by Faith Martin
The all-invading cold also meant that she didn’t linger outside, and so didn’t notice a young man, sitting in a second-hand Mazda parked a few doors down, who was watching her with avid anticipation.
But then, she wasn’t the only one that morning to be less than observant. For PC Martin Pollock, of Traffic Division, didn’t notice an even older, second-hand Granada, parked three cars down, or the old man who sat in it, peering down at his mobile phone.
Well, well, well, Mitch thought, somewhat bemused, as he watched the results of his own, rather inexpert fumbling with the camcorder facility of his daughter’s Christmas present. Despite being a bit overexposed and distinctly wobbly when he’d lifted the phone to get a better view through his windshield, Mitch was watching a perfectly recognizable image of a young copper in uniform. Captured on the tiny screen, he headed up the garden path of a private residence and thrust a plain brown envelope into the letter box, which already contained a copy of the Daily Telegraph.
Mitch kept his head down as a chuckling PC Pollock drove past him. Then he stored the piece of film to the phone’s computer memory – or at least, he hoped that’s what he’d done – and turned it off.
He didn’t know for sure whose house Martin Pollock had just visited, but given the fact that a very pretty blonde had just appeared and brought in the milk and mail, he wouldn’t be at all surprised to learn that it belonged to one Superintendent Philip Mallow.
Just as Dylan Hodge’s girlfriend turned over in her sleeping bag and shivered, wondering why Dylan felt so cold, Janine Tyler poured herself a glass of orange juice and reached for the paper.
Hodge’s girlfriend, Phoebe Cole, had once been pretty, with a ripe figure and long auburn hair. The figure was now stick thin and in urgent need of warmth, the long hair having long since turned thin and straggly. She frowned, shivering, and cuddled up to Hodge, who felt like a block of ice. She frowned and forced her eyes open. The crack which had made her loose her hair, also gummed up her eyes, and she had to knuckle the crud away from her lids before forcing them open. When she did, she raised herself up to one elbow and looked down at her sleeping partner.
And swore softly. Quickly, she reached down to pat herself on the bum, and wailed when she encountered only bony flesh. ‘You stupid idiot,’ she wailed, pummelling the lifeless body of the man she’d shared the last six months of her life with. ‘That stash would have lasted me a week!’
As Phoebe Cole mourned her loss – of the horse, not of Hodge – Janine Tyler frowned as a brown envelope slipped from the morning newspaper and fell onto the breakfast table. In the kitchen she could hear Mel puttering about getting the coffee, listening to Radio Four as he always did.
She was about to toss the envelope in the recycling basket, thinking it was just one more of those ‘free offers’ that seemed to come with every paper nowadays, when she noticed her name – handwritten in green ink – on the front.
She went cold.
A moment later, she realized there was no stamp or address on the envelope. Whoever had delivered it, had done so by hand. He knew where she lived. That morning, as she’d lain in bed beside Mel, someone had walked through the icy cold air, up her garden path, and thrust this through her letter box.
Quickly, before Mel could come to the table with the coffee, she got up and went upstairs. Once sitting on her bed, she opened the envelope and stared down at a picture of herself. At first, she couldn’t quite make out what she was seeing. A woman, a fully naked woman, was standing in the doorway to what was recognizably the canteen at HQ. The naked woman had her face.
Once she’d stopped gaping and got her mind in gear, it was obvious what had happened. The cretin had taken her picture coming through the door, then, using a computer, had morphed a naked woman’s body onto her head.
Angrily, she screwed it up and then began to tear it into pieces. But as she did so, she wondered, how many more copies did this man have? Had he sent any more through the post, to Mel, or her mother maybe, or friends, or just colleagues at work? What if she went in this morning and found one of them pinned up to the notice board?
No! She took a long, slow breath. No, she mustn’t panic like this. It was exactly what the bastard wanted. Anybody could see the photo was a fake. A hideously embarrassing, humiliating fake.
Almost against her will, she got up and walked, crab-like, to the window, careful not to be seen. She pulled the curtain aside and looked out.
The next-door neighbour was busy wiping his car windshield free of ice. A car, exhaust pipe puffing heavy white smoke, drove away down the road. She recognized it as belonging to a neighbour, Margaret Peterson, a chartered accountant.
