Bye Bye Baby

by McIntosh, Fiona

  ‘Only one way to do that,’ she murmured softly, caressing his dead face. ‘Rest now, Billy, and I’ll take my own recompense.’ She was glad that the man’s heart had finally stopped beating and his struggles were over.

  Jack could hear Kate behind him moving systematically through the kitchen. Both of them had donned gloves, which he’d grabbed from his own apartment, and they worked in silence. Kate tiptoed around, even though Jack had assured her that no one could hear anything, especially as his was the apartment below this one. There was something niggling at him about Sophie’s living room but he hadn’t had time to think it through, needing to focus his attention on her computer, which was surely the best indication of his lover’s interaction with the outside world.

  Sophie’s most recent internet history showed only ten hits — mainly train timetables, which was reassuring, and the telephone directory, which was also feasible for any wheelchair-bound person. It wasn’t enough to exonerate her though, and Jack knew it. He dug deeper, looking back over histories from previous days, and his dread deepened when he saw she had visited the Brighton and Hove Council sites. That in itself wasn’t damning considering her occupation, but she’d also visited other Hove sites, including a variety of bed and breakfast spots, some restaurants and, curiously, a park called St Ann’s Well Gardens.

  Kate came up behind him. ‘Anything?’

  ‘She’s certainly interested in Hove.’ He took her through the various sites Sophie had visited.

  ‘Well,’ Kate began and then shrugged. ‘Sounds to me like she was planning a hot weekend for you both.’

  He grimaced. ‘Yes, except this St Catherine’s Lodge, which she seems to have hit several times, doesn’t sound at all logical considering she’s in a wheelchair and they make no mention of whether there’s invalid access. It sounds like an old place with lots of stairs.’

  ‘Lifts, surely?’

  ‘Yes, but no mention of any sort of ease of wheelchair use. Knowing Sophie as I do, she’s too practical to risk not being as independent as possible. She’d want wheelchair ramps and a lift at the very least.’

  ‘Well, perhaps she called to check. What are you saying anyway?’

  Jack opened his palms. ‘I don’t know . . . simply that she’s been dwelling on sites in Hove, which possibly supports your theory.’

  ‘What about West Pier?’

  Jack closed his eyes with realisation and swung around to where the photographs had been. ‘Ah,’ he said, a sigh in his tone, ‘they’re gone.’

  ‘Gone?’ She followed his line of sight.

  ‘The photos — they were over there. They looked brilliant, very haunting.’

  ‘Is that a clue to Sophie?’

  ‘Just more damning but inconclusive information to support your theory.’

  ‘Do you want to do the bedrooms with me?’ Kate asked.

  ‘Don’t want to intrude, eh?’ Jack said, an edge of bitterness in his tone.

  ‘Please don’t make this harder than it is.’

  He sighed again. ‘Okay, let’s do it. I’ve never seen the bedroom myself.’

  Surprised at the comment, Kate followed him silently towards the two rooms still left to search.

  * * *

  Anne unshackled her prey and stripped away his bindings, then released the lock on his seat until it reclined as far as possible. Entering the van from the back, she hauled his body into the main empty space of the vehicle. And then she waited, allowing his body to do what it must as its organs registered death. While she waited, she watched the sky lose most of its blue, becoming a fiery pink. ‘Shepherd’s delight,’ she whispered as she finally turned back to her gruesome task.

  She pulled on the stocking mask and worked fast now, easing Billy from his trousers and shirt. A single stab wound punctured his trim, lightly muscled abdomen. It was seeping blood but very little. Anne’s early patience meant the blood pressure in Billy’s body had dropped sufficiently to prevent copious amounts of blood spurting forth during her work on the fresh corpse. Still, the van had plenty of blood traces to incriminate her. As careful as she was, and despite all the cleaning, Anne knew that if the van were found and traced to her it would reveal forensic evidence of Michael Sheriff, Clive Farrow, William Fletcher and herself, of course.

