by Mosby, Steve
‘Yeah. It would have taken a bit of time. We might get lucky there.’
Timms said, ‘Someone would have come forward by now.’
‘Only if they saw it directly. He would have checked the path was clear first, so it’s possible someone saw that, and wouldn’t necessarily have reported it. Yet.’
Dale was frowning.
‘Another possibility is that he might have sat with her for a while, back there in the trees. Maybe waited until the early hours. Much less busy then.’
‘That’s a dismal thought.’
But he was right, and I closed my eyes for a moment, imagining it: picturing him cross-legged at the side of a small clearing, a woman’s body lying in the centre. Maybe calming himself down after what he’d done. Waiting. It was an odd scenario, though, because it implied caution, but what had he done afterwards? Made a poor attempt to hide her body in the water. The crime was a strange mixture of thought and non-thought, organisation and carelessness, as though the killer had been clear-headed one moment and lost the next.
I opened my eyes and looked at the tent.
‘Can we see her?’
‘Of course.’
Not that I wanted to. As we approached the closed flap of the tent, my mind pulled out a memory of Sally Vickers, lying bloodied and stuffed down the side of her bed. And then of Jemima’s face in the hospital. Preparing myself for comparable horrors, I lifted the flap and stepped into the unpleasant heat of the tent, holding it open for Chris behind me.
The body of Amanda Jarman had been retrieved from the canal and laid carefully face down on a sheet on the ground. Her head was turned to one side. The single eye I could see was completely closed, and her jaw was dislocated and distended below the ear. Patches of her scalp had been ripped bare. There was little blood, of course – the water had taken care of that – but in some way that made the injuries appear even more abhorrent and alien.
The white blouse she was wearing had been reduced to clingfilm, covered with detritus from the canal – weeds and leaves – but she was naked from the waist down. One hand rested close to her face, two of the fingers clearly swollen and broken.
I tried, somehow, to view her remains dispassionately.
‘What do you think?’ Chris said quietly.
‘I don’t know. It looks like our guy, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘And we’re close to Johnson’s house.’ I stared at the inside wall of the tent. ‘That’s an enormous coincidence.’
‘Even if Johnson was telling the truth and the second man does exist, there’s no reason to think he lives nearby.’
‘Well, he would have to have encountered Johnson somewhere in order to have recognised him, so it makes sense for him to be local. The violence is comparable. The MO’s different, what with it being an attack outdoors, but then he’s lost his locksmith, hasn’t he? Limited options for him now.’
Chris didn’t say anything for a few moments. Then he puffed up his cheeks and blew out slowly.
‘We’ll need to get Jane back in as soon as we can,’ I said. ‘See if there’s any additional detail she can give us. Something that might have come back to her.’
‘Bring the Hendricks case in too.’
‘Yes. Go over that again from scratch. Because if she was this guy’s first, then there’s got to be a connection there. Something that was missed at the time. There’ll be a reason for him to target Amanda, too.’ I looked back down at her. She was, or at least had been, our man’s type. ‘I don’t think he did this just on spec. We need to move quickly.’
‘Because he’s escalating.’
I nodded. ‘And deteriorating. He only half hid the body. He doesn’t care as much any more.’
It was a bad sign. Killers often conform to certain patterns. It’s not uncommon for attacks like these to increase in frequency and ferocity, as the man gradually loses his grip on reality, taking less and less care. Killers like that end with a supernova. If it was true here, then we were going to see more victims, and more quickly. It would be over soon, but not before other women died.
I stared down at Amanda Jarman for a few seconds more, then turned and walked back out of the tent into the sunlight.
Thirty-Seven
The quickest route to Amanda Jarman’s house took us along the Horsley road, past Adam Johnson’s cottage.
As we approached, I stared out at the playground on the right. It was empty today. While the media had retreated from the boarded-up cottage, the police tape remained, and I imagined local residents would feel uneasy bringing their children to a place so obviously tainted. A monster lived nearby. And perhaps one still did.
Even without him, Johnson’s cottage remained an awkward, uncomfortable sight: a wedge of darkness amidst the green, sunlit surroundings. I made a mental note to have somebody check that the place was secure, but as we passed it, my thoughts remained with the playground behind. A monster lives nearby. There was something about it. I just couldn’t work out what.
We turned down into the heart of Horsley.
The old stone cottages along the main road wore the early afternoon’s sun well. With the window down, and my arm resting on the sill, we drove past the two pubs at the centre of the village, and then turned left on to the road where Amanda Jarman had lived with her husband, Michael.
Their house was a semi-detached, second from the end and a little run-down. The garage door was hanging down at an angle, and the front lawn was overgrown and untended. The other gardens in the street were pristine: trimmed crew-cut neat and bobbing with bright flowers. The neighbours probably hated the couple. But this was an affluent area, and the Jarmans were young. Presumably they’d flung their aspirations as high as their finances would allow. If the ID on the body turned out to be correct, it was as high as they ever would.
We parked beside a police car, then walked up the short path. There was a black wheelie bin beside the front door, with discarded cigarette ends on the ground around it. Presumably one of them came outside to smoke, but lacked the will to stub them out and lift the lid on the bin. There was still a faint trace of smoke in the air. Michael Jarman, then.
