The lights of the taxi rank and the shop windows would have finished here, she thought, and then it would have been the street lights, partly screened by the thick summer foliage of the trees. Would you notice someone following on rubber soles? Or a car gliding slowly past, stopping around the next corner, its lights extinguished? At what point would he make his approach, ask to use her phone to get help for a girlfriend in the car, perhaps, suffering an asthma attack? Was there anyone else at home, he might ask, who could help him lift her out of the car? No, no one. I’m all alone. Come inside. Use the phone.
As she walked the deserted suburban streets, heavy with the aroma of roses and cyclamen, murmuring with the sound of bees and foliage stirring, the sense of unreality and suspended time returned to Kathy. The crimes that happen here happen indoors, hidden from the public eye by lush, lovingly tended gardens. Private crimes. Family crimes. And the occasional thunderbolt from outside.
Mrs. Hannaford looked as if she’d aged ten years in the previous forty-eight hours. Weeping and lack of sleep had drained the colour and the muscle tone from her face, which sagged around the despairing points of her eyes. Her husband’s face, by contrast, had hardened in the interval. His big head was fixed in an expression of grim outrage. The contrast between them was heightened by the distance at which they sat apart, as if they were suffering in isolation, without reference to one another. Glenys sat in the same armchair as before, beside the fireplace, while Basil Hannaford took the settee against the wall farthest from it, leaving Kathy to take the other armchair, at the third point of a remote triangle.
“I’m so sorry to intrude again. You must have seen more than enough of us over the last couple of days,” Kathy began, lamely trying to break the heavy silence. “I have a list here of men that Angela may have known socially or through her work. I wonder if you could help us by suggesting any more names for that list.”
Kathy gave a copy each to the silent couple. Mrs. Hannaford lowered her head to the piece of paper in her lap, but Kathy wasn’t sure that she was really focusing on it.
Basil Hannaford glared at his copy. “I’ve never heard of some of these people. Clive Ferry is the manager where she works, isn’t he? What is the point of this?”
“We want to eliminate everyone who was known to Angela from our inquiries, if we can,” Kathy answered gently.
“Why would you imagine that the man was known to her?” He was speaking through clenched teeth, with the air of someone who has been taken advantage of once and is determined not to let it happen again.
“We don’t know that, of course. But he was able to get in without forcing an entry, apparently . . .”
“It’s perfectly obvious what happened, surely!” His anger came bursting through his self-control. “He came up behind her as she was opening the front door to let herself in. He pushed his way in and she dropped her bag!”
Mrs. Hannaford gave an agonized sob.
“That’s quite possible . . .”
“This is utterly useless!” He crumpled the paper in a sudden violent gesture. “You must have names, on your computers, of perverts, don’t you? The sort of filth who could have done this?”
“Yes . . .”
“Well, are you rounding them up? Are you?”
“That is another of our lines of inquiry, Mr. Hannaford. However, we’ll be better placed to do that when we have the results of the forensic tests in a few days. They should help to narrow . . .”
“A few days! And in the meantime he’ll have gone to ground, covered his tracks! I find this utterly astounding.”
“I can assure you . . .” Kathy tried again, but it was clear that Hannaford’s anger was not going to be mollified.
“I would be obliged if you would ask your superior officer—what was his name?”
“Detective Chief Inspector Brock.”
Hannaford grimly made a note on a small telephone pad at his elbow. “. . . If you would ask Detective Chief Inspector Brock to come here in person next time. We would like him to report to us on his progress, within twenty-four hours.”
Kathy took a deep breath. “I’ll tell him, sir. Mrs. Hannaford, there is one thing perhaps you can tell me. Did Angela ever speak of being annoyed or pestered by anyone, at work perhaps, or on the train?”
There was a moment’s silence, then Glenys rocked her head from side to side. Her husband gave a grunt of exasperation and got to his feet.
When she reached the front door, Kathy turned to face him. “Mr. Hannaford, I do understand . . .”
