Reunion: a gripping crime thriller (DI Kate Fletcher Book Book 4)

by Heleyne Hammersley

  ‘Now what?’ he asked as Barratt joined him on the landing.

  ‘Have you checked that cupboard?’

  There was a door at the top of the stairs which looked older than the others, the panels a slightly different configuration and the paintwork wasn’t as pristine. O’Connor wondered if it was original to the house and had proved difficult to replace. The doorknob was also different, a round Bakelite globe somewhere between the size of a golf ball and a tennis ball. A bolt was attached just below an ancient-looking keyhole with no key.

  ‘If something jumps out, I don’t want to hear you scream like a girl,’ O’Connor teased, his hand on the bolt.

  ‘Can’t promise,’ Barratt said.

  It wasn’t a cupboard. The door opened onto a second set of stairs, narrower and more cramped than the main staircase.

  ‘Wasn’t expecting that,’ Barratt said. ‘Attic room. I hadn’t noticed a window in the roof.’

  ‘Probably hard to see unless you’re standing well back. After you.’ O’Connor gestured for Barratt to go up first. Barratt looked dubious but did as he was told, bowing to the DS’s seniority.

  ‘What’s up there?’ O’Connor said, craning his neck until he could just make out the top of the short flight of stairs. ‘Matt? What can you see?’

  Barratt didn’t respond and O’Connor could hear footsteps above his head as his colleague stepped further into the attic space. ‘Matt? What’s up there?’

  Two seconds later Barratt’s pale face appeared in the square of light at the top of the stairs.

  ‘I think we need to call the boss. Now!’

  33

  David Wallace dumped the small parcel of belongings in the hallway of his dingy flat and went straight through to the kitchen. Six months. Six months since he’d been here, and everything was exactly the same. He opened the fridge. Same tins of luncheon meat and corned beef, same jar of olives, same tube of tomato puree. The place even smelt the same – faintly musty with a hint of lemon air freshener.

  He opened the cupboard above the sink and removed a mug and a jar of instant coffee before filling and emptying the kettle then filling it again. No milk. He’d briefly considered asking the taxi driver to stop at Lidl so he could stock up on a few basics, but the man had made it clear by his silence that he wasn’t the type to be sympathetic to somebody he’d picked up outside Wakefield Prison with only a brown paper parcel and a handful of ten pound notes.

  Mug in hand Wallace made his way through to the sitting room, switching on the central heating from the switch in the hallway as he passed. He plonked himself in his favourite chair, the arms worn smooth where his hands rested and a dip in the back where his head settled automatically. He could see out of the window, through the greying net curtain, and spent a few minutes watching as a car slowed down in the small cul-de-sac where he lived and then turned and left. It was a quiet spot. Three blocks of flats, four flats per block – two up and two down. The greenery surrounding them was well kept by the housing association but responsibility for the interior of the flats was left to the residents and Wallace knew that he probably wasn’t the cleanest or tidiest tenant.

  He took a sip of his coffee. Too hot, so he placed it on the dust covered surface of the table next to his chair. The television remote nestled near his hand and he considered turning it on and losing himself in some awful quiz show, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to relax. He was too angry.

  Six months.

  It had passed slowly. More so because he knew that it was unfair. Wallace had no illusions about what he was – he’d accepted his nature a long time ago. But he’d always been careful. He’d moved on from Thorpe when things had got a little too uncomfortable and he’d changed his name – forcing Margaret to do the same.

  Margaret.

  Poor cow. He’d asked if he could be let out for a morning to identify her body; to say his goodbyes. Laid it on a bit too thick possibly. The answer was no. They’d managed with dental records and the counsellor had seemed to take some sort of pleasure in confirming the identity. Wallace had felt nothing. She’d been in that home for her own good and he’d felt no guilt in putting her there. He hadn’t bothered to visit because there was no point. She hadn’t recognised him for over a year and that was unlikely to change.

