Bye Bye Baby

by McIntosh, Fiona

  Back on the top floor, with London stretching out around them in a glittering sprawl, Jack dragged his gaze away from the blue-lit capsules of the London Eye. He’d already told Kate and Cam to head off, get some sleep and to meet him back here in five hours. Kate looked reluctant to go home but although Jack felt for her, he couldn’t be worried about her relationship woes now.

  ‘Sir?’

  He swung around, his eyes tired and stinging. ‘Yeah, hi, Sarah, what have you got?’

  ‘Firstly, I can confirm there is no Mrs Fenton in North Molton. She doesn’t exist according to everyone I could reach on a Saturday night, including the local police station. I’ll keep trying for —’

  ‘No, don’t bother. I think we now assume that Sophie Fenton and everything she told me about her background was a ruse. But thank you. What else?’ he said firmly, determined to show his team that he was already past any hurt over Sophie’s lies.

  Before Sarah could speak, one of the younger police constables appeared at the door. Jack beckoned. ‘Come in, Con. What have you got?’

  ‘Sir, we’ve found the owner of the garage that housed the white transit van. Neighbours called police. Turns out she’s the woman who spoke on the answering machine at Sophie Fenton’s apartment.’

  ‘Good work. Tell me.’

  ‘The garage belongs to a Mrs Betty Shannon. She’s seventy-six and lives in St Albans. She’s pretty scared and said that she’s worried anything she tells us might ruin her Social Security payments, sir.’

  ‘I hope you assured her otherwise?’

  ‘Yes, of course, but that’s why it took so long to find out anything. She was very reluctant but we sent around a female officer from the local branch and she has given us this information, sir, that Mrs Shannon was approached almost six months ago by a woman who called herself Sally Hartley, who’s in catering. She needed somewhere to garage her work van and has paid Mrs Shannon in cash.’

  The young man held his hand up to preempt the obvious next question and Jack was impressed by his composure. It seemed his ambition was conquering his nerves, as Jack had suspected it would, given the right circumstances.

  ‘She’s only met Sally Hartley once and her recollection is vague. She believes she was blonde but can’t remember much else, other than to say she “wasn’t a real youngster but definitely a looker” — her words, sir.’

  Jack glanced at Sarah, who didn’t return it. Other than Kate, they were all embarrassed still, it seemed. ‘Do we have a licence plate?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, it’s right here.’ He read it out.

  ‘Okay, give this to Swamp, ask him to circulate it. He’ll know what to do. Thanks, Con, good job.’

  The police constable found a shy smile and left to continue his shift.

  ‘Go on, Sarah.’

  ‘Yes, sir. It’s a vague thread but can I run it by you?’

  ‘I’ll take anything you’ve got.’

  Kate appeared. ‘Okay, Cam’s leaving now and I’m heading off. See you back here at 0300.’

  ‘You will.’ She turned to leave. ‘Kate?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Good work today. Thank you for your persistence and the risks you took.’

  She gave him a sad smile that left her mouth almost as quickly as it arrived. ‘You need some sleep too, sir.’

  ‘Good luck,’ he said as she turned to go and knew that Kate understood what he meant. She didn’t look back. He returned his attention to Sarah, who was wearing a suddenly sheepish expression. ‘What?’

  ‘No, nothing.’ She squirmed under his tired blue gaze. ‘Well, I’m just feeling bad that I didn’t help Kate very much today. She needed assistance, but she had to order me to give it. I . . . well, er, I felt she was prying into your life under the wrong pretext. I felt angry to be put in that position and now I don’t know what to say to her.’

  Jack stared out of the window, his gaze falling on Big Ben. ‘DI Carter can be tough when she’s got a feeling in her water. It’s one of the reasons she’s on this case and why she’s good at what she does. She really does have excellent instincts. But I don’t think she’d be one to hold a grudge. Tell her the truth. You owe her that much considering what she risked to tell me. She knew it might cost her career to make the accusation, especially if it were wrong. I have to admire her courage, and especially her tenacity, because she was right.’

  Sarah nodded. ‘I’m sorry it turned out so badly for you, sir.’

