‘Right,’ said Bennett. ‘I’ll start with surveillance for the time being and get things in motion for armed response. And where will the brief be now, Sir?’
Paul looked at his watch. ‘My best guess is she’ll be on the way home, may even be there by now. But she could be anywhere.’
‘Married?’
‘Widow.’
‘Family?’
‘A daughter, aged six.’
‘Any ideas how Smith might arrive if he comes down this way?’ Bennett asked.
‘Our patrols are keeping their eyes peeled for anything suspicious. I suggest you do the same on the main approaches to Wilmslow, and round Grant’s house.’ He gave Bennett the address. ‘We need to get this guy locked up again. Soon as possible.’
‘We’ll be happy to beat GMP to it, Sir.’
As Paul finished the call with the usual pleasantries he heard the familiar heavy knock of his right hand man, Kevin Moorsley, who walked in without waiting for Paul’s response. He redialled Julia’s mobile phone again, gesturing Moorsley to take a seat. Julia’s phone was still switched off. Incredible, he thought. ‘That was the senior Detective Sergeant at Wilmslow,’ he told Moorsley. ‘I’ve just been briefing him in case Smith makes a beeline for Julia Grant.’
Paul turned towards the window. His shoulders slumped despondently. He stared out in the direction of the prominent red-brick tower at Strangeways, wishing he could feel more confident about when Smith would once again be safely tucked away behind its imposing Victorian walls.
Kevin joined him at the window. He followed Paul’s gaze. ‘Quite a landmark, isn’t it, boss.’
Paul undid the top button of his shirt and loosened his tie. Back in the 1830s it would have been the largest, finest building for miles around. A symbol of power, dominating the people’s lives. ‘Yeah,’ he said with a distinct touch of acrimony in his voice, 'where Sam bloody Smith will be very soon if I have anything to do with it.’
He gestured again towards the leather chair on the other side of his desk. ‘What’s happening?’
‘Not a lot, I’m afraid to say,’ said Moorsley. ‘Bootle Street had a team on the scene within minutes. Another one rounding up witnesses. I’ve asked for a further briefing for nine o’clock and we’re setting up an incident room at Stockport. But in terms of results or even hard leads, not a bloody sausage.’
Paul nodded. ‘Look, Kev, I know it’s getting late but tonight we must pull out all the stops.’
‘Tell me what you want,’ Moorsley prompted.
‘You’ve got his known associates list?’
Moorsley nodded.
Paul cracked his knuckles one by one as though each clashing of the bones marked the bullet points of the action he had in mind. ‘I want you to set up coordinated raids on all of them. We’re only talking about maybe three, possibly four, addresses. Firearms teams on all of the jobs with uniformed backup, okay? We’ll obviously be looking for Smith himself but we’ll also want to scare the living bejesus out of them all, or their women, and see if any of them coughs anything. Oh, and dogs. Get something with Eau de Smith on it, you know, sheets from his cell, something you can give to the dogs when they go in at each address. If he’s at any of them they’ll give us a steer.’
‘I like it, boss.’ Kevin smiled as though the re-capture had already been accomplished. ‘And if he isn’t at any of the locations we’ll have given them all such a fright they won’t want to know his case.’
Paul strode to the map of Greater Manchester that monopolised one entire wall of his office. ‘He’ll be lying low. He’s a Manchester man. He won’t go far. Moss Side. Cheetham Hill. Salford . . . we’ll cover all his favourite haunts.’
Kevin looked at his watch. ‘We’re already covering his likely pubs and clubs, and tapping our local snouts. Something like this should have gone round the houses like wild fire.’ He stood up to leave. He wasn’t one to waste time. ‘From what I’ve heard, the escape was carried out like a military operation. Takes a lot of planning, that. There’ve got to be people out there . . .’
Paul rubbed the day-long stubble along the line of his jaw. Being out-manoeuvred by Sam Smith was not something he was prepared to tolerate. ‘There was I thinking how good it was that justice had been done. I still had this big cheesy grin all over my face when I get the news he’s scarpered.’ He shook his head, still wondering whether it was all a bad dream.
