32
As a rule Detective Constable Timothy Clarke was conscientious, but after spending most of the weekend at a stag do he was too tired to think about anything but getting through the day without any cock ups. With luck, he would have slept off his hangover by the next morning. All he wanted to do was sit quietly waiting for the day to finish so he could go home. Staring at his computer screen was giving him a headache, so when a woman turned up at the desk to report a problem, he was happy to go and listen to what she had to say.
He sat down and studied the woman carefully. Head down, collar turned up, her hair concealed beneath a patterned scarf, he could see little of her face other than her black-framed glasses. There was something odd about her appearance, although he wasn’t immediately sure what it was. When she raised her head, he realised her glasses had no lenses. Seeing him looking at her curiously, she removed the frames and placed them on the table.
‘I had to come here in disguise,’ she explained earnestly. ‘He knows everything I do. He’s watching me. He knows where I go.’ Her hoarse voice trembled.
Timothy sighed. This was going to be a waste of time. Noticing a faint aroma of whisky, he supposed that alcohol had rotted her brain. Either that or she was mentally ill. Whatever the cause, she was paranoid.
‘What seems to be the problem, Miss – er – Farmer?’
The woman blinked nervously, twisting her gloved hands in her lap. As if reading his thoughts, she said quietly, ‘Freda Farmer isn’t my real name. I just made it up when they asked me at the front desk. The policeman out there said I had to give my name if I wanted to talk to someone. My real name’s Caroline Robinson. But I gave him my real address. You’re going to have to know that.’ Her lips twisted and she began to cry.
Timothy decided to give it five minutes. If she hadn’t come up with anything coherent by then, he would send her packing. He waited but she didn’t stop crying. When he pushed his chair back to stand up, she finally pulled herself together. Carefully removing her gloves, she fished a tissue out of her bag, and blew her dripping nose.
‘My boy’s missing.’
Timothy sat down again, frowning.
‘Are you reporting a missing child?’
‘Yes.’
‘How old is he?’
‘He’s ten.’
She began to cry again.
Timothy noted down the boy’s name and address, and the name of his school, and when and where his mother had last seen him. If she was telling the truth, the boy had been missing overnight. When they had gone all through the details, and established a few facts, he questioned her about her disguise. Instead of offering a predictable account of an abusive ex-husband or boyfriend, and a vicious custody dispute, she launched into a convoluted story about a man she had been at school with. Timothy did his best to make sense of her narrative.
‘Let’s go back to the beginning. You said you met this man in the park?’
‘Yes, in the park, although we weren’t exactly strangers. Like I said, we’d known each other years ago, at primary school. He recognised me straight away. He came and sat next to me in the park, where no one else could see us. And there aren’t any security cameras there. That’s how clever he is.’
Timothy looked up from his notebook.
‘And a few days after meeting you in the park he kidnapped your son?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can you think of any reason why he might have done that?’
She hesitated too long before blurting out, ‘You have to find him. Oh, please hurry. He could be hurt, or frightened, or…’
That didn’t answer his question, but she was crying again.
‘And you’ve had no contact with this man since you were at primary school, other than that one time you met him in the park?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘Can you think of any reason why he might want to kidnap your son? What does he hope to gain by it?’ He paused, wondering if the woman facing him in tears was more wealthy than she appeared. ‘Have you received any demands for money?’
‘No, nothing like that. I haven’t got any money anyway. But…’
‘Yes?’ he prompted her, glancing at his watch.
‘He wants me to kill someone, a man I’ve never met.’ She stared at him, wide-eyed. ‘His name’s Brian. I’ve tried and tried, but I can’t remember his other name. You have to find him before he kills my son.’
Timothy sighed. ‘You say he’s going to kill your son? I thought you said he wants you to kill someone?’
‘Yes. He wants me to kill a man I’ve never met. That’s the point. If I don’t do what he wants, he’s going to kill my son. And he’ll do it. I know what he’s capable of. He’s killed before.’
Timothy was no psychiatrist, but he could tell she was disturbed. She clearly had no idea how absurd her story sounded. He assured her the police would do everything in their power to restore her son to her. It was probably a waste of time, following up her ravings, but he went through the motions. He couldn’t ignore a report of a missing child, even such a far-fetched report. After assuring her that the police would do everything in their power to help, he sent her home to wait there in case the boy returned.
Once she had gone, he phoned her son’s school.
‘Ed Robinson?’ the school secretary said. ‘Yes, he’s off school today.’
Timothy’s heart skipped a beat. Perhaps the distraught mother had been telling the truth after all, and the child really was missing. The secretary’s next words reassured him.
‘His mother called in to say he’s staying at home today. I’m afraid there’s been a tragedy in the family. His father died a few days ago and of course they’re all very upset.’
Timothy answered hurriedly before she could hang up.
‘His mother phoned to tell you he’s at home, you say?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘Is she disturbed, would you say?’
‘I can’t comment on that. I’m sorry. I don’t know her. But it would be understandable. She must be terribly upset. It wasn’t a natural death, you see. I’m afraid the father was murdered.’