  Jack didn’t want to do this but he had to accept that every one of his staff would be feeling the need to say something that locked away the business of Sophie. He shrugged. ‘I’ll survive. So tell me what’s niggling at you.’

  Sarah opened a file and pointed. Jack recognised it as the cold case file that Moss had given them.

  ‘What am I looking at?’ he said, scanning where she was pointing.

  ‘Sir, it’s only just occurred to me that when Anne McEvoy was found that night on West Pier in Brighton, the alarm was raised by a Mr John “Whitey” Rowe — he was one of the anglers that doubled as a sort of loose security team for the pier during the early seventies.’

  ‘Okay. I imagine he was interviewed by Moss’s team in ‘74.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right, Rowe was, but it doesn’t say anywhere that anyone else from that group was interviewed.’

  Jack straightened. He took a moment to glance out again across London while he thought it through. ‘So they did shifts?’

  ‘I imagine so. There was nothing formal about the arrangement. The anglers all liked to fish from the pier at the dead of night and it was — in Moss’s words — a you-scratch-my-back-and-I’ll-scratch-yours set-up. They had access to the pier but no one else did, and the Pier Trust benefited from them keeping an eye on the place, preventing squatters and so on.’

  ‘But more than one person might have access on any one night.’

  ‘Well, that’s what I’m now thinking. Rowe might have discovered Anne McEvoy and raised the alarm, but someone had already done the rounds on the earlier shift. There’s nothing at all in the file, and although I’ll speak to Moss again, I imagine not much was done about the guy who was there before Rowe came on at whatever time he did.’

  ‘You’re going to try and contact Rowe then?’

  ‘Yes, sir, if that’s alright.’

  ‘Alright?’ he said archly. ‘Sarah, this is exactly what I needed to hear. There are always layers of facts and we missed this on the first few passes. Whether it yields anything or not, seriously well done. But find me something. Promise me you will.’

  She grinned. ‘I promise,’ she said, thrilled by how much she’d pleased him. ‘But you’ll definitely owe us those French cakes.’

  Anne entered the hotel room, exhausted. In the end, she hadn’t had the strength to sit down for a meal and had opted for a drive-in takeaway. The burger was soggy and tasteless but her grinding belly recognised it as food and immediately set to dealing with it, and the effects of the greasy chips were almost instantaneous, making her feel drowsy enough not to be terribly picky about the accommodation. The spotty-faced young woman with the surly manner who checked her in at the tired hotel hardly made eye contact, which suited Anne, who had hidden her hair beneath a beanie, just in case any alerts were out.

  Louise Parker could look however she wanted her to in the morning.

  Tomorrow she would probably cut and certainly dye her golden hair back to auburn, and remove the coloured lenses that she wore around Jack — in fact, around anyone who wasn’t one of her victims. It was only the Jesters Club who were allowed to see Anne. She would also call Phillip Bowles and contrive a way to meet him, but with time running against her there could be no elaborate plan — she was going to have to trust her luck and persuasive powers.

  But, right now, she would wash away the stench of blood from her nostrils and block out the cries for mercy . . . and she would sleep and try very hard not to mourn the loss of Jack Hawksworth.

  Jack told
himself he couldn’t be bothered to go all the way back to Highgate tonight, but the truth was, he couldn’t face the apartment building . . . not yet. Was it only this morning that he had felt that glorious sense of wellbeing lying in a tangle of limbs with Sophie Fenton? No, that wound was still too raw to look at. Instead, he found the spare overnight bag he kept at the ready and booked into a room at the St Ermin’s Hotel, close to the Houses of Parliament and just a short walk from the Yard. He grabbed the least offensive-looking sandwich at one of Victoria Station’s night kiosks, ate it on the run before checking in, showering and collapsing into bed. He set his alarm to give himself three and a half hours’ sleep. He snuggled beneath the sheets, praying that the time would pass in a dreamless state. He didn’t want to think about Sophie. He wanted to dwell purely on Anne McEvoy . . . and what he would say to her when they trapped her tomorrow.

  As Jack and Anne were drifting off to sleep in their respective hotels, a youngish couple whose six-month-old teething infant refused to settle for his evening sleep and, worse, refused to stop howling, decided that a long walk may wear him out and give them the chance of a few hours’ peace. Their one-year-old dalmatian, off the lead, scampered ahead and, against their firm calls, ran into the park they were circling.