  The police were closing in fast. She wondered, as she turned her knife to Billy’s crotch, whether Jack had begun to doubt her. She couldn’t imagine how he would connect Sophie with the serial killer he was hunting, but Jack was sharp and he surrounded himself with equally clever people. She’d made one mistake she knew of — mentioning the shirt. He hadn’t said anything, so she was hoping it might have gone over his head, especially as it sounded as though plenty of people had teased him that day. Perhaps her comment had blended in with the rest. She couldn’t count on that, however. Then there was that Kate woman who had been decidedly aggressive towards her. She couldn’t imagine why at first, then she’d heard the tension in Jack’s voice when she’d quipped that Kate was probably in love with him.

  She delicately placed Billy’s genitals into his hand. ‘That’s for the rape, Billy,’ she murmured before going to work on his lips.

  Perhaps her remark had inadvertently awakened memories of an old office fling between Jack and Kate? There was no telling. But getting to know Hawksworth had surprised her. What had begun as a purely strategic move on her part had very quickly turned into a genuine romance. She hadn’t been ready to like him — despite his good looks and charm — and she certainly hadn’t been prepared for love again. She was sure Jack could have any woman he wanted and yet he hadn’t appeared to be involved with anyone when she came on the scene. If there ever had been a situation with Kate, that was behind him. And now that Anne knew him better, she could appreciate that Jack was the real deal.

  In her early planning, she had simply hoped to use Jack to get close to the case and find out how much the police knew. She’d got herself into New Scotland Yard by pretending to be a mature student enrolled in a forensic psychology degree. It was easy enough to gain entry to the admin unit, and from there to ingratiate herself with key members of staff. One in particular, Elaine, PA to the head of the operations planning division, had been most helpful in explaining how the bigger cases were assigned. DCI Hawksworth’s name had come up as one of the Yard’s rising stars and Elaine had been unable to help herself when Anne had probed as to whether there were any juicy cases about to be assigned. It seemed Jack was a favourite across the board and Elaine couldn’t resist speculating that the dishy DCI would probably head up the investigation into a suspected serial killer case that was about to break.

  It had been trickier finding out where DCI Hawksworth lived, but Anne had managed to track him home to the mansion apartment building one evening, and from there it had been relatively simple to enter his life. She hadn’t imagined for a moment that her intention of using him for information would be replaced by genuine pleasure in his company. What had seemed so easy and tactical had become dangerous and highly impractical to her cause. Jack was now a liability to her mission, and she realised with a deep sadness that they would not have another night together. Again she was reminded what a curse she was and how everyone she loved ultimately deserted her. Jack would be no different. She could already imagine how his expressive face would contort into despair and disbelief once the truth came out — and it would, she knew that now.

  She shook her head free of thoughts about Jack — there was no more time to dwell on what might have been. She piled the mess that had been Billy’s lips on top of the quivering flesh in his hand. ‘And now you have a permanent smile, Billy. You don’t need your clown mask any more. Although I’m sorry that it’s changed your looks so dramatically,’ she said, wiping the blade on his trousers.

  There was just one more task. She reached for a small can.

  ‘I would have preferred you to do this, of course,’ she said to Billy’s now ruined face. ‘I made Mikey and Clive smear the paint on th
eir faces themselves while I explained what it meant. But we ran out of time for you. The police already know you were my next target, which means I have to get rid of you fast, so I’m going to do the paintwork for you and then we’re going on a short journey — your last journey, Billy — so I can lay you to rest at St Ann’s Well Gardens. It’s not Hove Park, but that’s not for anyone else to know, is it? This is between us alone, Billy. You and me and the rest of the Jesters Club. All of us know what this is about.’

  She smoothed back his hair from his forehead and, using a screwdriver, eased the lid from the sample pot of paint. She dipped two gloved fingers into the bright blue liquid and carefully daubed it on Billy’s cheeks.

