Her thoughts were interrupted by the door to the interview room swinging open.
Another prison officer appeared, a woman this time, her blonde hair scraped back into a tight bun. She was pretty, with a nice figure, but had a look that said she could take care of herself if the need arose. She wore a pair of trendy black glasses that made Molly think of a librarian. Shuffling in behind her was a shrunken husk of a man in a dirty grey tracksuit. His hair and beard were streaked with silver, and his face was mottled with the scars of childhood acne. She recognised Ferguson from his photos. He’d aged, by a lot more than twelve years, and it was more than just prison pallor: it was as though something had died inside him.
He sat down next to Molly and Denning at the round table. The female prison officer muttered something to her male colleague then left the room. The male officer stood by the door, legs apart, folding his hands behind his back, pretending he was somewhere else.
Ferguson was shorter than she’d imagined, probably a little over five feet, but stocky. She suspected this was a result of regular visits to the prison gym. He looked over at Denning, but his eyes fixed on Molly: deep-set and smouldering black, just like the photograph that had stared at her from the various websites she had perused when she first checked out the monster that was Anthony John Ferguson.
‘Mr Ferguson,’ Denning began, keeping his voice detached and professional, ‘we need to ask you some questions about the Bermondsey murders. I realise they were some time ago and your memory might be hazy.’
Ferguson didn’t blink. He stared impassively at Molly: his cold, dead eyes trying to burrow into her soul. She could feel something deep inside him desperate to burst out; something cold and sinister, something evil, and she realised at once that she had been wrong to ever question his guilt.
‘We need to know if you committed the murders alone, Mr Ferguson, or, as we now suspect, you had an accomplice.’
Despite Denning’s cool manner, Molly could see a slight furrow in his brow.
After a minute – that felt much longer – Ferguson shifted his gaze from Molly onto Denning. When he spoke, his voice was surprisingly high-pitched, like a child’s.
‘I don’t have to tell you shit, copper.’ He looked back at Molly. She felt slightly less intimidated by him now she’d heard him speak. His voice was so incongruous with the squat, pug-like body.
‘We think your accomplice is killing again,’ Molly said, dredging up a confidence she didn’t fully feel. ‘We’d like you to tell us who that person is.’
There was heavy silence. The muted hubbub of prison life seemed to reverberate around the grey-painted room. Then Ferguson laughed. It sounded like a small animal was dying in his throat. But the laugh sounded forced, as though he was trying to prove a point: he held the cards and it was up to her and Denning to beat him at his own game.
‘You’re talking rubbish.’ He was looking at Molly again, fixing her with a dark stare. His eyes moved from her face to her breasts, where they lingered. She felt her heart rate quicken. She wanted to speak, but her mouth felt suddenly dry. Glancing over at the water cooler, she wondered if helping herself to a glass of water would be seen as a sign of weakness.
‘Not rubbish, Mr Ferguson, rather – fact.’ Denning was taking charge of the conversation now, forcing Ferguson’s gaze away from Molly’s chest. ‘The detective who investigated your killing spree has told us he knew there had been two of you, but could never prove it.’ He leant forward, resting his elbows on the table. ‘It must be galling for you, Mr Ferguson, knowing you’re banged up in here for the rest of your life while your mate is still at liberty. He’s out there now, Tony, a free man, while you’re rotting away in here. I don’t think that’s fair on you.’ Denning sat back in his chair. His words seemed to have the right effect. Molly saw Ferguson’s Adam’s apple bob up and down in his throat, and his gaze dropped to the floor.
‘Like I said before, you’re talking crap.’
‘Actually, you said “talking rubbish”; that’s not technically the same thing, but as it’s not true anyway I’ll let it pass.’ Denning smiled, knowing he was slowly managing to chip away at the granite exterior. She remembered what he had said in the car: Ferguson had a low IQ. He would be easy to manipulate. ‘I just need a name, Tony. Tell us who he was and we’ll go away.’
