by Mark Romain
“She doesn’t seem particularly happy, does she?” he whispered to Kelly.
Kelly raised a finger to her lips and made a shushing sound. “We don’t want to upset her ladyship, do we?”
“I heard that,” Terry shouted without looking back. “And don’t think I don’t know that you’re enjoying this.”
◆◆◆
“Hello, Mrs Phillips. This is Detective Chief Inspector Jack Tyler. I’m the officer in charge of the investigation into your daughter’s murder.” He wondered if he still would be, come the end of the day. The way things were going, it was far from being a certainty. “I’m sorry to trouble you, but there’s been a development that I think you should know about.”
This was the first time they had spoken, and Jack wasn’t looking forward to the impending conversation. In fact, he was dreading it. After all, what could you possibly say to someone who had lost a loved one in the most brutal of circumstances? ‘I’d like to offer my sincere condolences for your loss,’ seemed woefully inadequate. For him, talking to the recently bereaved was one of the most difficult aspects of his job. Compared to that, a week in the witness box, being grilled by even the most ruthless and aggressive of defence barristers, seemed like a walk in the park.
Kelly had developed a good relationship with Rita, and had been keeping the elderly lady up to date on the investigation’s progress, but it wouldn’t be right for Rita Phillips to hear this particular piece of news from anyone else but the SIO.
Jack had just finished reading the background statement Kelly had taken from Mrs Phillips. Its content had saddened him. He noted, wryly, that everything about this case seemed to either sadden or enrage him. It probably wasn’t the healthiest range of feelings to be flitting between.
He couldn't help thinking about the poor little girl who had been so cruelly orphaned. She was as much a victim as Tracey, if not more so, and now she would grow up deprived of a mother’s love and guidance, never knowing that special bond that exists between parent and child. Jack, who had been blessed with two wonderful parents, grieved for her.
The inquest was due to open at the local Coroners Court the following morning, and Rita Phillips wanted to attend. Unfortunately, she was under the illusion that her daughter’s murderer had been caught. That was his fault. When they’d nabbed Winston, Jack had authorised Kelly, in her role as Family Liaison Officer, to inform Mrs Phillips that they were confident they had the person responsible for her daughter’s death in custody. He now realised that the disclosure had been a little premature, and he should have waited until charges were brought. He had meant well, of course, but he should have known better. In his haste to ease the old woman’s pain, he had ignored the lingering doubts he had. Now he would have to pay the price for making such a stupid balls-up.
“Mrs Phillips, I wanted to tell you this before it hits the news,” he began awkwardly. There was no easy way to say it. “The killer has struck again. There’s been another murder. In fact, there have been two. It means the man we have in custody can’t possibly be the person who murdered Tracey. I’m so sorry.” Jack rubbed his eyes, trying to massage away the pain that was starting to develop behind them.
Silence.
He listened to her shallow breathing over the telephone, awaiting a response. His apology had sounded painfully inadequate, even to him.
“I see,” she eventually managed, her voice choked with despair. The swift capture of the man Rita believed responsible for Tracey’s death had partially eased the searing pain she felt inside. While it wouldn’t bring Tracey back, it would prevent anyone else from suffering like she had, and it would ensure that the killer was punished for his hideous crime. If the murderer escaped, it would make a mockery of British justice and everything that she and her late husband had believed in all their lives.
“Mrs Phillips, please don’t give up hope,” he implored her. “We are doing all we can, I promise you.”
“I know you are, Mr Tyler. It’s just…it’s just so hard.” He could tell from the timbre of her voice that she was close to tears. The TV was loud in the background, a children’s programme if he wasn’t mistaken. He wondered if the little girl was sitting there with Rita, listening to her Granny, not really understanding what was going on but instinctively knowing that something was wrong. He imagined how agonisingly hard it must be for Rita Phillips, holding a difficult and painful conversation like this with him, and then having to pretend that everything was fine, for the little girl’s sake. He prayed that neither he nor anyone he loved would ever have to go through anything remotely similar to what Rita and April were suffering right now.
“Look, Mrs Phillips, I’ll arrange for DC Flowers to pick you up from home tomorrow at nine a.m. I’ll be at Court myself. This is only a preliminary hearing, and it won’t take long. We can sit down together and talk properly afterwards.”
“That’s very kind of you, but it’s no trouble to get the bus,” she insisted. Rita was determined not to become a burden.
Tyler had dealt with so many spongers over the years, people who expected to be waited on, hand and foot. But Rita Phillips didn’t fit into that category; she had pride. She was a fiercely independent woman, determined to stand on her own two feet. “Mrs Phillips – Rita – it’s not a bother. Besides, you’re an important witness to us and we don’t want you being hounded by the press.” He hoped that explanation would satisfy her. In truth, it was most unlikely that she would ever be called as a witness, or that the press would harass her.
“Oh, I see,” Rita said, and her voice softened. “Well, in that case, I’d be most grateful for a lift.”