“You have no idea whatsoever, young woman.” There was a panel of yellow tinted glass in the oak front door, and the light from it glowed unpleasantly on Hannaford’s angry face. “She belonged to me, and he took her.”
Kathy was startled by his choice of words, and she stared at him, her throat tight. But the choice was deliberate, and he repeated it.
“She belonged to me!”
He reached past her shoulder abruptly and opened the front door.
KATHY HAD BEGUN TO walk back to the railway station when she stopped and retraced her steps. She passed the Hannafords’ house and rang the bell of number 30, next door. Pamela Ratcliffe, the woman who had spoken to her when she had first arrived at the scene on Sunday, answered.
“Yes, I do remember you,” she said. “Some of your other people came to take statements from us.” She led Kathy briskly through to the rear of the house. It had originally been identical to the Hannafords’, but the dark timber had been painted a pale grey, the floors polished, and with modern chrome and leather furniture it was unrecognizably light and airy where the other was dark and claustrophobic.
“Have you had a chance to talk to Mr. and Mrs. Hannaford at all, Mrs. Ratcliffe?”
The other woman made an uneasy grimace. “I tried. I called round yesterday, but . . . Glenys is under sedation, and Basil . . . I don’t know. He’s very bitter. It’s completely understandable, of course. I’m doing their shopping for them, although, in a way, I wondered if it might be better if they got out and spoke to people. I suppose they will when they’re ready.”
“Have they had visitors, do you know?”
“I’ve seen the doctor’s car there. And yesterday, when I was weeding in the garden, I saw their vicar call in. He didn’t stay long.”
There was a sudden burst of pop music from somewhere close by.
“Warwick’s having his breakfast in the kitchen,” Mrs. Ratcliffe said. “I let him sleep in later during the school holidays. Quite often he stays up late at night with his radio. It’s his hobby.”
“Listening to the radio?”
“No.” Mrs. Ratcliffe smiled and pointed out into the garden through the new aluminium sliding doors. For the first time, Kathy noticed the spidery structure of aerials and masts that were threaded through the silver birch trees. “He gets messages from all around the world, and he transmits them as well. He built it all, with his dad’s help.”
Kathy had already noticed a portrait photograph of father and son grinning at the camera, both with the same shock of red hair and wearing similar large round glasses.
“They had a bit of trouble with the neighbours for a while.” Mrs. Ratcliffe rolled her eyes, as if to say that boys will be boys. “They were causing interference with everybody’s TVs. The Hannafords got particularly agitated at one point, so we introduced the eleven o’clock rule. He’s not allowed to transmit before 11:00 p.m., when everyone’s switched off for the night.”
“I see. Well, one thing I wanted to check again with him was the time he arrived home on Saturday night. There’s no chance it could have been later than 11:55, as he said?”
“Oh no. He’d have been right about that. That’s the twelve o’clock rule. He must be home by midnight, unless it’s something very special. He is only fifteen. And I think young people appreciate having firm rules to work within, don’t you?”
Kathy smiled. “I’m sure you’re right. I get the impression from my friends th
at it’s the parents who get tired of the rules first. You know, having to monitor them, staying up to midnight to check the kids are back, that sort of thing.”
Mrs. Ratcliffe nodded. “Yes, well, we don’t actually do that. We’re usually asleep long before then, I’m afraid. There has to be an element of trust. Anyway, have a talk to Warwick, by all means.”
Kathy asked the boy if he would show her his room upstairs, so that she could see how much of the house and garden next door was visible. From the main window, in front of which stood a desk crowded with electronic equipment, the elaborate array of aerials in the garden of number 30 was clearly visible, although almost nothing of the adjoining garden could be seen. However, there was also a small side window facing directly across to the Hannafords’ house, and through it Kathy could see a corresponding window in what must be Angela’s room.
“You can see directly across to Angela’s room from here, Warwick,” she said.
“Yes. She always kept her curtains drawn on that window.”
“But you don’t?”
He shook his head, cautious, but feigning indifference.