There was no bell, so I rapped hard on the glass door and waited. A moment later, it was opened by a woman in police uniform. I passed her my ID, and she showed us into the front room.
Michael Jarman was sitting on a threadbare settee, in a jittery, half-praying position. His elbows were on his knees, his hands knitted together in front of his face, and his feet were drumming repetitively against the exposed floorboards. Despite the time of day, it looked as though he’d only just got up: he was wearing a red and black tartan dressing gown over jeans, and his dark hair was dishevelled. Black stubble prickled his jawline. He stood up, slightly hesitantly, as though unsure whether he was allowed to, but there was an expression of hope on his face, and it broke my heart to see it there.
‘Mr Jarman?’ I showed my ID again. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Zoe Dolan. This is my partner, DI Chris Sands.’
‘Is it her?’
I started to close my eyes, only just managing to turn it into a blink instead.
‘For the moment, we don’t know. But we’ll come to that. What have you been told?’
‘Just something about them finding a body. They were asking whether Amanda had come home last night. I don’t really understand what’s going on.’
‘Okay. Have a seat again, please. The most important thing right now is that we get as much information as we can. I know this is upsetting, but please try to keep calm.’
‘I am calm.’
He wasn’t remotely calm, but he sat back down at least. I’d seen the same reaction numerous times before. It was the stage of denial in between being informed of a loss and fully comprehending it: a nebulous, vague space in which you can’t be sure what’s true. For now, Michael Jarman was maintaining an air of disbelief, his mind refusing to accept that this was actually happening. Soon, he was thinking, it would a
ll be sorted out, and his world would be restored to how it was meant to be. The nightmare would be over.
‘Do you have a picture of Amanda I could see?’
‘Over there.’ He nodded at the mantelpiece. ‘There’s a couple of them.’
‘Thank you.’
They were at either end. The one on the left was a black-and-white photograph of the two of them with their faces pressed together, filling the frame. They were both smiling, and a city I couldn’t identify stretched away far below them. A honeymoon shot, maybe. The other was a professional colour photograph from their wedding, with the pair of them in the centre and family to either side. Michael wore a straightforward black suit, while Amanda had chosen a dress with a red top and blue trimmings, like a princess in a Disney cartoon.
It was definitely her. We’d require a formal identification in due course, but I’d seen enough of the body by the canal to be sure.
I turned back round, feeling sick but trying to keep my expression neutral. The look of hope on his face threatened to derail that, so I took a seat on a chair opposite him and rubbed my hands together, trying to concentrate on them instead.
‘It’s not her, is it,’ he said.
It wasn’t a question, so I decided not to answer it directly. But there was no use in pretending, either.
‘Michael, can you tell us the last time you saw Amanda?’
‘Yesterday morning.’ He said it immediately. Either he’d already been asked, or else he’d been preparing the answer in his head: going over everything that had happened. ‘Just before she left for work.’
Chris, who was still standing, pulled out a notebook.
‘What time would that have been?’
‘She leaves about ten to seven. The bus into town is on the hour, so she always has to leave a bit before. If she misses it, she gets in late.’ He leaned forward. ‘Look, have you not contacted Abbie yet? I’m sure this is all some kind of mistake.’
‘Abbie?’
He nodded emphatically.
‘Abbie who?’ I said.
‘I don’t know her surname. I mean, why would I? But Mandy works with her. They go out for drinks sometimes. That’s what they did last night.’
Chris was scribbling this down, but it didn’t make sense to me. If Amanda had gone out for the night with a colleague, why had she ended up at the canal?
‘What does she normally do after work?’
‘Comes home.’ He looked confused. ‘What do you mean?’
‘How does she get home? Does she take the bus?’
‘Mostly, yeah. Sometimes she gets off early and walks. She hates going to the gym, so that’s what she does for exercise. Not that she needs to.’
For now, I didn’t want to ask the obvious question. Does she walk along the canal? I thought I already knew what the answer would be.
‘The drinks out with this Abbie. Was that prearranged?’
‘Yeah, yeah. Although she forgot to tell me.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She texted me after work – said how sorry she was, that it had slipped her mind.’ He smiled, but there was no humour there, and it vanished quickly. He knew. ‘She’s got a terrible memory. Airhead, you know? That’s what I always tell her. She just forgot, is all.’
‘Have you still got the message?’
‘Of course.’
‘May I see it, please?’
‘Sure.’ He fumbled in the pocket of his dressing gown, then checked the screen, presumably for messages, and looked disappointed. He pressed some buttons on the phone and passed it over.
‘Here.’
I read the message, which had come through at 17:48 yesterday evening.
Hi there. Sorry – totally forgot. Night out with Abbie. Will make it up to you. See you later. Love you xx
‘There’s another,’ Jarman said. ‘You just scroll up.’
‘Thanks.’
I found it. The second message had come through much later, at 22:16.
Hi again babe. Bit sozzled, so probs going to carry on a bit then crash at Abbie’s. Hope that’s okay. Will see you tomorrow. Love you. Night night xx
I passed the phone back.