“Good. I’ll arrange it with Kelly Flowers and I’ll see you in the morning.”
After the call, Jack leaned back, hoisted his feet onto his desk and crossed his ankles. Folding his hands across his stomach, he let out a long sigh and swore profusely. The conversation had left him feeling extremely maudlin. It was a good thing that he ran a ‘dry’ office. If there had been a bottle of Jack Daniels sitting in his bottom drawer, he doubted he would have been able to resist a shot or two.
They needed a break, something to crack the case wide open, but lady luck just wasn’t smiling down on them. It seemed as though they’d been working this case for months instead of days. With two live crime scenes on the go, every member of his team, plus all the other officers who had been drafted in to support them, was stretched to the limit. Even his OM and Receiver were out pounding the pavement today.
Jack glanced at his watch. It was four o’clock, already. The day was flying by. Tyler had personally spoken to the Coroner’s Officer at the mortuary to clear the way for the two urgent special post mortems. The one on the girl from Mitre Square would be done first thing tomorrow, which meant he should get the preliminary report by early afternoon.
The SPM from the Hanbury Street murder would be carried out tomorrow afternoon, which meant he would have the prelim on her by mid-evening. Dillon had visibly paled when Jack delivered the bad news that he would have to attend two SPMs tomorrow.
Jack Tyler’s style was to lead from the front, and he detested the tedious administrative responsibilities that came with the job. They were never ending, hung around his neck like a lead weight, and constantly restricted his freedom. After updating his decision log, Tyler wearily emerged from his office, walked along the corridor to the MIR, and placed copies of his latest log entries in the ‘In’ tray for Operation Crawley, the randomly generated name that Tracey’s murder had been assigned. He smiled at Julia, the office temptress, on his way out.
“Would you like me to make you a cup of coffee?” Julia called after him.
“That’s very kind, as long as it’s no trouble.”
“You can trouble me anytime,” Julia purred.
◆◆◆
By the time the Scene Examiner arrived at Terri Miller’s flat she had changed into some clothes of her own and was feeling slightly more human.
The Examiner was a quiet, introvert man in
his middle thirties. He had an unkempt bush of curly brown hair that fell just below his collar and he wore metal-rimmed glasses, which contained enormous bottleneck lenses that made his brown eyes seem much bigger than they really were. He introduced himself as Andy Baxter.
Baxter, who reminded Terri of your archetypal boffin, got straight down to business. He switched on the little iPod Nano that was clipped to his belt and started dusting the smooth surfaces of the apartment with fine white powder. He worked methodically, starting with the hallway and working back towards the living room. From his incessant humming, they quickly deduced that Baxter was an opera fan. When they asked what he was listening to, he shyly explained that he had a soft spot for the classic piano operas penned by the late German composer, Wagner.
“I hope he’s more talented at scene examination then he is at humming opera,” Kelly remarked, trying to lighten the atmosphere a little.
“Look, what exactly is the purpose of all this?” Terri demanded, wondering who was going to have to clear up the mess.
“You told us that, apart from you, Julie’s the only person who’s been in your flat recently. Is that right?” Evans enquired.
Terri nodded. “Yes. Sad but true. I’ve been so involved with my work that I’ve hardly been here at all, and I haven’t had anyone over for dinner in –”
“The point is,” Kelly interrupted, not the slightest bit interested in Miller’s social life, “if we find prints belonging to anyone else, there’s a good chance that they were left by the killer.”
The colour drained from Terri’s face, and she started looking around, trying to work out if anything had been disturbed. “You don’t really think that…that monster’s been in here, do you?” The idea that anyone – especially a bloodthirsty maniac – had been snooping around her apartment – going through her most intimate and private possessions – made her feel violated in some obscene way.
“Calm down, Miss Miller,” Paul Evans soothed, “I’ve examined the locks and there are no signs of tampering, so I honestly don’t think it’s likely. But we have to check everything out, just to be sure.”
Kelly moved over to the telephone, deep in thought. “Miss Miller, have you received any more phone calls, any at all since the killer spoke to you earlier?”
Terri checked the answer machine. There were no messages and no one had called before she and Julie left this morning. And she had used her mobile to speak to her editor. “No. And, please, call me Terri.” The reporter smiled in a way that implied she wanted hostilities to cease.
Kelly nodded, smiling back. She had big reservations about Miller, but she had promised Paul she would try to keep an open mind. She picked up the telephone and dialled ‘1471’. “Right, let’s see if our mystery man has left us a clue, shall we?”
“If he has, Kelly, it’ll be because he doesn’t mind us having it. This swine doesn’t make many mistakes,” Evans said quietly.
The electronic voice at the other end of the line repeated the eleven digits belonging to the last telephone number to call Terri, stating that the call had been made at five-fifteen that morning. “Thank goodness for British Telecom’s call back service,” Kelly said as she scribbled down the number on a pad by the phone. “We’ll run a check on that when we get back,” she told Terri, pocketing the piece of paper.