He walked back to his desk, sat down and picked up a cold, half full Maxpax cup, not sure if it was his or had been left by someone else. He looked at the contents, hesitated a second and then drained it. ‘It’s pissing me off, Kev. We all worked so hard on this case, you, me, the lads and lasses on the team. Jesus, for once even the wallies in the CPS played a blinder. We should have got him for the Jennifer Dunn job though. Maybe we’ll have another pop when we get him locked up again. Let’s make sure we do, Kev.’
‘We’ll get him. Don’t worry. And you’d better get your jacket back on. Press and Publicity have arranged a TV interview for you down at the scene. Six-thirty sharp.’
‘I’ll be there. But number one is to stake out Mrs Grant’s house. I want one of our own plain-clothes men there now, to team up with Bob Bennett’s lads from Wilmslow. They know every nook and cranny. But I want them invisible, Kev. We need the element of surprise.’
‘Got it, boss.’
Paul stood up and saw him to the door. ‘Make sure an All Ports Bulletin goes out too, just in case. Train stations, airports, seaports. Message switch system. Fax. E-mail. Interpol, the lot.’
Kevin grinned. Adversity rarely dampened his humour. ‘Done that already, Chief.’
- 8 -
The traffic lights at Mauldeth Road turned red. Julia jammed on her brakes and realised she had spent the past fifteen minutes on automatic pilot. While she waited, her thoughts leapt back to Sam Smith.
She could see him now, superimposed on the ribbon of traffic jamming Kingsway for miles ahead of her. She could even smell the Jeyes Fluid smell of Strangeways . . .
He is only two feet away on the other side of the interview table, the big blue eyes bulging with emotion. ‘God, how I hate her,’ he says. His mouth twists. His words ring out above the inhuman noises of the prison, the raucous screams, the cries for help, the blasphemy and the threats, all blessedly muffled by the thick floor to ceiling windows of the cubicle. He stares at me, like he does every time we meet, as though I owe him something, but doesn’t know quite what it is.
‘How can you hate your own mother?’ I ask him.
‘Would you walk away from your kid, Julia?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Leave your kid in a bundle on a doorstep? You got any kids, Julia?’
‘One.’ I look down at the floor, anything rather than face his sudden hurtful look.
‘Lucky you.’ He sucks in his breath. ‘Boy or girl?’
‘Girl. She’s my whole life. I’d do anything for her.’
‘A little girl.’
Oh no, he’s not a paedophile too, is he? He smiles and I see a wistful look in his eyes that dispels this thought. ‘What’s her name?’ he says.
‘Nicky.’
‘Nicky? Nice name.' He pauses. Frowns. ‘How old?’
‘Just turned six.’
An instant of pain crosses his eyes.
‘And where’s your mother now?’ I ask.
‘Never seen my mother. The bitch.’
‘She may have had no option,’ I tell him. ‘No money. Nowhere to live. Maybe she was doing what she thought was best for you.’ Are these the same reasons that forced my own mother to leave me to the mercy of strangers? Strangers I’m still striving to remember . . .
Smith’s eyes close as if he's struggling to conjure up a fresh vision of his mother but still doesn’t like what he sees. ‘She’s just like all of them. Crap.’ he says at last.
‘But every mother loves her child. She must have cared about you. Maybe she still does.’
&nb
sp; ‘No. No one cares about me so I don’t care about them. And what I do is for my own good and nobody else’s.’
I try a new tactic. ‘I’m sure my mother cared about me. But . . . but she also abandoned me.’
His eyes open wider. ‘She did? Where?’
‘Don’t know. Ditch. Railway station. Doorstep?’
I’m walking through a graveyard of images . . .
the separate rooms, the high ceilings. Creeping to my brother’s room, strong arms dragging me away, the sudden cold without his warmth, crying, crying, all night long, crying . . .
Smith’s lips part in another rare smile.
‘Did she really abandon you?’ he asks.
‘Yes. Me and my twin brother.’ My breath catches in my throat. Unintentionally the words have spilled out, every self-made rule never to utter those words to strangers broken. But it's too late to take them back.