The penny dropped. Timothy couldn’t believe he had failed to make the connection sooner. Robinson was the name of a recent murder victim. He checked his screen quickly. The addresses matched. No wonder the poor woman was raving. He thanked the school secretary, and explained about the call the school would be receiving from the social services. There was nothing more he could do. The school confirmed that Ed Robinson was at home with his mother. She had called the school to tell them where he was. Unhinged by grief, or confused by medication, she imagined that her son had been abducted by a stranger who was going to kill him. In reality, it was her husband who had been taken from her and killed. Timothy hoped her distress would pass, and she would recover her wits. If not, the boy would have lost both his parents. With a sigh, he returned to his daily duties. Having passed the situation on to the social services, there was nothing more he could do to help the poor woman.
33
Most days Denny didn’t mind his job. He grumbled about it, along with the other lads at the depot. They all liked to moan about their hours, their exposure to the weather, the heavy sacks they had to carry, and the threat of vicious dogs. Urban legends had grown up about horrific injuries suffered by postmen. There was certainly no shortage of issues to complain about. All the same, if he collected his deliveries early, on a good day he could be finished by the end of the morning. On Tuesday morning he set off as usual, whistling cheerily. The clouds that had threatened rain earlier on had drifted away and the sun was shining. Tulips and wallflowers dotted the gardens with splashes of yellow and red, dazzling when he looked straight at them. The sky was a bright turquoise, reminding him of summer holidays, lazing on the beach.
He was checking the letters, not looking where he was going, when his foot kicked against something on one of the paths, and he stumbled. A couple of letters dr
opped from his hand. Regaining his balance, he bent down to retrieve them and saw what had tripped him up. Sticking out from a ragged hedge that ran along the side of the garden a trousered leg with a brown shoe lay across the path. Denny frowned. There was something peculiar about the leg. He had inadvertently kicked it quite hard, nearly falling over, but there had been no response. Its owner must be unconscious – or worse.
Intrigued, and curiously excited, he knelt down and placed his free hand on the calf of the motionless leg. It felt cold. He placed his hand on the ankle and shook it, calling out softly. The leaves on the bush rustled with the movement. Slipping the letters he was holding back into his bag, he carefully parted the branches of the shrub and gasped. A face was lying on the earth, staring straight up at him. It looked ghastly, the complexion pale and streaked with dried blood.
‘Bloody hell!’
Startled, he released the twigs he was holding and sprang backwards. Although his hands were shaking, he felt surprisingly calm. The situation was clear. He had come across a corpse. Cautiously, Denny leaned forward and parted the leaves again. There was no doubt about the thin red line around the neck, or the dried blood on the bruised face. This was what they called ‘suspicious circumstances’ all right.
His initial excitement rapidly faded with the realisation that this was likely to be time consuming. He might be expected to hang around for ages, answering questions. It was tempting to ignore the few letters addressed to the people living in that house, and continue on his round as though nothing had happened. But there was no doubt about it. Denny had uncovered a crime scene. If he had contaminated it, he had done so unwittingly. He couldn’t walk away. Apart from anything else, the police might somehow be able to trace his presence from his brief contact with the leg and the bush. He had seen too much television not to know the police could do all sorts of clever tricks with DNA. He couldn’t take that risk. Plus he would have a great story to tell the lads at the depot. He gave a guilty start because the prospect of telling his mates made him smile.
‘A dog barked at you?’
‘It was a bloody big dog. Could’ve taken my hand off.’
‘Yeah, that’s tough. All I did was stumble on a dead body.’
That would make them all sit up and listen.
He stepped carefully over the leg and rang the doorbell. As he waited, he rehearsed what he was going to say. It was going to be tricky. He didn’t know if the victim had lived at that address. Perhaps he had been attacked on the street and staggered up the path, seeking help, as he was dying. He might have been killed elsewhere and dumped there, hidden from view. Whatever the reason for his finishing up in that particular garden, it was going to be a nasty shock for the householders. He waited with growing unease, but no one answered the door. He looked around. Apart from the leg lying across the path, there was nothing untoward about the garden. He rang the bell again. He heard it ringing inside the house. Still there was no answer.
Only a few minutes had passed since he had first tripped, but it felt as though he had been standing there for hours. People along the street might be wondering when their post was going to arrive. He would finish his round late. He looked around again. No one was going to answer the door. He couldn’t wait there indefinitely. This was down to him. He had no choice but to make the call. Taking a deep breath he stepped back over the protruding leg as he dialled 999. It sounded funny to say he had found a body. He had to explain what he was doing there, in a stranger’s front garden, and give his name and his own details. He had only just rung off when a patrol car drew up outside and a uniformed policeman jumped out and called his name. Denny’s legs began to shake as he went down the path to talk to them.
34
Intending to drive to work after the rush hour on Tuesday, Geraldine was gutted to be woken by a phone call just before eight in the morning. Still half asleep and cursing, she reached out to answer it. Recognising the number on the screen, she stretched, yawning, and propped herself up on one elbow.