  ‘Where’s George gone now?’ the woman said, rolling her eyes. She fiddled with her son’s blanket, tucking it closely around him.

  ‘He’s in the park,’ her husband said, yawning, rubbing at his day-old stubble. ‘I’ll get him.’

  The wife yawned too. She was desperate to hit her own pillow, knowing her son would be looking for a feed in a few short hours. ‘He’s so naughty — all that money at obedience classes for nothing,’ she scolded but without any heat. ‘Hurry up, I don’t want to be out here much longer.’

  The man didn’t dare yell out the dog’s name. It was almost midnight and the area was silent, the houses asleep. He peered through the park gate. ‘George,’ he called softly.

  The dog answered with a low growl.

  The man stepped in further and saw the dalmation sniffing around a park bench.

  ‘Belinda?’ He waited a few moments before calling again. ‘Belinda!’

  ‘What?’ she whispered, arriving at the gate. ‘Ssh, Howard, you’ll wake the whole bloody neighbourhood and Matthew. He’s just gone off.’

  ‘Look,’ Howard said, pointing.

  She stared, thought about it and looked back to her husband. ‘A tramp?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’d better get George though, or he’s going to get a kick for his trouble.’

  ‘Be careful and hurry.’

  He tiptoed to where a man was slumped on the bench. It was too dark to see much, and the streetlight had been broken, so the only illumination was the eerie wash of yellow from other streetlights that were spaced far apart in this area.

  ‘Hey, mate,’ Howard said, shaking the man. ‘You’ll catch your death out here.’

  The man didn’t move. He imagined the fellow must be dead drunk, although there was no smell of alcohol and not even a flicker of movement. He frowned, put George on the lead, wondering at the dark sticky patch below the man where the dog was sniffing.

  ‘Did you bring the torch?’ he whispered back to Belinda.

  ‘Only a tiny one — that pen light on the keyring.’

  ‘Bring it over.’

  ‘No, I don’t want to come any closer. He may wake and scare Matthew. What are you going to do anyway? Invite him home?’

  Howard rolled his eyes. ‘Throw the keys here,’ he said, approaching her, but looking over his shoulder. The man hadn’t stirred. ‘We have to check he’s okay. He could die of hypothermia.’

  He caught the keys, switched on the tiny beam of light and trained it on the man, pulling him around. As he did so, the man’s jacket fell open. Howard staggered backwards.

  ‘Call the police!’ he yelled, no longer bothered by how much noise he made.

  38

  Jack woke blearily to the sound of his mobile screaming into his ear. Couldn’t they leave him alone for just a few hours? He squinted at the clock. It was twenty past one in the morning. He’d barely slept. He sighed and answered.

  ‘Hawksworth.’

  ‘Sir, it’s DS Jones. I’m sorry to disturb you.’

  ‘It’s okay, I was getting up around now,’ he lied.

  ‘I figured you’d want to know that Fletcher’s turned up,’ Sarah said flatly.

  ‘Dead?’ He held his breath, fully awake now.

  ‘I’m afraid so, sir. I’m sorry.’

  Jack groaned softly. ‘Brighton?’

  ‘Hove, a park called St Ann’s Well Gardens. I was there only days ago with Sergeant Moss. He virtually lives in it.’

  Jack swung his legs out of bed, scratched his head glumly. ‘I wonder if that’s another of her messages.’

  ‘Possibly, sir.’

  ‘What do we know?’

  ‘Fletcher was found by a young couple just after midnight — they were walking their baby and dog around the neighbourhood. Apparently the baby’s teething and couldn’t get to sleep. It was all very quiet, as you could imagine — it’s quite a nice area populated with relatively well-heeled people.’

  ‘How long has Fletcher been dead?’

  ‘We’re waiting on pathology but they’re rushing it through for us. Early indications suggest about five hours, but that’s just a rough estimation, sir. Ken is doing core temperature, etcetera, back at the lab to give us a more accurate time of death, but given that Fletcher was still in Hastings this afternoon, we know it had to have happened sometime after four but before seven.’