  ‘You see, Billy, real clowns refuse to wear blue in any of their make-up. They’re highly suspicious of the colour. Strange, isn’t it? I love the colour myself. It’s the colour of the ocean and the sky, of glaciers — the very essence of nature. It’s also the colour of Rohypnol, I suppose, and the pale hue of death. I thought it fitting that all of you clowns should be painted with the unlucky blue of your profession. Your luck ran out when I found you, Billy . . . or should I call you Coco? I haven’t forgotten those names. I know who Pierrot is now, and I think Bozo was Clive, Mikey was Blinko, and that leaves Coco and Cooky. Phil was always so enamoured of food I think we’ll leave Cooky to him. I’ll look forward to calling him by his jester name. Now, you of course, are dark and tasty like chocolate. Yes, I think Coco suits you, in spite of the spelling.’

  Anne wiped her hands clean and sat back to admire her gruesome handiwork. Treacherous thoughts of Jack returned to taunt her. Did he doubt her? Kate was unfriendly — did she suspect Sophie of lying? The conversation with the nosey female detective had been fraught with danger: talk of the weather in Devon, the mention of West Pier — both were stupid, damaging slips. Everyone makes mistakes, she wasn’t perfect, but she shouldn’t have been drawn on it, even though she knew all there was to know about West Pier, the location of her personal tragedy. But surely neither of them would piece anything together yet, although her lie about the train might undo her. If Jack didn’t believe her and checked the schedule, he’d soon discover there was no earlier train. Why would he doubt her though, unless nosey Kate started stirring trouble? Jack had no reason to mistrust her. As far as he was concerned, she’d be home tomorrow and he’d cook her dinner. She’d have to keep that pretence going. ‘But it will never be the same,’ she whispered to herself. ‘That’s why I took down the photographs.’

  Was it insurance against immediate discovery . . . or was it some kind of subconscious attempt to lead him to her? Anne wasn’t sure, couldn’t answer her own question.

  ‘We’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we?’ she said to herself as she leapt lightly from the van’s back doors. She returned to the driving seat and gunned the engine.

  35

  Jack stood on the threshold of the second bedroom, unable to move. Kate was looking at him with a mixture of alarm and sympathy. His face had lost its expression of disbelief. Now he just looked shocked.

  ‘Perhaps there’s a reasonable explanation,’ she tried.

  ‘Rehabilitation, you think?’ he replied darkly.

  Kate nodded, embarrassed. She felt as though her breathing had become constricted such was the tension swirling around them.

  ‘I somehow don’t think a person in Sophie’s condition is capable of using most of this training equipment,’ he went on, ‘but thanks again for trying, Kate.’

  ‘Sir . . .’ She reached out to lay a hand on his arm but Jack stepped back as if burned.

  ‘Don’t touch anything else. Ring the Yard, get that warrant and a full forensics team into this place. Let’s get out of here,’ he ordered.

  ‘Right,’ she said, feeling more bleak than she’d thought possible. She moved past him, intending to leave him to his misery for a few moments, but then paused. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  All he did was nod, and she left him to his thoughts while she made the call, returning with the news that the warrant was ready.

  Jack stalked away from the bedroom that had revealed Sophie’s secret. ‘Good, have it served. You and Brodie handle it. In the meantime, get the word out that we’re looking for a woman who goes by two names. I can provide a detailed description, although I suspect she’s employing various disguises.’ His voice was leaden.

  ‘Yes, sir. I’ll just turn off the computer.’ She did so, feeling the tension in the room rise behind her. When the computer had sighed into silence she turned back. ‘Shall we go?’

  ‘I’m going to call her.’

  ‘Is that wise?’

  ‘It would be normal. I don’t want her to think we’re on to her.’

  ‘I’ll be outside then.’

  ‘Get Sarah to coordinate a small team to trace passports for Anne McEvoy or Sophie Fenton.’

  ‘She could be using an alias.’

  ‘I realise that. But, for now, let’s get those names into Immigration’s security checks and across to Interpol. I want a full ports warning sent out immediately.’