Twin brother, I repeat inside my head. I love the sound of the words. I must try to make them go away but they're intent on tormenting me to the full now that they are released. Twin brother. Twin brother.
Smith stares at me. It’s a look of unexpected empathy, and I think, as I so often do, how normal he appears. Not like a murderer at all.
‘Where is your mother now?’ I say, hoping I can stop him asking any more questions.
‘I don’t even know who she is.’ He frowns. ‘And your . . . twin brother?’
‘Don’t know. I think he’s dead.’
‘You think. Don’t you know for Chrissake?’ He leans across the table as though he wants to shake me.
‘Yes. I know he’s dead. They told me, just before I was adopted. But I hate to think of him as dead. It’s so long ago. I can’t even remember his name or what he looks like - only that I loved him.’
She suddenly has a fleeting, out of body experience. She is looking down on herself having this conversation with a suspected psychopathic murderer. What the hell are you doing, Julia? Why are you telling this man all this stuff? He’s a bloody client, not your father confessor! But she can’t stop. The tap has started to drip and there’s no way she can turn it off. She is driven to confide in him.
Smith lowers his voice. ‘Why the hell didn’t you ask?’ It’s as though he really cares.
‘I was too afraid. I pretended he was still alive. Hoping they’d only told me he was dead to keep me quiet.’
‘Why would they do that?’
‘He was very naughty. That I do remember. Always throwing his flick-knife at cushions. But this didn’t stop me loving him. He was all I had. He looked after me. Kept me warm. Took the blame if I did something bad.’
For a long time we stare at one another. Saying nothing.
‘Were you ever fostered, Julia?’ His voice only just breaks the silence pressing in on me. He puffs on his cigarette as though he doesn't care what the answer is. The smoke curls into the static air.
‘I think so but I can’t really remember. I only remember clearly the things that happened after I was adopted. As though I'd just been born.’
‘Adopted,’ he says. He sucks in his breath. ‘Lucky devil, weren't you?' Then he frowns. 'When?’
‘That same year. Just after my brother.’
Died?
I can't say it. I hate that word. They're all dead. My brother. My husband. My mother. Father. There’s no one left . . .
Smith’s top lip begins to quiver. ‘No wonder you made it good,’ he says. A tone of envy creeps into his voice. He bends his head to one side. ‘How old were you?’ he asks very slowly.
‘Ten. Yes, I was ten. There’s so much that’s blanked out. I was so lonely. I used to dream he'd come back.’
‘Still dream?’ he asks, leaning towards me until his eyes are staring straight into mine.
It’s all wrong I tell myself. You don’t talk to your clients like this. But I can’t stop. ‘Sometimes,’ I say. ‘And once long ago I thought he really had returned. It was soon after I was adopted. New people moved in next door. There was a boy about my age. We played together. I was so happy. I must have thought he was my brother. One day, for no apparent reason, they stopped him coming round. I wasn't allowed out. Some people came to the door. Questioned me, accused me of molesting him. And all I’d done was put my arms around him.’ I realise this is the first time I’ve ever told anyone this story.
Smith looks away.
‘I never forgot that,’ I say. ‘Being accused of something I hadn’t done.’
‘Did they believe you?’
‘No.’ And this time I stare into Smith’s penetrating eyes. ‘And you? Were you adopted?’
‘I should be so lucky. Foster homes. One after another. Few months here, few months there. Kicked out, then on to the next. Except for one. Ada. Three years with Ada. She was the last. Bit of a psychologist, Ada. Taught me all sorts of stuff. Mind over matter. That kind of thing. A schizo, Ada.’
He pulls a crumpled photograph from his back pocket. ‘This is her.’ His eyes glaze over. ‘Ada.’
The face is stark but beautiful. And for some reason I cannot fathom, strangely familiar.
And all at once I know. My breathing quickens. Apart from the scene-of-the-crime photographs of Joanne Perkins’ body, mutilated and covered in blood, and those of her lying on a slab at the mortuary, I had seen only one snapshot of the seventeen-year-old when she was still alive.
I look at the photograph again.
The resemblance to Joanne Perkins is uncanny.