  He knew that her murder was a message. Just like his imprisonment. Somebody was out to get him. Somebody had set him up and cost him six months of his life. And, if they thought they could get away with it, they were wrong. He didn’t know who it was, but he was going to find out and he’d make them pay. What had happened to him in prison was nothing compared to what he’d do to whoever had tricked him.

  A tap at the door almost made him knock his drink over. He looked at his watch. An hour and a half had passed – he’d been lost in his thoughts for ninety minutes. How could that have happened?

  He peered round the net curtains trying to add some detail to the figure that stood below him, looking up at his living room window. It was nearly dark outside, the short December day drawing to a close. His visitor looked like a woman, smallish and dark haired. Nobody he knew.

  Wallace considered just waiting for her to go away but, if she was there in some sort of official capacity, it would be another black mark against him.

  He stomped down the stairs and threw open the door. ‘Yes?’ he snapped.

  ‘Mr Wallace?’

  He nodded in confirmation.

  The woman held up an ID card that was suspended from her neck on a bright blue lanyard. ‘I’m from social services. Have you got a minute?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Mr Wallace, I need to speak to you about your benefits and what happens now that you’ve been released. It’s in your best interests to co-operate.’

  ‘Fine,’ Wallace grunted. ‘Come in then.’

  He followed her up the stairs. ‘On the left,’ he said, directing her into the kitchen. It was the least comfortable room in the flat. He didn’t want to encourage her to stay any longer than necessary and, if he didn’t offer a drink, she wasn’t going to hang around.

  She sat at the table and rummaged in her handbag while he stood near the window, watching the street lights flicker to life as night descended.

  ‘I just need to find the correct forms for you to fill in and then we can make a start on processing any claim you might have,’ the woman said. Wallace studied her. In her early- to mid-forties she was quite well built with short dark hair, shaved around her neck. Despite the chill she wore a dress, some sort of flowery pattern not at all suited to a December afternoon that was growing darker by the minute. Wallace had decided that she was probably a lesbian when, as she straightened up, he noticed the prominent bulge of a pregnancy. Still, that meant nothing these days.

  ‘Right,’ she said, breathless after her exertions. ‘I think this is everything.’ She straightened a pile of papers on the kitchen table and put a hand on her belly. ‘Do you think I could have drink of water? Everything seems to be such an effort at the minute.’

  Wallace sighed and reached up into a cupboard to get a glass. It felt a bit greasy, but he wasn’t going to apologise – it wasn’t like this woman was an invited guest.

  ‘How long will this take?’ he asked. ‘Only I’ve–’

  He didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence. Pain seared up from the small of his back to the base of his skull and he collapsed in front of the sink. He vaguely registered the woman kicking the glass away from his hand and pulling something out from under her dress. It wasn’t a baby, it was a small rucksack.

  ‘What the–?’

  She put a finger to her lips as though shushing a noisy child and then clamped a hand across his mouth. He considered biting her, he even thought he might have tried, but the hand was holding something. A cloth? The smell was awful and he started to gag but then he felt his muscles relax and, with one final breath, he felt himself slide into unconsciousness.

  34

  Google Maps said it would ta
ke fifty-five minutes from HMP Wakefield to Tickhill. Hollis made it in under forty. Kate wasn’t sure whether Hollis was driving so fast to get them to their destination or to escape her rage. She was furious. Somebody must have known that Wallace was being released, but nobody had thought to let her know. Instead they’d had a wasted journey and were having to play catch-up again.

  Kate had called Das to request that a car be sent to Bentley to check David Wallace’s flat. The DCI hadn’t been keen, suggesting that, as Kate hadn’t known, there was no way that the murderer could have found out about the premature release. She’d defended the prison staff, citing policies that allowed for the early release of offenders who may be vulnerable to excessive press interest or vigilante attacks, but Kate hadn’t been interested. It was done and now she had to try to limit the potential fallout. It had taken all her powers of persuasion but, eventually, Das conceded that there may be a danger to Wallace’s life and that she’d be remiss in her duty if she didn’t follow Kate’s suggestion.