The cool bag and its wrappings were to be taken for immediate forensic and medical tests, but there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that the flesh packed inside it was human. The Polaroids and their accompanying letter were placed straight into separate evidence bags; they, too, would be forensically examined back at the lab.
Baxter did a quick visual comparison between the prints he had found in the flat and the elimination prints Terri and Julie had provided before leaving the station. “Sorry, guys, we’ll double check the results at the Yard, but I’m confident the only prints I’ve found match the two sets of elimination prints you’ve shown me.” Baxter said this with utter conviction. He seemed disappointed that nothing more sinister had come to light during his examination.
“The place hasn’t been wiped over, either. The dust patterns are equal and undisturbed, so I don’t think anyone’s been in and tried to hide the fact afterwards. No, I think you can safely say the place is clean.” Baxter began to put his brushes and powder away, his job finished. After carefully collecting the cool bag he departed for the police forensic laboratory in Lambeth.
Evans opened the patio door and walked out onto the spacious balcony. He took a few moments to savour the splendid view it afforded of the river Thames, watching in fascination as a small tug made its way along the river, battling valiantly against the strong current. He could see the silhouette of the pilot in the tiny wheelhouse and a figure swaying on deck as the vessel pitched and rolled in the swell.
The temperature was starting to drop quite noticeably now that the sun was going down, but in contradiction to the abysmal conditions of yesterday it had been a pleasant autumnal day; cold, crisp and sunny. English weather was so temperamental, he reflected, just like his wife.
Terri Miller appeared beside him. “I’ve put some coffee on,” she said.
“We don’t want to cause you any bother.”
“It’s no bother.”
“Well, in that case, I take mine white with two sugars,” Evans said, gratefully.
On her way back in, Terri lingered at the doorway, giving him the impression that she had something on her mind. Evans raised an enquiring eyebrow, inviting her to speak if she wanted to.
“Look, I’m really sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused,” Terri told him, and he thought he detected a trace of embarrassment, perhaps even a hint of remorse, in her voice. “For what it’s worth, Julie was against it from the start. I guess I just got carried away with the idea of getting an exclusive story and acted irresponsibly.” Terri was only just beginning to understand how rashly she had behaved; how selfish and insensitive she must appear.
Evans studied her intently. Was this genuine repentance? She certainly seemed sincere, but experience had taught him to be wary. Still, on the off chance that Terri’s reparations were real, he would cut her some slack. “It’s alright, love,” he said, “we all mess up from time to time.”
“Thank you, Paul. I don’t think your Mr Tyler would be so forgiving, though. And as for that brutish Dillon character, I think he would have happily strung me up to be tarred and feathered!” She winced at the recollection of her interview with Dillon.
“They’re good men, Terri. Admittedly, Mr Dillon is a little rough around the edges, but not everyone can be as silky smooth as me.”
Miller grinned. “And you’re so modest with it.”
Evans chuckled, pleased that the ice between them had melted a little. The Welshman had a gift for making people around him relax. It was one of the first things Kelly had noticed when she joined the team.
Miller looked down at her feet. “So, what happens now? If Jack … if the killer calls again?”
“We’ve got some technical people coming over soon,” Evans explained. “They’re going to rig up a recording device to your phone. Hopefully, we’ll be able to trace any new calls that the killer makes. Kelly and I will wait here with you until the electrical wizards are finished.”
“That’s all very well in principle, but what if he calls from a phone box? Bugging my phone won’t help you unless you can trace him to an address and arrest him.” Terri didn’t warm to the idea of having her calls monitored; it was a civil liberties infringement.
Evans smiled sympathetically. He understood her reluctance; he wouldn’t want his private calls being recorded either. “Ah, Terri, love, we’re not bugging the phone. We won’t be able to listen in ‘live time’ to any calls. All we’re doing is recording them for evidential purposes. It’ll help us massively when the case comes to court.”
“You’ve got to catch him first,” she pointed out.
“We’ll get him in the end, we always do, and th
e recordings will be played at trial. That sort of thing is dynamite in court.”
Terri dry washed her face. “I’m not sure I can do it, Paul,” she confided in a brittle voice that made her sound vulnerable. “I’ve seen what he can do, and I’ve never been so terrified in all my life. To think that he knows where I live, that he’s been right outside my bloody door…” She shuddered and instinctively hugged herself. “The truth is I just want to run away and hide. The last thing I want to do is talk to him again.”
“Terri, love, we need you to stay and help,” Evans said. “You’re the best chance that we’ve got to snare him.”
“Would it be cowardly of me to say no?” Terri asked. All of a sudden, she seemed as naïve and defenceless as Paul’s six-year-old daughter. “Jules has said I can move in with her for a while. You know, until this all blows over.” Terri felt wretched for saying this, but her nerves were shot.
“No, not cowardly…”
“But not helpful either?” Terry was aware that she must seem very weak in Evans' eyes, and she hated herself for it.