There was nobody out there. She told herself to pull herself together and go to work. She reminded herself that tomorrow was her wedding day. But she felt only like crying.
chapter ten
* * *
Phoebe Cole stuffed her arms into a ragged duffel coat that had padding oozing out of tears on the right elbow and left shoulder pad, and a large dirty stain that spread across the left breast. Her hands were shaking, more from anger now than cold.
She’d never get another stash like it.
The old duffer who’d wandered in last night slowly uncurled himself from a ball, like a hedgehog sensing hibernation was over. Also like a hedgehog he was covered in fleas. Phoebe had seen him around, and reckoned he’d come to the squat only to get shelter from the cold. Usually he liked to beg around Bonn Square in Oxford, and slept on the park benches nearby.
‘He dead then?’ he asked, his voice raspy from the damage done by the meths he drank.
Phoebe shrugged, grabbing her bag. She had everything packed. She wasn’t hanging around to talk to the cops.
The old man pushed stringy grey hair out of his eyes and watched the girl leave. Then, vaguely curious, he crawled over to the still body in the filthy sleeping bag. He couldn’t be bothered to straighten up just yet. His arthritis played him up something cruel when he fell asleep hugging his knees for warmth.
The boy was definitely dead, and beginning to stiffen. At this, the old man perked up. He’d call the cops and report it. Not that he was civic minded, of course, but they’d be bound to take him down to HQ for questioning – he’d refuse to talk to them here – and that meant a warm radiator where he could defrost, and at least two cups of tea. If he strung it out to lunchtime, someone usually gave him some grub too. He doubted he could swing a night in the cells though.
Oh well. Beggars couldn’t be choosers. With a sigh, the old man began the long, painful process of getting to his feet.
Martin Pollock drove away from the Moors area of Kidlington, feeling particularly pleased with himself. The posh suburb where Superintendent Mellow Mallow lived, as a result of a profitable divorce from his second, wealthy wife, was just beginning to stir. By now, he thought, the blonde bombshell should be opening the envelope. Shit, how he’d love to see her face. Not so smug then, he’d bet.
The cold snap had caught many people by surprise and there was little traffic in this old part of the town. He was just approaching a T-junction, when something ginger on the side of the road made him look. A dead fox, maybe. No, not quite big enough.
Suddenly a thought hit him and he indicated to pull over and let a red Vauxhall pass him before getting out and jogging back towards the casualty. As he’d thought it was someone’s pet cat, a handsome ginger tom. It hadn’t been dead long, for when he reached down to touch it, it was still vaguely warm. Like a lot of moggies killed by cars, this one didn’t seem to have a scratch on it. No blood, nothing.
PC Martin Pollock grinned as he picked up the pathetic bundle and walked back to his car. There he emptied a Tesco bag of a loaf of bread he’d bought yesterday and forgot to take in, and carefully wrapped up the corpse. He knew just what use he could make of it. But he’d have to be quick. Before it started to pong.
Whistling happily, Martin Pollock drove to Thames Valley Police Headquarters. Behi
nd him, Mitch Titchmarsh, who’d watched the whole manoeuvre from a hundred yards away, nodded his head grimly.
Now they’d have the sick little bastard.
Hillary was first at her desk, closely followed by Keith Barrington, who looked just a little ill at ease. Hillary, in no mood to babysit, said briskly, ‘Any luck on tracing that old photograph I gave you?’
‘I’ve had a few ideas, guv,’ he said quickly. ‘I ran a few copies off on the computer and posted them to all the local parish magazines, asking them to print them with the caption DO YOU KNOW THIS MAN? I’ve noticed they nearly always include old photographs in their issues. Probably because their readership is so old, and nostalgia is always appreciated.’
Hillary nodded, impressed. ‘Good thinking.’
‘I’ve also given copies to the ladies at the local libraries – here, Bicester of course, Oxford and Banbury. I’ve asked them to display it with the same question. I’ve done the same with drop-in centres for the elderly. If we don’t get any hits soon, guv, I don’t think he’ll have been local.’