“So you would have definitely been aware of it if her light had been on when you returned on Saturday night?”
“Suppose so.”
“And it wasn’t?”
“That’s what I told the other bloke.”
“Did you draw your curtains when you returned?”
“Yes.”
“And you heard no sounds from next door?”
“No.”
“No sound of a car starting up? No sound of anything being broken? A voice? A cry?”
Warwick shook his head and looked away. His hand strayed towards the dial on a silver metal box and began to fiddle with it.
“And you are quite certain about the time? 11:55?”
“That’s what I told the man.”
“I know, but you probably didn’t realize then just how serious this all was, Warwick. Look at me, please. Did you realize then that Angela had been brutally murdered? Did you realize then just how important your statement would be? You were probably more concerned at that point about your parents’ twelve o’clock rule, isn’t that right?”
Warwick swallowed uncomfortably, his eyes darting back and forward from Kathy’s steady gaze.
“You realize you may well have to give evidence about this in court, under oath, Warwick. And the other people at the party you were at on Saturday night may have to do the same, to confirm the time you left. Now, you see how serious this is? I can give you this one last chance to revise your earlier statement, if there are any inaccuracies in it, and there’ll be no more said. All right?”
He nodded.
“Well?”
“It was later.”
“Yes. How much later?”
“It was after one o’clock.”
“How much after?”
“Probably about 1:45. I’m not sure exactly.” He looked at Kathy in appeal. “I couldn’t tell them the truth before, not with Mum and Dad there watching me. They go on and on about their stupid rules. I didn’t think it mattered much anyway.”
Kathy nodded. “Anything else you want to change?”
He shook his head. “No, honest. There were no lights, and I didn’t hear anything. I came in through our back door, with the key they leave under the flower pot for me, and I’d have noticed if there’d have been any lights on next door at that time. Honest.”
“WELL, THAT CLEARS UP that little difficulty,” Brock said.
“Yes,” Kathy nodded. “And Mr. Hannaford asked me to ask you if you would go in person and explain what we’re doing.”
Brock raised his eyebrow at her.
“He’s very angry and wants to have a go at someone. He wondered why we hadn’t rounded up all the perverts in London for questioning.”
“Good idea. Book Wembley Stadium for me, will you, Kathy?” Brock gave a low growl and tilted back in his seat, scratching his beard. “No, he’s right, of course. I’m damn sure this mongrel’s done something before that we know about. Maybe he didn’t go as far as murder, but it was so . . . elaborate, and ritualistic, as if he was working to a script he’d thought very carefully about and probably rehearsed. I can’t believe this was his first time. He must have worked himself up to this, through a series of stages, most likely.”
“Isn’t it possible that it was all just fantasy up to this point?” Kathy suggested. “Maybe borrowed from books, or films? Trying to cut off her face, for instance. It seems to make no sense, unless he was copying something.”
“Like what?”
“Well, that was in The Silence of the Lambs, wasn’t it, and in Gorky Park? Especially Gorky Park. Cutting off the victim’s face was a big thing.”
“Was it?” Brock curled his lip in distaste. “I’m thankful I didn’t see either of them. And where would that take us?”
“I don’t know,” Kathy shrugged. “That he saw himself as Hannibal Lecter, perhaps, or Lee Marvin.”
Brock grunted, obviously unconvinced. “Well, at any rate, we’ve got to find the precedents, whatever they are, in the ocean of unsolved murders, assaults, rapes, and missing persons. The most promising so far is a murder/rape in a park about five miles from here, three months ago. Nothing quite like what we’ve got. But it wouldn’t be the same, necessarily. It would be the step that led to this, and the step before that. A question of knowing what to look for . . . recognizing it when we see it.”
“I’d like to help look.”
“You want an indoor job for a while?” Brock glanced up at her from under his thick eyebrows.