‘All my foster fathers beat me,’ he says. ‘Left scars. But Ada was much worse than them. See these?’ He points to two jagged scars on his cheek, half-hidden by the beard, then to the multiple scars on his hands, wrists and forehead. 'Other places too,' he says.
‘Ada did that?’
He nods. ‘But that wasn’t all.’
‘What else did she do?’ I hold my breath. I have been sacrificing my secrets, my hidden fearful past. For this. To find out about his own horrific history. To give him an excuse for what he is accused of doing.
‘We lived in a caravan. When they first fostered me we lived in a proper house. It was fine until her husband left. I loved her then. But after that she hated me. She said she loved me but she never did. She blamed me for everything ─ her divorce, for getting pissed. Even for copping off with men who turned out to be pieces of shit. You name it, I got the blame. First off she just poured melted candle wax on me. I soon got used to that. When that didn’t make me scream any more she started with cigs. I used to piss and shit myself when she did it. And she always found a new, hidden place so it wouldn’t show. The pain was unbelievable. She twisted my fingers. Broke three of ‘em. Look.’
He holds out his hands. The joints are thickened, the bones distorted. He pulls up his sleeves. There are scars all the way up his arms.
‘I still remember the pain. It was hell,’ he says. ‘When it got really bad I’d try to make myself go kind of numb so I’d feel nothing. I used to wet my bed every night - couldn’t help it - even though I knew I was going to do it. So much fear I was rigid. She wouldn’t give me nothing to drink all day. Made me sit in the wet stinking bedding till it dried. Forced me to watch her having sex with strange men. Lots of strange men. They were always drunk or stoned. Afterwards they’d turn on me. Do disgusting things. One of them even kicked me when they’d finished. Said I was a pervert. Me? They were the ones going at it, not me.’
‘Do you still hate her?’
He looks down.
‘Do you still hate her?’ I ask again, knowing the key lies somewhere here.
‘More than anything in the world. But I . . .’
‘What?’ I push him. I’ve used myself to get him to this point. Then he stops. He gazes at me with the characteristic twist of the head to one side. ‘Do you have sexual fantasies, Julia?’
I keep my expression unchanged. ‘Most people do, don’t they?’ I wonder what is coming next. ‘Do you?’ I have to ask.
He nods. ‘Ada’s always th
ere. Like for real.’
I’m no psychologist but things are becoming clearer. He’s been through enough to become really twisted, though I doubt he would agree. ‘What about your own mother?’ I say. ‘Have you never tried to find her?’
His bitter laugh cuts the still, dank air of the consultation room. ‘You kidding? I told you. She didn’t want me . . .’ His voice fades away, and he frowns again. ‘And you, Julia? Have you looked for your mam?’
‘No.’ He’s turned it around again just when I think I have him on the spot. With that voice and those eyes he could easily drag my deepest fears and secrets from me.
A screw puts his head round the door. ‘Five minutes, please.’ I am saved.
‘I’ll see you next week,’ I say. I shut the file and see the date of birth on the cover. It shouts at me ─ 15th December. I am forever noticing it and being taken aback as if for the first time. I pick up the file and violently stuff it in my briefcase.
I push the copied courtesy bundle of papers across the desk towards him. ’We didn’t need to go through these today, but read them carefully and be prepared to answer difficult questions next time I see you. I want you to talk me through what happened the night Joanne died. Step by step. Exactly as you remember it.’
He takes the file. His eyes fix on mine. I steady my hand.
‘If it helps, write some notes. You’ve got to help me to help you.’
cold, wet, hungry, locked in his arms, watching his eyes . . .
Get a grip, Julia.
* * *
With a jolt Julia heard the car behind hooting. The persistent vision of Smith vanished, sucked into oblivion like a TV being switched off. Quickly she closed the gap between the Merc and the car in front.
Fool. Did I really discover more about him and the motives for his crime by baring my soul to him, she asked herself. Sure, he gained confidence and trust in me. But did that help me?
On the Wilmslow bypass the traffic speeded up. It slowed down at the roundabout on the old A41 and at that moment she remembered what he had said during their last meeting at Strangeways before the trial began, when he was at his lowest ebb.
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