Hillary nodded. ‘You’ve done well. But I think we might get lucky. Flo didn’t travel much in her lifetime – she spent most of her life in Bicester. I can’t see her boyfriend, if that’s what he was, being anything other than local as well.’
Barrington nodded, then reached for his phone as it shrilled. ‘DC Barrington. Yes. What? When? He’s downstairs. OK.’
Frank Ross, just arrived, caught the excitement in the new boy’s voice and paused in the act of shrugging off his heavy overcoat.
‘Guv, Dylan Hodge is dead,’ Barrington said, trying to keep the eagerness out of his voice. ‘Some old codger living at the squat reported finding his body this morning. He’s downstairs.’
‘Bloody hell,’ Frank said, whistling softly. ‘Do you think it’s the same killer?’
‘Whoa, hold on,’ Hillary said, putting a brakes on the rampant testosterone. ‘Do we know yet how he died?’ she asked Barrington.
‘No guv,’ Keith said. ‘Uniform want the go-ahead to call out SOCO. They also want to know if you want to take it. The duty sergeant recognized Hodge’s name from our case. He’ll assign it to us if we want it.’
Hillary sighed and nodded. ‘OK, Frank, get over to the crime scene and supervise. Barrington, you can talk to the witness.’
‘Guv,’ Barrington said, hardly believing his luck. Lead interview already. Last nights show and tell at the pub was already forgotten.
‘And Keith,’ Hillary said, stopping him in his tracks. ‘If he’s old and spent last night in the squat, he’ll be cold and hungry. Feed him and make sure he has plenty of hot cups of tea. If he looks in a really bad way, crawl to the custody sergeant and see if you can find him a bed for tonight. I heard on the weather forecast we’re going to have a perishing frost again tonight.’
Keith blinked. ‘Right guv,’ he said slowly, feeling ashamed because he knew that thought would never have occurred to him.
‘And Frank, don’t get ahead of yourself,’ Hillary warned. ‘We don’t know yet if this death is even connected to Flo’s. Personally, I think it’s far more likely Hodge just overdosed, or got hold of some bad gear.’
‘Guv,’ Frank said sourly. Trust her to rain on his parade.
Hillary sighed and let them go. They’d probably been watching too many crime dramas on the telly. But in her experience, one murder rarely led to a whole series of them. And she’d never worked a serial killer case, and never expected to. Still, the death of Hodge might complicate things, so it was best to check it out thoroughly.
Spotting Janine’s empty chair, she frowned and glanced at her watch. It wasn’t like her sergeant to be this late. Granted, she was getting married tomorrow, but if she’d wanted time off, all she’d had to do was ask.
Grimly, she wondered if her stalker had been busy.
With a sigh, she began to tackle her In tray, which, as usual, had somehow magically filled up overnight.
Janine parked her car carefully in plain view of the CCTV camera nearest the main entrance, and locked it up. She was dressed in smart olive-green trousers, with a matching jacket and a bright orange blouse. She’d put her hair up with tortoiseshell combs, and been extra careful with her make-up.
Two cheeky PCs wolf-whistled as they pulled out in their panda car, and she grinned and automatically lifted a finger. Then, as she turned for the door, she suddenly thought – was he one of them? She turned, but the panda car was already out of sight. Then she shook her head and told herself to stop it. She couldn’t look at every cop in HQ and keep on wondering the same thing. It would drive her mad – which was just what he wanted. She’d be out of here next week. She could hold on till then. But she couldn’t help but wonder what he had planned for tomorrow – her wedding day. Somehow she didn’t think he would resist the challenge of doing something extra special.
It made her feel sick.
When she got to the main open-plan office, she could see that Hillary Greene was already in and ploughing through her paperwork. Barrington had been in – she recognized his jacket slung around the back of his chair – but had obviously gone out again. Of Frank Ross, naturally, there was no sign. She straightened her shoulders and marched purposefully across the large office.
Hillary, sensing her approach, glanced up from the folder she was reading. The neatly typed, perfectly spelled memo was from the new boy, reporting that Walter Keane had indeed been a commando during the war. He’d photocopied the relevant documents, which showed that Keane had been decorated twice for bravery.