  Kate’s second phone call had been to Cooper to update her regarding Barratt and O’Connor’s discovery in the house in Tickhill. Sam had been busy chasing up former pupils of Sheffield Road School, but she’d not found anything useful. She’d also checked up on Vicky Rhodes’s alibis for the murders and they seemed to be genuine, which hadn’t been a huge surprise to Kate after their online conversation.

  ‘Pull in here,’ she instructed Hollis as he turned up a side street aiming for Tickhill church. ‘Steve said the street’s narrow and the forensics team have already parked their van outside the house.’

  Hollis followed her instructions and they walked the 200 yards to where Angela Fox lived.

  Kate flashed her ID at the uniformed officer standing next to the back door and pushed past him into the kitchen. ‘Steve? Matt? Where is it?’

  She heard footsteps on the stairs and Barratt appeared in the hallway wearing a white paper overall with the hood up.

  ‘Attic room. SOCOs are busy in the bathroom at the moment so you should be able to have a look. You’ll need to cover up. O’Connor’s declared it a crime scene.’

  Kate struggled into a protective suit, wrestled her sweating hands into rubber gloves and slid paper bootees over her shoes. Next to her, Hollis did the same.

  ‘Shit,’ she whispered, as she took in the attic room. ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘Bit of a surprise, eh?’ O’Connor smiled at her, but Kate could see the strain in the lines around his eyes and the tightness in his mouth. He’d done a good job in securing the scene and directing the forensic investigation, but he’d have had to make some tough decisions in her absence.

  Kate stood in the middle of the floor and turned 360 degrees so she could look at the walls of the room. Each one was covered with paper. News articles about Wallace’s arrest – local and national – photographs, maps. Some she recognised – orange tents and pairs of children, stills from the recent reunion, an OS map of part of the Peak District – others obviously had meaning for Angela, but they would need examining and analysing before they made sense to Kate’s team.

  ‘What’s in there?’ she asked, pointing to a wardrobe that took up most of one wall.

  O’Connor opened both doors – one was backed by a full-length mirror, the other had more papers tacked to its inside. One half was shelved while the second half had hanging room for clothes. The shelves caught Kate’s attention. Boxes and pallets of stage make-up, packets of ‘fake facial hair’ and two mannequin heads designed to hold wigs. The clothes were nearly all masculine – tracksuits, trousers, a couple of jackets and two beautifully ironed shirts.

  ‘She did costume and make-up for her theatre group,’ Kate said. ‘One of her colleagues told us. But this is all very specific.’ She pulled a baseball cap from one of the shelves and turned it around in her gloved hands, remembering Calvin Russell’s description of the young man who’d rented the storage unit where Margaret’s body had been hidden.

  ‘We found a butcher’s saw in one of the kitchen drawers. Tested positive for blood,’ O’Connor said. ‘Not sure whether it’s human or not.’

  ‘Maybe she’d been butchering her own meat,’ Kate offered, her attention still gripped by the contents of the wardrobe

  O’Connor shook his head. ‘A bit unlikely. It’s been bagged and tagged to check for DNA. The SOCOs are swabbing the bathroom and using UV to check for blood in there. It’s the most obvious place to cut up a body.’

  Kate took a step closer to the wall opposite the dormer window. A section of map had caught her attention. This one wasn’t Derbyshire – she recognised the names. It was the Lakes. She leaned closer and could make a faint line in pencil tracing a route – a route that would have taken a walker to within a few yards of the crags above the spot where Chris Gilruth had been found.

  ‘I can’t believe we thought she was in danger when it was her all along,’ Kate said.

  ‘It’s still all circumstantial at the moment,’ O’Connor said. ‘Until something turns up that positively links her with any of the murders, this could all be explained away. Maybe she’s transgender and figuring out her identity. She likes to walk in the Lakes. She has fond memories of her school trip to Derbyshire.’

  ‘Why do you think she’s done all this?’ Kate asked. ‘Was she another of Whitaker’s victims?’

  O’Connor shrugged. ‘Probably.’

  ‘Then why kill Charlton? And if it was Charlton who abused her, why kill Chris and Margaret? We’re missing something.’