  ‘Agreed. Have his family and girlfriend been informed?’

  ‘Someone’s on their way over to his father’s nursing home in Brighton and we’ve contacted Hastings. They’re going to send a car to his girlfriend’s and mother’s places now.’

  ‘So the father doesn’t live with the mother?’

  ‘Estranged for years apparently. He’s much older than she is.’

  ‘What about the van? Anything?’

  ‘No. Until this couple, Belinda and Howard Evans, found Fletcher, no one in the neighbourhood who has been contacted by police had heard or seen anything connected with the van. Hove branch is planning a doorknock, but I think they want to wait until the morning.’

  ‘She’s either very lucky, or she’s planned everything to such a finite degree that this whole mission must have been in motion months before she even began her killing spree,’ Jack said.

  ‘I know you don’t want to hear this, sir, but I can’t help but admire her.’

  ‘You’re right, I don’t want to hear it.’

  Sarah persisted. ‘Ex-Sergeant Moss felt it, too. He said the police let Anne McEvoy down all those years ago. For whatever reason, she turned vigilante, and I imagine a lot of the members of the public are going to quietly applaud her once they realise that they and their families aren’t potential targets of a random killer.’

  ‘I couldn’t agree more, but I reiterate that we mustn’t lose sight of what we’re charged to do.’

  ‘No, sir, I have no intention of doing that. I want to find McEvoy, but between you and me, if I ever met her in a soundproofed room, I’d tell her that I understand her actions completely.’

  ‘I think we all would,’ Jack said quietly, rubbing the remnants of sleep from his eyes. He wished it were as easy to rub away the sudden vision he had of Sophie. ‘Right, I’ll be at the office in about forty minutes. Can you handle things until then?’

  ‘Of course. I’ve tracked down Whitey Rowe. I’ll be calling him as soon as is feasible on a Sunday morning, sir.’

  ‘Don’t hold off, Sarah. He has to understand that this is a major murder investigation, after all.’

  ‘Will do. See you soon.’

  Jack hung up and spent a moment in silence, sifting through his thoughts, mourning Fletcher’s death and their failure to prevent it. He vowed to himself that she wouldn’t find th
e fifth man — Pierrot, as he was known. Jack intended to find Pierrot first and save him Anne’s butchery, but not because he wanted to help the man. No, Jack’s determination to get to him first was so he could put him behind bars for the maximum sentence any court could impose. Life in a British jail might be considered by some as a soft option, but Jack knew better. He knew this guy would suffer at the hands of his inmates and would likely end up yearning for the numbing effect of Anne’s drugs and the near painless death she offered.

  Anne woke to the early morning local news that the body of a man had been discovered in St Ann’s Well Gardens in Hove by a couple. She watched the woman being interviewed by a reporter hungry for the theatre that surrounded a suspicious death, who was rewarded by Belinda Evans breaking down in tears. Anne regretted the young woman’s distress and tried to assure herself that she’d soon forget the trauma of the grisly discovery and hopefully dine out on the story in years to come.

  She took herself and her overnight bag into the bathroom and eventually emerged a brunette — no more wigs, she’d decided. She’d twisted her hair back into a clip and was quite pleased with the result.

  By eleven she was dressed in jeans, her Docs and a short but baggy cardigan over a warm, long-sleeved T-shirt. Her waterproof jacket was in the car. It was all normal daywear in neutral colouring and instantly forgettable, which was her intention. She kept her face devoid of make-up and returned to her eyes the lenses that made them an intriguing dark brown.

  In Patcham, she found a phone box and dug out her notebook and the section on Phil Bowles, which gave her his phone number and street address. Phil hadn’t been hard to find. He’d never left the area and a search through directory enquiries online had soon yielded his number.

  She dialled it now and held her breath.

  They’d been sitting there for hours, both so tired but trying to keep each other alert with mindless conversation about favourite films, favourite pubs, hottest dates and maddest moments — anything to keep themselves from silence and the opportunity to drift into a doze. Kate and Swamp joined in on their walkie-talkies, determined to stay awake in their respective cars where they were watching for any sighting of Anne McEvoy.