Bye Bye Baby

by McIntosh, Fiona

  Tandy took up his previous thread. ‘This is all valid but if this is a she, then she still had to move two big bodies around.’

  Kate shrugged. ‘She’s strong, works out. Hell, there are enough women at the Yard’s gym who could lift all of us in this room! Okay, I exaggerate, but it’s not an impossibility.’ She looked to her chief for support and won it.

  ‘What do we know about Springfield Park?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Part of a deprived area,’ Swamp answered. ‘The River Lee runs through it. Hackney Marshes has playing fields surrounded by council housing blocks and the roads run downhill to the river where it’s not all that unusual to find a body, if those dumping it can get past the shopping trolleys and old mattresses.’ He glanced at his chief and got quickly back to the point. ‘There are various public toilets in the parklands that run alongside the river — known as Springfield Park. What else can I tell you? There’s a rowing club, small row of shops, couple of pubs.’

  Jack frowned. ‘Our witness says he saw a council worker going into Springfield Park in the early hours. We know the body had been in that wheelie bin, which, following the theory of our killer being a woman, would make it relatively easy to move around.’

  ‘Not so easy to get it into the bin though,’ Tandy reminded him.

  ‘Well, who said murder is easy?’ Jack replied. He wasn’t looking at Kate, but if he had he would have seen the glint of triumph in her eyes. ‘Sheriff’s body could have been pulled by a woman from a car or a van. Yes, a van,’ he said, thinking aloud, ‘the killer, male or female, could do their ugly deeds in a van. Malek?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Can you check with our witness and both the police teams who originally worked on the cases to see what vehicles might have been noticed around the time of the killings? I’m particularly interested in the red car, of course, but also Toyota vans.’

  The young sergeant made a note. ‘Yes, sir.’

  Jack looked back to Tandy. ‘Alright, can everyone hold the thought that John is concerned that if we’re working on the presumption of a female killer, then we have to work out how she’s moving the bodies around, bearing in mind that she would have to be quite strong to do so. Why don’t you continue, John?’

  ‘Thanks. So, just reiterating that I agree in the first instance with DI Carter’s proposition that the killer could be a female. The injuries do fit with her theory that this is a woman who has been deeply wronged, and if that is the case then I would suggest that part of this wrong is sexual in nature.’

  ‘Rape?’ Cam said.

  ‘Yes,’ Tandy replied. ‘Perhaps a gang rape, as there’s more than one victim.’ He looked again at the pimply, grinning youths in the grainy photo.

  ‘Sarah,’ Jack interrupted, ‘any gang rapes reported through 1974–75 in our region in question?’

  ‘No, sir, none in the Brighton or Hove areas. Of course, amongst the ones that weren’t reported is probably where we’ll find our killer, if we’re on the right track with this.’

  ‘Why don’t you follow up directly with Lewes? They cover the Brighton region. See if they have any unsolved attacks on women during the mid-seventies that didn’t specify rape but could have involved it if we scratched the surface?’

  He knew it was a vague brief but it could lead to something, and he sensed that if anyone could sniff out that something, it was Sarah.

  ‘Right,’ she said, and glanced towards Kate.

  Interested, Jack followed her gaze, but Kate hadn’t seemed to notice the DS’s look. Instead, she was staring at Jack, probably feeling awkward that she was still standing in the middle of the room, a bit like a shag on a rock, he thought. That was one of his sister’s Aussie sayings and he liked it. It could mean so much.

  ‘Back to you, John,’ he said, noticing Kate’s irritation with the profiler.

  ‘As to the question of whether a person would suddenly decide to seek vengeance over something that occurred almost three decades previous,’ Tandy went on, ‘it does sound unlikely, but I have to tell you that deep emotional trauma doesn’t go away. Very strong-minded people can build happy lives after a traumatic event, pushing away the past and living the kind of everyday existence that most of us do. They are, however, always dealing with internal demons and it takes strength of character to silence those demons. But if another trauma occurs, especially one similar to the past event, all that emotion can come flooding back. Sometimes so powerfully that it can cause a psychotic episode — which, of course, is what we’re talking about with a serial killer.’

  ‘So we’re not pissing into the wind then?’