  Her train of thought was interrupted by a shout from the bathroom. Hollis.

  ‘Kate? You’re going to want to see this.’

  She dashed down the steep stairs, nearly losing her footing as she reached the bottom step. Hollis was standing just outside the bathroom door.

  ‘Go in and have a look. One of the SOCOs is in there.’

  Kate stepped inside and was surprised to find herself in almost total darkness when Hollis closed the door behind her. The small window had been covered with thick black paper and the light was turned off. Kate turned to ask Hollis what the hell was going on when the forensic investigator switched on a UV light source.

  ‘Over there,’ he said, splashing violet light across a section of tiles just above the level of the bath.

  As the light settled Kate could see quite clearly the silhouette of a hand.

  ‘There’s more.’

  The light moved, this time to the toilet cistern. Again, on the tiles, was a dark mark which Kate identified as a thumb print.

  ‘And here.’

  This time the light was directed at the vinyl flooring next to the bath. Another partial handprint.

  ‘Nice work,’ Kate said as she opened the door. So much for Angela butchering her own meat. However, O’Connor was right – until they had DNA evidence, everything else was circumstantial. It was very compelling though. The only thing missing in Kate’s mind was a clear motive. If Angela was another victim, then why hadn’t she simply gone after her abuser? Unless both men had been involved.

  Kate’s phone rang. Das.

  ‘Ma’am?’

  ‘Just got a report back from the officer sent round to check on David Wallace’s house – or are we calling him David Whitaker now? No sign of life. Lights are off. Neighbours haven’t seen anything. Downstairs neighbour is out but we’ll get some sort of follow-up as soon as she’s home.’

  ‘So, we’ve no idea where he is? Isn’t he tagged?’

  ‘No. He’d served his full term. The magistrate didn’t think tagging was appropriate, that’s why he was given a custodial sentence.’

  ‘Does he have access to a vehicle? Does he have friends or family nearby?’

  ‘Everything’s being checked. Nothing so far. There’s no vehicle registered in his name and no known family or acquaintance in a ten-mile radius.’

  ‘She’s got to him, hasn’t she?’ Kate said, more to herself than to the DCI.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘
Can we force entry into his flat?’ Kate asked, already knowing what the answer would be, but she felt compelled to ask in case Das knew of a loophole or a precedent that Kate hadn’t heard of.

  ‘There’s nothing to suggest danger to life – he might have been at the shops or the cinema. We’ll need a warrant and I doubt we’d be able to get one until tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Then let’s do it,’ Kate said. It was a long time to wait when somebody’s life was in danger but there wasn’t much else they could do. And, by tomorrow morning, David Whitaker would be dead – Kate was convinced.

  * * *

  I was a bit worried that I’d given him too much chloroform, but he seemed to be breathing quite well and mumbling a bit as though he was just having a nap. I kept holding the rag over his nose and mouth every twenty minutes or so, just to keep him under until I could get him out of there. It was horrible being so close to him, knowing what he’d done. He barely resembled the teacher that I remembered – he’d been so handsome, so full of himself when I was at school, but this man was a shell, broken and hollow. I was glad that his life had turned to crap.

  The doorbell rang once, followed by a knock. I gave him another lungful and crept as close to the living room window as I dared. Police car. I wasn’t sure whether a nosy neighbour had called them or whether it was something to do with his release conditions, but I just sat tight and waited. They couldn’t possibly know that I was here. I’d been staying in a B&B in Rotherham for the past few days, my car in an underground car park in the town centre. They couldn’t have pieced it all together and worked out where I was that quickly. I could hear the police officer knocking on other doors and, two short conversations later, he was gone.

  It still wasn’t quite late enough though, so I amused myself by allowing him to come nearly to consciousness – just enough to realise that his hands were tied and he was in some sort of danger – before putting him under again. I know it was a form of torture, but he deserved it. While he was able to hear me, I kept telling him what he’d done, what he was, and then he’d drift away again for ten or fifteen minutes.