  As Kate was turning to leave, Sophie’s home phone rang. They both froze.

  ‘What shall we do?’ Kate looked spooked.

  ‘Leave it, she has an answering machine. It may divert to her mobile, of course.’

  They waited for five rings and the answering machine picked up the call. Jack heard Sophie’s gentle voice apologising for not being available and asking the caller to leave a message.

  Kate spoke over Sophie’s voice. ‘I could pretend to be her,’ she offered tentatively.

  ‘No warrant covers that,’ he replied. ‘Let’s just listen.’

  A shaky voice, an old woman it sounded like, spoke through the machine’s receiver. ‘Sally? Are you there? Oh dear. Look, it’s Mrs Shannon here, luv. I don’t want to sound ungrateful about our arrangement but the news reports are asking about a white van that this murderer has been using. It’s in the papers and on the telly — I’m sure you haven’t missed it, luv. Now, I do like the money, and you’ve never given me a moment of bother, but I’m a bit nervous that the police are going to come poking around when they hear I store your van in my garage. And it’s white, dear, you get my meaning. I know it’s silly but I don’t want the police knocking on my door, what with me telling fibs to Social Security. Don’t bring your van back here, luv. I hope you understand and don’t think too badly —’ The answering machine beeped loudly, cutting the old girl off before she could finish what she was saying.

  ‘Oh my god, Jack, it’s definitely her,’ Kate whispered, her hands flying to cover her mouth.

  Jack stared at the answering machine, ashen. All hope was gone. ‘Get someone to trace that call. We have to find that woman in case she knows where Sophie is.’

  He simply couldn’t bring himself to call her Anne . . . not yet.

  Operation Danube was thrumming with excitement. It was nearing seven and although everyone had worked a long day when they hadn’t expected to, and most had gone without anything more nourishing than tea or instant coffee and stale biscuits, no one had any plans to go home.

  Jack had just retreated to his office to call the Superintendent, having closed a meeting with the team. Each had their jobs to do and every scrap of information on Anne McEvoy and Sophie Fenton was being collated now. He listened to the phone ring at his boss’s house. Although he felt sick at heart, he knew honesty was the only way to deal with Sharpe.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Cathie, it’s Jack.’

  ‘Hello, dear, how’s everything?’

  ‘A bit frantic, actually, I won’t lie.’

  ‘It always is, Jack. Martin said you might call over, although apparently we can’t twist your arm to stay for a meal.’

  ‘That’s right and now it’s all gone pear-shaped, Cathie, I’m so sorry. It’s why I’m calling. Something’s broken on the case.’

  Her voice changed instantly from sweet and welcoming to brisk and professio
nal. Cathie had been a senior policeman’s wife for too many years not to recognise the tone of her caller’s voice and that he needed her husband swiftly. ‘I’ll get Martin.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Jack said into the vacuum as Cathie put him on hold.

  Barely a minute passed before Sharpe’s voice growled into his ear. ‘Tell me we’ve got a good lead, Jack.’

  ‘Yes, sir, we have. We believe we know who our killer is.’

  ‘Hell’s bells! Wait, I’m going to take this in my office. Hold a sec, Jack.’ The line went dead again and Jack closed his eyes, wondering how Martin was going to react to the news. ‘Tell me,’ Sharpe said eagerly, returning to Jack.

  ‘Her name is Anne McEvoy,’ he began, and told his boss everything he knew about Anne’s trauma-ridden childhood and brought him up to date.

  ‘She’s held a grudge for thirty years?’ Sharpe asked incredulously.

  ‘We’ve spoken to Tandy. He seems to feel it’s plausible that some fresh emotional disturbance in her life could have reopened the old wounds that she thought had healed, or at least had managed to push away for all of this time.’

  ‘So where are we with this? How close to putting her in custody?’

  ‘We believe she’s in the Brighton and Hove area again, sir. We fear that she might already have Fletcher captive, although that’s still open to question.’