Ferguson’s gaze returned to Molly. He made it obvious he was staring at her breasts again. Then he looked her in the eye.
‘Do you know how many women write to me every week? Loads. They either want to marry me or save me, or shag me. Some of them even describe their sexual fantasies to me in graphic detail. You’d think the screws would destroy the letters, but they don’t care. Some of them probably get as big a thrill as I do reading them.’ He looked at the officer standing by the door, but if he was expecting a reaction, none came. ‘Is that the real reason you’re here?’ He was looking at Molly now when he spoke. ‘You wanted to see for yourself what I was really like?’ He winked at her, a dirty, lascivious wink that made her want to retch. She opened her mouth to speak, but her throat was too dry. She was grateful when Denning spoke.
‘Did he make you do it, Tony? Did he bully you into killing all those women? Because I don’t think you really had it in you to do that. I don’t think that was you at all. I think he made you do those terrible things to those women, then left you to take the blame. Am I right, Tony?’
Ferguson was still staring at Molly. She returned his stare, risking being swallowed up by those cold, dark eyes.
‘Fuck off.’
‘I’ll take that as a yes, Tony.’ Denning folded his arms across his chest and looked at Ferguson. Eventually Ferguson shifted his gaze from Molly to Denning.
‘Just tell me his name,’ repeated Denning, ‘then we can go away and leave you to get on with your life. You must be due for parole soon, Tony. Tell us who this other man was and that’ll go in your favour at the parole hearing. Do yourself a favour: don’t keep lying for this man. Whoever he is, he’s not worth it.’
Ferguson was fidgeting now; shifting uncomfortably in his seat like a bored child. Molly could almost see the cogs whirring in whatever passed for his brain.
‘Nobody made me do anything. I killed those little tarts. No one made me do it. I didn’t need anyone’s help either. I ain’t thick.’
‘It wasn’t your idea to carve a cross on the victim’s faces, was it, Tony? Someone else did that.’ Denning was talking directly to Ferguson, seemingly not intimidated by him. ‘Why? What was that all about?’
He didn’t answer. He looked briefly at Denning, then his gaze returned to Molly. He smiled at her and it made her feel sick.
‘What about Rebecca Owen?’ Molly asked. ‘Did you kill her? Because Derek Rodman claims you were with him the night she was killed.’ Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Denning throwing her a glance, but she continued anyway; this was as much her investigation as his now, whether he liked it or not. ‘You didn’t kill Rebecca Owen, did you? You had an alibi for that night.’
Ferguson blinked. ‘Who the fuck is Rebecca Owen?’
‘The last victim,’ she said, feeling anger and bile rising in her throat. ‘Rebecca Owen was the name of the last person you were alleged to have murdered, but I don’t think you did it.’
Denning put his hand on her shoulder. She knew she’d been shouting, losing it; bordering on being unprofessional. Unlike Denning, unlike cool, controlled Denning who was the very epitome of a professional.
Denning spoke calmly: ‘I’m going to ask you one last time, Tony: who was he? Who was the man who murdered those women with you? Just give us his name.’
But Ferguson said nothing. He sat on his chair, his sick, killer’s eyes fixed on the table. Then he turned to the prison officer guarding the door, ‘I want to go back to my cell now. I’m getting bored.’
* * *
‘What was all that about?’ Denning asked when they were back in the car park heading towards his Focus.
‘All what?’ she asked, but she knew what he was going to say.
‘Pressing him about the last victim? You’re not still convinced he’s innocent, are you?’
She shrugged off his questioning. ‘No, I don’t think he’s innocent. But I do think he’s lying.’
Denning unlocked the Focus with a double beep. ‘Well there’s something we can agree on.’
Chapter Forty-Eight
When Molly switched her phone back on, there was a missed call from Jon. She decided against calling him back, at least not yet. She needed time to think before she spoke to him again.
Jon and Mags. The image was ingrained on her brain. She now found it impossible to think of one without immediately thinking of the other.
