on her nerves,” he said.

  “The man in the dark overalls wearing a woollen hat,” Grace added. “We were told about him too. He spent time at the house on Archibald Street. Same man?”

  Greco circled the word ‘radio.’

  “Are you okay, sir? You look tired.”

  Someone was bound to notice. He hadn’t slept a wink. There was too much on his mind: the case, as well as Suzy and where their relationship was going. He felt untidy, dishevelled, and it made him uncomfortable. He still needed to get his hair cut and he’d had no time to iron the shirt he’d taken from the wardrobe. Despite insisting she ironed all his stuff carefully, Suzy wasn’t careful enough.

  “Lot to think about.” He tried to smile.

  “We’ll get there, sir. We usually do.”

  “Yes, but I’d like to get there before another young girl loses her life,” he said. “This man, Grace, do we have a description?”

  “Tallish. Dark glasses, dark overalls, wearing a woollen hat. Everyone who saw him presumed he was working on the houses.”

  “He hasn’t come forward. He could be our man,” said Greco.

  “The sighting at Archibald Street was him preparing the next one. We need to check with the agent. No one was taking much notice until he annoyed them with his music,” said Grace.

  She was right.

  “A mistake? Or was he drawing attention to himself?” Greco said.

  It was a mystery. Greco had no idea why he’d do such a thing. The office phone rang. It was Roxy Atkins from the Duggan.

  “Inspector Greco, we had a look at all three properties last night. “I found a blood smear on the wall at Archibald Street where the safe was. Only a little, as if someone had scratched themselves removing the box. But it’s enough. I’ll run a DNA profile and check it against Jenna Proctor. If it isn’t hers, then it has to belong to whoever removed that safe. Apart from that, nothing else yet.”

  “Thanks. I’ll pass it on to the team. Keep us posted.”

  He turned to the team. “He’s possibly made his second mistake. Blood has been found on the wall at Archibald Street,” he said.

  “What are we doing about Pierce Street?” DC Craig Merrick asked. “Do you want someone to camp out there?”

  “No. They’d be noticed. Forensics has agreed to put up surveillance cameras, small ones in the sitting room and on the back wall. They can be accessed remotely over the internet. If our man shows, then we’ll know.”

  “How will they get the keys?” Grace asked.

  “We’ll do that this morning. Speedy and I will go back and speak to Harvey & Sons. You and Craig do some more digging. Go back and speak to Megan Hunter and Frankie Farr. Ask Frankie about the relationship, and where it was going. Megan Hunter didn’t mention the arguments, so ask her about them. Also this young man, Jack Howarth.” He handed Grace the address. “He was Jen
na’s boyfriend and would have been at the Rave with her. See what he says. Ask how the evening went. It will do no harm to talk to the people at the Rave again. Keep them on their toes.” He paused for a moment. “Laycock bothers me. Someone told Mavis Weston what happened to Jessie. Was it him? If so, why would he do that?”

  “Do we bring him in?”

  “Not yet.”

  “This lad, Jack Howarth. Does he go to the sixth form?”

  “Yes. You’ll probably find him there. Speak to him and Jenna’s other friends. Find out what they remember about that night.”

  “Have you seen the papers, sir?” Speedy asked.

  “No, and I missed the conference. Did Laycock give you much trouble?”

  “No, he was surprisingly quiet. But look what the bastard printed today.”

  Greco took the tabloid Speedy handed him. They were front page news — the police, that is, not the murders.

  “Trouble is, people will believe it.” Grace shook her head.

  “We could do with a result, something to take the heat off,” Speedy added.

  “We’re doing our best. Once forensics has done their bit, we should be in with a chance. At the moment they’re looking at paint scrapings from the car, what’s left of Jenna’s mobile and now the blood trace. Any one of those could give us a lead.”

  * * *

  Neville wanted to go out. It couldn’t do any harm, surely? The man who gave him the pills went out all the time. No one tried to stop him. He had to do something. The voices were driving him mad and his head was aching. Neville needed to do something to kill the voices. Anyway, Edna was waiting for him at Springbank. She’d give him tea and cake. She’d make him feel special and he liked that. She made him feel as if he mattered.

  Sod it. He’d go. He just wouldn’t tell.

  The noise in town was good. It stopped the voices for a while. It was the same with loud music. The radio on full blast was just perfect. Blotted out everything.

  But there were too many people. Neville didn’t like crowds. He kept his head down and pulled his coat collar up around his ears. He didn’t want anyone to recognise him. He’d have to talk to them then. He’d said that he had to keep his nose clean or there’d be trouble. It was alright for him. He had a life. All Neville had were the voices and the memory of what he’d done.