‘I’m going to need you to keep those messages, please.’
‘Of course. What’s the matter?’
‘We don’t know yet.’
But I did. Amanda had been killed at the canal, and it was hard to imagine that she’d changed her mind and caught a bus, then taken her stretch of exercise, that late at night. Which meant those messages had been sent not by Amanda, but by her killer. Because he knew that if she’d been reported missing, the police might have searched the canal area before he’d had a chance to ditch the body in the water and leave the scene. There had never been drinks with Abbie. And the time difference between the messages suggested that her killer had waited with her body for several hours.
‘Obviously we’ll need to trace Abbie.’ For my next sentence, I concentrated very hard on using the present tense. ‘Where is it that Amanda works?’
‘I don’t know the name, sorry. I should, but I’m just not interested in that stuff. Amanda’s obsessed, but she’s beautiful without it, you know? All that make-up stuff. But it makes her happy. Has done since she was a kid.’
Which made me think about the playground again. Has done since she was a kid. Kids go to playgrounds, I thought. And the second man, the monster, had to have encountered Johnson somewhere. Kids go to playgrounds. Who do they go with? They go with their parents …
And then I caught what he’d just said.
‘Amanda works with make-up?’
‘Yeah, one of those places in town.’
I felt a tingle. Sharon Hendricks had worked in beauty. None of the other victims had. But then these were the only two victims the monster had picked out himself.
‘How long has she worked there?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Not long. A few months. What’s the name? God, why don’t I know this stuff? I should know this about her.’
I knew, though. I leaned forward. ‘It’s—’
‘Eyecatchers.’ He turned back to me suddenly, pleased with himself. ‘That’s it. Eyecatchers.’
Thirty-Eight
Eyecatchers Beauty was a small boutique built into the ground-floor corner of a larger shopping arcade. It was a plush area of the city centre, and the building itself was grand: constructed from sleek black marble flecked with grey, and separated from its neighbours by tiled pedestrian walkways dotted with fountains and seating areas for the cafés, tea rooms and bistros that lined the sides. Every unit here was either a high-end chain or a small bespoke company: hand-made cards and trinkets sitting next door to designer fashion.
Jane parked up opposite.
The pavements were busy with people: women clearly on shopping expeditions, carrying bags in awkward bunches; groups of students meandering; businessmen weaving through, phones pressed to their heads. All the sunlit tables were occupied. Jane hated busy cafés, the kinds of places where you had to queue for a spot and then spend twenty minutes pressed in between strangers, simply because it was the place to be. Let’s go in there, it looks busy. When she’d been studying in France, her friends had all been that way, saying they shouldn’t go into a particular restaurant because nobody else was eating there, whereas Jane was always willing to forgo high-quality food if it meant she could have some space. Give her a quiet pub any day. Sometimes she felt like an alien around other people.
She felt even more nervous about going into Eyecatchers. Whatever make-up she wore, she picked up almost at random from the supermarket, and just studying the outside of the salon now made her feel apprehensive. It would have been a challenge for her to go inside at the best of times. She always imagined that the women working there would look at her and sneer, as though she didn’t deserve the products, and anyway, what good would they do someone like her? With the questions she was here to ask, she was going to look even more ridiculous than she woul
d normally.
You can’t do this.
The feelings it conjured up were all too familiar. But as Jane recognised the tightening in her chest, the shame in her mind, she pushed back at them. Do you know what, Dad? The more you say that recently, the more determined I become.
She got out of the car. The worst that could happen was that she’d look like an idiot, and a few people she’d never met before and never would again would think she was stupid. That was hardly so bad in the grand scheme of things.
She waited for the lights to change, then crossed the street. When she reached Eyecatchers, she removed any last traces of hesitation from her mind, pushed open the wooden double doors and stepped inside.
The first thing that hit her was the smell: a complicated, cloying mixture of aromas that hung in the air, thick as powder, a little like walking into a sweet shop. Everything was so very bright in here, as well: even more so than the sunlit street behind her. All the shelves, drawers and cabinets were white and clean, and there were rows and rows of rainbow-coloured products, the jars and boxes arranged in size order, like small families. Soft classical music was playing in the background.
There was nobody behind the counter, but a young woman in a clinical-looking white uniform was standing by one of the displays, slightly on tiptoes, hands clasped in front of her, giving her the air of a ballerina. At first glance, she was very beautiful, but as Jane looked at her, she wondered if that was more down to the fact that she appeared to be wearing an entire mask of make-up. Her face was tanned, with the centre of each cheek sporting a smeary sun of red. Amidst all that, her eyes were large and almost preternaturally white.
Could it be her? The victim from Westfield?
‘Hello there! Can I help you with anything?’
Jane closed the heavy door behind her. Despite the friendly welcome, she felt even more nervous than before. Now that she was here, she wasn’t sure what she was actually going to say. But as she approached the assistant, at least one immediate concern was taken away – she was in her early twenties at most, and likely still a teenager. The victim described in the papers had been twenty-five, so this couldn’t be her. There was some relief in that. Jane wanted to talk to the victim, of course – that was the whole point of being here. But one step at a time.