  Tandy smiled fleetingly. ‘No, Bill. It’s not impossible that something can trigger a person to slip into the past.’

  ‘What sort of trigger?’ Kate asked.

  Tandy shook his head as he thought. ‘Anything from losing a loved one to some kind of major shock. Let’s use the scenario of the gang rape and this now forty-something woman. She’s built a life over three decades that’s kept her safe from the memories. She’s strong in her mind, keeps those demons I spoke of silent. Then something unexpected happens. Something that hurts her emotionally. Her mind will almost certainly equate that pain with the old pain, and if the shock is of sufficient magnitude, or is ongoing, then she’s instantly back to that terrifying time in the past.’ He looked at the photo of the grinning teenagers. ‘In this case, when a gang of youths raped her.’

  ‘The woman in your car is crucial, Cam,’ he said. ‘Dermot, Clem . . .’ PCs McGloughlan and Constanides looked up. ‘Help Kate. We need to find the teachers of these boys, and I want the other two lads in the photograph identified. Then we find them. These two could be our next victims. Where’s Joan?’

  ‘She had to leave, the phones are going,’ Kate said, pointing back to the reception.

  Jack nodded. ‘Okay, paint — what do we have?’

  Patel raised a hand. ‘It’s a colour called Santorini, made by Dulux, stocked by almost every hardware and paint store up and down the country. I also did some work on the knife. Again, common or garden carver — a home brand from British Home Stores.’

  Jack didn’t show the disappointment he was feeling. ‘Any further clues on what the paint might mean?’

  Patel shook his head.

  ‘I need us to get a lead on that paint,’ Jack said to the whole team. ‘There’s got to be a reason the killer forced the victims to dip their fingers in it and smear it on their faces.’

  Everyone stared at him blankly. Joan returned, breaking the awkward moment.

  ‘The Super wants to see you, Jack,’ she said. ‘Oh, and here’s another message from that DCI Deegan.’

  Jack nodded, but didn’t take the note she held out.

  He straightened his tie. ‘Okay, I want information by this evening. Sorry, Kate, I meant to come back to you. Was there anything else?’

  Kate shook her head. She wanted to tell him the knot of his tie was crooked but somehow she didn’t think it would matter to Jack.

  Jack turned to Sarah, who was waiting silently for a word.

  ‘Anything for me yet?’

  Her expression crinkled in thought. ‘Well, now that we’re talking about rape —’

  ‘The idea of a rape leading to these murders is highly speculative so we shouldn’t let that pull our attention too far away from other options.’

  ‘No problem, sir, I understand,’ she said, still frowning. ‘but I agree with DI Carter’s theory and I’d like to give that priority.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  As Hawksworth turned to leave, he caught Sarah glancing at a scowling Kate before calling to him. ‘Er, DCI Hawksworth?’

  ‘Mmm?’ He looked back and saw Sarah swallow.

  ‘Did you want me?’ he asked.

  ‘Sir, I . . . er, I was wondering whether I might make a few phone calls to retired police?’

  ‘What do you have in mind?’ His tone indicated neither censure nor appr
oval.

  Sarah was relieved her words came out fluidly. ‘It just makes it easier to talk through some of the cases with the sergeants who handled them at the time, sir. I’ve got a handful of names — they could lead nowhere of course, and I’d understand if you didn’t want to give up the time to it, but —’

  ‘If you think it’s worth it, do it.’

  ‘I do, sir,’ she replied, her brow crinkling. ‘I know I don’t have as many years’ experience as the others but I’ve learned that a case such as this one doesn’t happen in isolation. I trust the revenge theory, and DI Carter’s notion that the killer could be a woman is inspired and feels right. My gut says to dig deeper into some older events.’

  Hawksworth moved closer to her and spoke quietly. She could smell the spicy fragrance of his cologne. ‘Sarah. Instincts are truly the most important factor in this game. Learn to trust them. If you feel it’s worth following up, then go ahead. Find me the link you think is there and I’ll buy the whole team cream cakes from the French patisserie at the House of Fraser for an entire week.’