Work. She needed to focus on work. Seeing Ferguson had stirred up a mountain of raw emotions in her, ranging from hatred to fear. Hatred at having to share a space with a monster that didn’t give a shit about what he’d done and fear that his accomplice was still out there.
They were travelling back to London; Denning concentrating on driving as the Sunday traffic grew heavier the closer they got to the capital. He hadn’t pressed her about her outburst, but she could sense that he was biding his time until the opportunity arose to bring it up again, perhaps officially in front of Betty Taggart. She would jump off that bridge when she had to.
‘Was he what you expected?’ Denning asked. They were approaching a roundabout just outside Brentwood. Denning drove like her grandmother: carefully and steadily; slowing for bends and going through the gears every time he slowed down or sped up. In other circumstances she would have found it amusing.
‘Sorry?’
‘Ferguson. Did he live up to your expectations?’
She stared out of the window at the passing urban conurbation, where Essex towns and London suburbs slowly merged. ‘He’s a psychotic serial killer. I’m not sure I had any expectations.’
It was a withering reply. She wasn’t in the mood for small talk, even work-related small talk. It was also a lie. She had had expectations about Ferguson, and he’d pretty much fulfilled them. Her desire to see him face to face had been partly driven by curiosity.
Her phone pinged with a text message, from Jon again: We can’t leave things like this. Let’s talk x She slipped the phone back into her pocket.
‘What about you?’ she asked, trying to sound friendlier. She felt guilty for snapping at him. Denning seemed almost human now; friendly and chatty, and much less like the ice-cool arsehole she’d shared an interview room with the other day. There was a lot of shit swimming round inside her head at the moment, but none of it was caused by Denning. ‘What did you think of Ferguson?’
Denning negotiated the roundabout with care, checking his mirrors before signalling, then swinging into the London-bound lane. ‘I’m now convinced there was someone else. I could read his body language. Besides, despite his arrogant claims, it’s clear Walters was right about him not having the brains to carry out those murders alone. Maybe the odd random attack, but nothing as orchestrated as those killings.’
‘I just can’t see why Ferguson won’t name him. He’s got nothing to lose; in fact, he’s got everything to gain, so why not just tell us who he is?’
‘Maybe he’s trying to protect someone. Or maybe whoever it is has still got some kind of hold over him.’ Denning glanced in his mirror before pulling out to overtake a slow-moving lorry. ‘If someone made him do it, they probably assumed he’d be stupid enough to get caught.’
‘They’d have been right then. It makes sense: Ferguson is arrested, the killings stop, everyone assumes the right man has gone down for it. If it hadn’t been for Walters’ niggling doubts, we would be none the wiser.’
‘Not to mention the dogged determination of a rogue CID officer going out on a limb. And all entirely off her own bat. That really is commitment to the job, DS Fisher.’ He smiled at Molly when he said it, but she didn’t return the smile. Despite the possible breakthrough, she was beginning to wish she’d never got involved in this bloody case.
Chapter Forty-Nine
‘What are we saying here?’ asked Kinsella. ‘The Bermondsey Ripper was two people, and one of them’s started killing again?’
It was first thing Monday morning. Denning had spent the previous evening chewing the facts over and over in his head. This was no copy-cat killer: this was the real thing, coming back for another go. Walters was right about Ferguson being too stupid to have carried out a series of murders as sophisticated as the Bermondsey Ripper killings. He was guided by animal instinct and little else. The Bermondsey murders clearly bore the hallmarks of someone who knew how to stay one step ahead of the police. Molly Fisher had been right all along.
‘That’s how it’s looking, Dave. We spoke to Ferguson yesterday,’ he nodded in Molly’s direction. ‘We now believe he had an accomplice and that that man has never been found. Obviously we can’t say for sure, but we’re now exploring the possibility that whoever helped Ferguson is also responsible for the murders of Leanne Wyatt and Sandra Blake – and quite possibly Tanya Russell. The carved cross is his signature. We also believe that this man is clever, motivated and manipulative. It’s likely he coerced Ferguson into committing those murders twelve years ago, and has been successfully lying low ever since.’