Kathy shrugged and nodded. Her encounter with Hannaford had unsettled her; not his anger, which was understandable, but the unexpected sense of elation that his powerlessness had given her. He could do absolutely nothing to catch his daughter’s killer, whereas she might. He was dependent on her, and he knew this and hated it, just as she relished it. Afterwards she had felt ashamed.
“Well, how about the Sexual Assault Index? You’re familiar with that?”
Kathy nodded.
“You can access it from the computer here. You might want to go up to the Forensic Science Laboratory at Lambeth too. They may have additional stuff they haven’t put on to the computer record. Have you been up to the MPFSL? Leon Desai will set it up for you.”
Kathy eventually found herself a terminal, and settled down to spend the rest of the day working her way through the hundreds of rape cases analysed in the SAI. It was a grim task, the Index a dreary catalogue of male brutality and female misery, but the possibility that the next case might provide a clue to Angela’s killer, or the next, drove her on.
“Fancy a drink?” She looked up to see Bren at her shoulder. She shook her head and looked back at the screen.
“Not tonight, Bren. See you tomorrow.”
“Oh.” He looked surprised. “You don’t want a lift back to town?”
She shook her head again and he noticed the gleam in her eye.
“On to something?”
“No. Not a thing.”
He shrugged, hesitated, then padded off.
Half an hour later, Brock put his head round the door. “Any luck?”
“Nothing yet.”
“Need a lift?”
“I’ll wait for a while longer. Get a train.”
He saw the preoccupied look on her face, her eyes straying back to the screen, and nodded. “I went to see the Hannafords this afternoon,” he said.
“Oh.” Kathy looked back at him. “How did it go?”
Brock shook his head. “Not good. She’s doped to the eyeballs, but what good will that do? Just postpone the agony of coming to terms with it, I’d have thought. And he’s like a bomb, ready to go off, poor bastard. They need help, but they won’t see anyone except the doctor and the vicar—and us. I mentioned the programme to put them in touch with people who’ve been through the same thing as them, but they’re not ready for it yet. I’ve told T
ed to follow it up. Where is Ted, by the way?”
“Er, I don’t know, Brock. I haven’t seen him since lunchtime.”
“Oh. Well, see you tomorrow.”
KATHY WAS STILL AT her screen an hour later when a call came through for her from Manchester. It was a man’s voice, agitated, speaking quickly.
“Hello? You’re the one spoke to Rhona Clement, aren’t you, at Merritt Finance?”
“Yes, that’s me. Who am I talking to?”
“I’m her boyfriend, Darren. Look, I’m not going to talk long, only Rhona wanted to tell you something about Angela.”
“Fine. Do you want to put her on?”
“No. She wants to tell you off the record. She doesn’t want to lose her job, see? So I said I’d speak to you, and you can’t say she told you. She’ll deny it if you do.”
“Darren, I . . .”
“Look! My brother’s being cremated tomorrow, so I don’t want to argue about it!” He was speaking very fast, almost a gabble, and Kathy could sense the tears welling into his eyes. “The thing she wanted to say is that Angela told her a couple of times that someone at work was bothering her—trying to chat her up, following her home on the train, touching her, you know.”
“Yes. Who was it, Darren?”
“Tom, his name is. Tom Gentle. He’s their boss.”
“Ah . . . good, Darren. Thank you. Now look, if you’ll just tell me where Rhona’s staying, I’ll come up there and . . .”
But the line had gone dead.
FIVE
KATHY AND BREN WERE waiting for Clive Ferry in his office the following morning. Once again he was a model of impeccable managerial attire. He rested his hands lightly on the desk in front of him, two inches of brilliant white cuff visible at each wrist, and spoke to Bren.
“And is there any progress, would you say?”
“In a way,” Kathy replied, the abruptness of her tone registering with him. His precisely sculpted moustache gave a little twitch and he turned his head towards her.
“When I was here the last time, Mr. Ferry, you reacted very clearly to something I said, then avoided explaining why. I’d like to give you a further opportunity to tell me what was in your mind. And I have to warn you that obstructing a murder investigation is an extremely serious matter.”
All My Enemies Page 6