  He stared at her and she felt herself give an involuntary slow blink. And then his attention had moved on. Sarah could still feel DI Carter’s rapier look, though. Sarah wished she could assure her that she didn’t crave the DCI’s attention or praise. No, what she got off on was teasing out the truth from the complexity of information and misinformation. Getting to the core of any puzzle was Sarah’s drug, and this unexpected attention from Hawksworth was unnerving. She was also hugely relieved he’d agreed to let her run with it, because she’d already done some prep work.

  ‘Sarah?’ It was Joan. ‘Sorry to interrupt, Jack.’

  ‘That’s okay, we were just finishing.’

  Joan handed Sarah a note. ‘A Mr Colin Moss is expecting a call back. I gather you were chasing him yesterday.’

  Speak of the devil, Sarah thought, her face colouring as she glanced towards her boss. It was obvious he had guessed her polite request for permission had been academic.

  ‘Er, former Sergeant Moss, yes, thank you, Joan,’ she said and took the note with its neatly scribed Sussex number.

  Jack grinned at her. ‘You’re fitting right into this team, DS Jones,’ he said.

  14

  I was back in Dr March’s rooms for one last session. I hadn’t intended to return, but the past was a huge dark wave threatening to break over me. I needed to be in a safe place.

  ‘Well, you look so toned and fit,’ Dr March was saying. ‘It’s hard to believe what you describe.’

  ‘I was near enough obese, Dr March. And that will always make someone a target. People can’t help themselves. Just a stare can undermine you.’

  ‘I understand. But you’ve changed all that yourself. That shows amazing resilience and strength of character. I imagine it took hard work.’

  ‘It did. I turned my life around when I moved to France. Over there I was a different person. I hired a personal trainer — he was tough on me, but it worked. It took nearly two years to lose the fat and surgery to fix the rest. I was young, my body responded well.’ I shrugged.

  ‘And you said you had poor eyesight.’

  ‘Shocking. So short-sighted. Glasses weren’t at all flattering in the sixties and seventies you may recall. And as a child I wasn’t given much choice anyway. Those terrible heavy dark-rimmed glasses and the braces made for a very plain picture.’

  Dr March smiled at me. ‘It sounds like the tale of the ugly duckling.’ She returned to her notes. ‘And it was last January, when your doctors confirmed you two could never have more children, that your marriage ended?’

  I nodded. ‘That’s perhaps a harsh way to put it because it didn’t happen overnight. It crept up on us. But yes, the decision was made on New Year’s Eve. We’d been happy as a couple for so many years, but Kim couldn’t face it any longer. Losing the babies hit too hard.’

  Kim’s words, I’m leaving you, had been painful at the time, but nothing like the pain of the two miscarriages and then the death of our son at just six months old. But as my emotional wounds bled and then festered, I came to understand who the real culprits were for spoiling my chance of happiness and a normal life. Sitting there in Dr March’s room, I finally let myself go back . . . back to the day when a group of bored teenagers let a new evil into their lives — and mine.

  A crisp November day in 1974.

  I’m feeling surprisingly buoyant. It’s unusual for me to feel happy, so I use the good mood to fire up my daydreams of one day having my own business, being successful and wealthy, living in London. I even stretch it to include my mother living in a pretty little cottage somewhere, having survived her grief and her alcohol-induced oblivion.

  I look down at the odd little dog scampering by my side — the source of my happy mood. Five days ago was my birthday and the little stray dog turned up whimpering and shivering outside our front gate. He isn’t a puppy, just tiny and adorably cute — a miniature fox terrier or Jack Russell, I think, according to a book I found in the library. His name is Beano and he belongs to me now.

  We’re walking together around Hove Park. It’s almost five o’clock and I should already be on my way home, but I’m lost in happy thoughts and don’t notice how deserted the park is or how suddenly dark it’s become.

  ‘Bletch!’

  I freeze. Familiar word, new voice.

  I turn to confront my tormentors. The sight of them sends fresh alarm racing through me, turning my bones, muscles, tendons to disobedient jelly. I can’t run, even though I’m desperate to.

  The boys are wearing lurid red and green Guy Fawkes masks. And there’s a stranger with them, a sorrowful clown’s mask covering his face. It was his voice that called out. He’s a man, not a boy.