‘What is it?’ she asked sleepily.
‘You need to come in right now.’
There was no point in remonstrating. She wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep now. All the same she protested feebly, on principle.
‘The DCI wants you here right now.’
‘Yes, so you said, but you haven’t told me why.’
‘Just get here without making a fuss, for Christ’s sake, will you?’
‘Why? What’s happened?’
She knew the answer. The detective chief inspector must have found out that she and Max had gone to question a man known to be violent without logging their visit. Failure to follow protocol where the safety of officers was concerned was a serious infringement. She wouldn’t have been summoned so peremptorily for any other reason, unless it was a second murder. But if that had happened, the sergeant would have told her.
‘What is it? Tell me,’ she demanded.
The sergeant on the line spoke gruffly. He said he had more calls to make, and rang off. Geraldine swore. However hard she tried, there was always something waiting to trip her up. This had been Max’s error, but the buck stopped with her as the senior officer. Fully alert now, she dressed hurriedly, checked her equipment, and set off to the station. Irked that the duty sergeant had refused to pass on any details over the phone, she put her foot down and the car leapt forward. The summons had been urgent. She wracked her brains to think of a witness who might have complained about her, but she couldn’t imagine what problem could be severe enough to warrant her being called like that first thing in the morning. It could only be the issue with Max.
The atmosphere at the station was tense. Everyone seemed aware that something dreadful had occurred, although no one knew what it was. A meeting had been convened for everyone working on the murder case. Geraldine was puzzled. Clearly this wasn’t about her and Max after all. For once, Reg didn’t keep them waiting long. A faint murmur rippled through the assembled officers as he entered. Ashen, he shuffled with stooped shoulders, seeming to have aged overnight. Only a ferocious glare in his eyes when he turned to face them gave any sign of vitality.
‘This is hard,’ he announced and paused.
No one challenged him. No one spoke.
Reg heaved an audible sigh, almost a groan. ‘This is hard,’ he repeated.
He gazed around the room as though looking for help, seeming to register the presence of his colleagues for the first time. Geraldine wondered if he was going to announce that he was sick. With an abrupt return to his customary brusqueness, he straightened his shoulders. Speaking very quickly, he posted a photo on the screen.
‘There’s been another murder. This case concerns someone we all know – all knew…’
Several of her colleagues blurted out an expletive of some sort. Geraldine felt as though everyone was looking at her as the breath caught in her throat and she felt a hot surge of blood to her face. The room fell silent as they all gazed in horror at the screen. A picture of Nick Williams stared down at them, his expression blank as a passport photograph. Beside it another image was displayed showing his face bloodless, with wildly staring eyes, his mouth gaping blackly.
No one knew that Geraldine had dismissed Nick’s desperate plea for help. She might have been the only person in whom he had confided, and she had dismissed his fears as nonsense. And now he was dead.
Reg broke the stunned silence. ‘As you can see, it was a vicious assault…’ He paused and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. ‘A vicious assault,’ he repeated, looking around the room. His shoulders sagged again. ‘He was attacked in the street outside his house. It looks like a random mugging that went wrong, but we have to keep an open mind. You know what to do,’ he went on firmly. ‘We’re on this twenty-four seven. No one takes any leave, not a minute, until we’ve got the bastard who did this behind bars.’
‘What about the Robinson case?’ a female constable asked.
‘This takes priority over everythin
g else,’ Reg snapped. ‘Greg can wait. I don’t want anyone being distracted from this, not by anything. Not till we’ve found out who did this. Let’s focus on getting the ball rolling. We’ll have no slackers on this one.’
The atmosphere was sombre. This had probably been a random attack, or it could have been personal. It was possible Nick had been violently murdered just because he was a cop. If that was true, they could all be at risk. But that was unlikely, and besides, they were already investigating a murder.
Geraldine took up the question about the Robinson case. ‘I mean,’ she faltered, realising everyone was looking at her in surprise, ‘it’s just that, well, we’ve already started...’
‘If you don’t feel comfortable working on this new case, you can opt to stay with the Robinson case,’ Reg growled. ‘I don’t want anything half-hearted about this new investigation.’
‘No, no, that’s not what I meant,’ Geraldine felt her face going red. ‘I want to be part of it, of course I do. I just meant…’
She broke off in confusion.
‘Right, let’s get started,’ Reg snapped.
For a moment no one responded. No one moved. Then everyone began talking at once. The room seemed full of officers rushing purposefully around. Checking the list, Geraldine saw she had been allocated the task of questioning Nick’s wife. The widow had been informed, but no one had yet questioned her to establish whether she could tell them anything about the circumstances of her husband’s death. Geraldine told Max to wait for her in the car. Then she turned and hurried after Reg. She caught up with him just as he reached the door to his office.
‘Reg?’
He turned and raised his eyebrows in a weary expression of forced interest. ‘What is it?’
Killer Plan Page 13