‘Why did he wait until now before starting his recent killing spree?’ Kinsella was clearly struggling to buy into the two-killer theory.
‘I can’t answer that, Dave. We’re currently exploring the possibility that he’s been inside for the past decade, or maybe living overseas. At this stage, we just don’t know.’
There were the usual mutterings from the team. Denning let them get on with it for a few seconds; it was good for them to get it out of their systems.
‘Where do we go now?’ Ryan Cormack asked over the general hubbub.
‘We need to go over every aspect of Anthony Ferguson’s life. It would appear he was something of a loner, but he must have been close to someone. Close enough to let that person persuade him to become a killer.’
‘What about the bloke who provided his alibi?’ Trudi asked.
‘Derek Rodman.’ Denning wrote his name on the whiteboard. ‘He’s a possibility, and we’ll certainly be speaking to him, but he was an alcoholic at the time, so it’s unlikely he had the skills or ability to plan something like the Bermondsey murders. But we can’t rule him out.’
‘What about workmates?’ This was Neeraj.
‘Good point, Deep. Ferguson spent most of his years out of work. But he did work from time to time as a casual labourer on building sites. A lot of this was likely to have been cash-in-hand work, so untraceable. We need to compile a list of any places he worked and people he worked with.’ He looked around the room. ‘We have a vague description of someone who might be our man: tall, late twenties to early thirties at the time of the original murders, meaning he’ll be around forty now.’ He was going by Walters’ description of the man seen at the bus stop talking to one of the victims. It really wasn’t a lot to work with, but at the moment it was all they had.
‘OK everyone, time is absolutely of the essence here. We know there’s a strong chance the killer will strike again, so we need to find him. Let’s get to work.’
He looked over at DS Fisher. He kept thinking about her behaviour in the prison yesterday. It was almost as though she’d had some personal vendetta against Ferguson. Maybe this was because she’d spent so much time looking into the case; had spent too much time getting inside his head. She was bright and keen, and if it was up to him, she’d get that place in MIT. But on the other hand, there was that impulsive streak that she struggled to control. If she wanted to make in the Murder Squad she was going to have to learn to keep her emotions in check.
* * *
Molly was aware that Denning was looking at her. She knew she looked a state. She’d stayed at Trudi’s last night: she couldn’t face seeing Jon – couldn’t face another
row. At least not yet. But it was coming. She wasn’t the kind of person to run away from confrontation, but equally she wasn’t one to seek it out until she was absolutely ready to stand her ground.
There had been another couple of texts from Jon, which she’d ignored. She’d discussed the situation with Trudi and her partner, Charys, leaving out the finer details. Both agreed she needed space and time away from Jon in order to get her head together. They said she was welcome to stay with them as long as she wanted. But their flat was small, and they liked their own space.
Denning had stopped looking at her. He was talking on the phone to someone, his back to her so she couldn’t read what his expression. Not that she could read Denning anyway: his cards were kept way too close to his chest for that.
Perhaps he was speaking to his wife. She imagined Denning’s home life was a bed of roses compared with hers, especially right now. She imagined everybody’s home life was a bed of roses compared with her own right now.
* * *
Denning had finished printing off the Ferguson case files from the PNC. There was now a stack of paper a couple of centimetres thick sitting on his desk. He planned to take the hard copy of the file home with him that evening and learn everything he could about Anthony John Ferguson.
Meanwhile, Molly’s search of recently released ex-prisoners had thrown up nothing useful: they all either had alibis for at least one of the murders, or were too young to have been around and active twelve years ago. Besides, he had a gut feeling about the kind of man they were looking for. He would be clever; clever enough to manipulate someone else into committing murder and clever enough to ensure he stayed well out the frame. He suspected someone like that would never have been anywhere near a prison.
He was interrupted from his thoughts by Neeraj shouting over at him. ‘Boss, I think you’ll want to see this.’
Know No Evil Page 23