Hillary watched Janine slip off her long Burberry coat, and her eyes narrowed at the uplifting outfit, the new hairdo and makeover. Oh yes, Hillary thought grimly, the stalker has been up to some trick or other. She recognized defensive dressing when she saw it. It made a woman feel good and confident to look her best.
‘Walter Keane,’ Hillary said, deciding to take her mind off things fast. She shoved the report over and watched as Janine read it.
‘So he’d definitely know how to knife someone in the chest then,’ Janine said flatly, when she’d finished.
‘Yes. I think we’d better have another word.’
Which was fine with Janine. She couldn’t wait to get out of this place. Somewhere, down in one of the offices below, he was somewhere about. She could just feel it.
Hillary didn’t miss the alacrity with which her sergeant grabbed her bag, and she bit back the anger that threatened to engulf her. Normally Janine was tough and hot-headed, and ultra-confident. But this bastard was obviously beginning to get on her nerves. She only hoped Mitch was right, and that he knew who it was. The sooner he was given a taste of his own medicine, the better.
Downstairs, in the men’s locker rooms, Martin Pollock hefted his duffel bag to the bench nearest his locker and began to change into his uniform. He purposely dawdled until only one other man was present – Jem Titchmarsh, who primarily worked Burglary. Jem nodded, stuffed his coat into his own locker, and walked away. He walked heavily and noisily on his big sturdy boots, got to the door, opened it and then closed it again noisily. Then he walked without a sound to the bank of lockers overlooking Pollock’s, and carefully peered around.
Pollock was carefully putting something wrapped in a Tesco bag into his locker. It looked oddly shaped, soft and yielding. When he started to look over his shoulder, Jem quickly drew back. Whatever he was up to, he obviously didn’t want witnesses. He moved silently around the back of the lockers and watched Pollock leave, then reached for his phone.
When it was answered, he said quietly, ‘Dad? It’s me, Jem.’ He told his old man what he’d seen, then listened, his young face getting grimmer and grimmer as he listened to Mitch’s reply.
Janine and Hillary took the stairs, rather than wait for the lift. As they walked, Hillary filled her in on the news about Hodge.
‘You really don’t think they’re connected, boss?’ Janine was saying, as they stepped from the bottom step into
the lobby. ‘Bit of a coincidence, though, isn’t it?’
‘Not really,’ Hillary replied. ‘You know the statistics as well as I do. Nobody in Hodge’s position tends to live a long and happy life.’
‘Even so,’ Janine began, but then stopped, as the desk sergeant called them over.
‘Hey, you two lovely ladies. Heard the latest?’
Hillary, suspecting he wanted to talk about Keith Barrington and the reason he’d taken a pop at his old sergeant, sighed heavily. ‘Not really, sarge,’ she called. ‘We’re on our way to question an important witness.’
Seeing her turn towards the main entrance, and a valuable source of gossip slipping from his grasp, the desk sergeant all but bellowed, ‘They’ve only gone and arrested Jerome Raleigh, haven’t they?’
Hillary felt herself stumble. It was as if she’d taken a step forward and found an expected drop beneath her. She saw Janine shoot her a quick look, and knew she must have gone pale. Her mind whirled. Arrested Raleigh? Was it possible?
She managed a wan smile and a graphic sigh for Janine’s benefit, then turned and headed over. ‘No kidding?’ she said, seeing the desk sergeant beam with satisfaction. Like the rest of the nick, he knew that Hillary Greene, as a participant of the Fletcher raid, and heroine of the hour, knew something that none of the rest of them did. It hadn’t gone unnoticed that when Raleigh had up and resigned so suddenly, Hillary Greene hadn’t been at all surprised. Besides, everyone from Donleavy down to the tea lady knew that Hillary Greene had brains. If anyone could have figured out what had been going on, it was DI Greene.
‘Yeah, somewhere abroad he was. Costa Brava, Costa del Sol. Somewhere hot and balmy anyway,’ the desk sergeant said, leaning on his elbows over the counter top and lowering his voice conspiratorially.
Close, Hillary thought. It was Malta, actually, but she wasn’t about to enlighten him. ‘But what have they arrested him for exactly?’ Hillary asked. ‘Don’t tell me the local cops caught him drinking and driving? Soliciting? What?’ She was deliberately underplaying it, and feared that the other two must realize as much.