  ‘Who are you?’ I ask.

  ‘You can call me Pierrot,’ he says and chuckles. ‘He’s a clown.’

  I already know that. Beano is sniffing around the man’s feet and gets a kick. He yelps and scampers back to me.

  ‘Don’t you touch him!’ I order, suddenly inflamed with protective anger that overrides my fear.

  I turn to Billy. ‘Look, my mum’s sick, alright? I’m just taking the dog out for a walk and I’ve got to get back. Please, I can’t be late this evening. I don’t want any bother.’

  I watch in horror as Phil leaps forward and grabs Beano. My dog screeches in fear. ‘Okay, stop now,’ I say. Even to my ears it sounds frightened rather than commanding.

  ‘He’s a nice little doggie. Is he yours?’ The man steps closer, his mask with its sad grin klaxoning all manner of warnings within me.

  ‘Yes,’ I whisper, catching a whiff of Brut aftershave. ‘He’s my birthday present.’

  ‘Ah, how nice. So you wouldn’t want anything to happen to him now, would you?’

  I’m unable to speak as the meaning behind his creepy question sinks in. They’re going to hurt Beano. I look pleadingly at Billy and Mike, still hiding behind their grinning masks, hoping to get through to them that this is moving onto dangerous ground. The boys’ silence tells me they aren’t too sure of that ground either. I seize on this and push again, directing my plea to their usual leader.

  ‘Clive, please . . . Just give me my dog and let me get home. We’re all freezing out here.’

  I can’t tell whether or not Clive is registering my fear, but his red mask turns towards Billy’s green one, suggesting he’s uncertain of the situation.

  ‘Anne.’ It’s Pierrot. I gasp with fear. How does he know my name? ‘I assume you prefer Anne to Bletch? It’s so much prettier. Or should I call you Annie?’

  Annie’s the name my father used to call me. Hearing it after so many years, and uttered by this hateful stranger, snaps me out of my terrified stupor.

  ‘What do you want?’ I demand, glad to hear my voice isn’t shaking any more.

  ‘You, Annie, it’s you we want,’ he says softly, almost affectionately.

  My eyes narrow in confusion. ‘Me?’ Fat, ugly, short-sigh
ted me? I want to laugh but I can tell the stranger isn’t making a joke. I take a step backwards, my glance flicking to Beano who seems comfortable in Phil’s arms. Phil is absently stroking him and I feel a small surge of gratitude.

  ‘I don’t get this,’ I say, but a small voice in my mind is explaining it all very quickly and I realise what a precarious position I’m in.

  ‘Come with us, Annie,’ Pierrot coos.

  I move my head slowly from side to side, unable to speak as the full realisation of what could be in store spreads through me.

  Pierrot makes a soft tutting sound. ‘That’s a shame. I’ll take him then,’ he says, and reaches towards Phil for Beano.

  ‘No!’ I scream.

  Billy is really the only one I know well enough to plead with. We’ve shared classes, teachers, track records. ‘Billy, why are you doing this?’ I ask.

  Billy shrugs, not at all sure himself, but it’s the man who speaks.

  ‘See you later, Annie Bletch,’ and, to my horror, he swings Beano above the ground by his lead. Beano gags, his legs cycling in thin air, his tiny body straining to breathe.

  I scream and rush to rescue him, and find myself pinioned in Pierrot’s arms, staring at that mask. ‘Shut up!’ he orders. ‘I’ll kill your dog if you don’t do as we tell you.’ I open my mouth to scream again and feel his hand clamp over it. ‘Don’t, Annie, there’s a little life at stake here. Just do as you’re told and both of you will be fine . . . eventually,’ and he laughs.

  He pulls me towards the cement toilet block at the back of the park. I’m crying now, begging to see that Beano is alright. He ignores me.

  ‘Are we safe, lads?’ he calls over his shoulder.

  A mumbled response confirms there are no witnesses and he shoves me into the cold, grey darkness of the row of toilet stalls with their permanent stink that no amount of disinfectant can remove. I feel the bile rising in my throat, but somehow force it back when I see Phil walk in clutching Beano. My little dog seems calm again, licking the hand of his new friend.