“Okay, but thanks for getting in touch so quickly. Can you give me the Proctor's address?”
“Sure,” said Woodruff, reading off the address, which Ross duly noted down on a pad of post-its on his desk. “You can't miss it,” he added, “It's just off the main road, about a mile from the station, about a hundred yards past the Shell filling station.”
After thanking Woodruff, Ross made his way out of his office to find Izzie Drake and Christine Bland, coming to the end of their coffees, talking with Sam Gable.
“Meeting of the Women's Institute?” he joked as he drew near.
“Ha-ha, very funny, Boss,” Drake replied. “Sam here was just telling us she used to live not far from Speke Hill.”
“Really?” Ross said, quizzically. “What's it like, Sam?”
“Creepy, sir,” she answered. “Well, it was when I was eight years old. It used to be a mental asylum back in Victorian times, and was converted to an orphanage and school sometime in the early part of the twentieth century. It was a real old gothic pile, at least, that's how it looked to us kids when we were growing up, you know, a real haunted house look to it. In fact, there were lots of stories around at the time about the place having a resident ghost.”
“Ah, well, it would have to have a ghost wouldn't it?” Ross laughed.
“The thing is, sir,” Gable went on, “lots of the kids who lived there used to get out at weekends and hit the local shops and villages or the older ones could catch the bus into town, and me and my friends often knocked about with some of the girls from there. They used to tell us about strange goings on in the orphanage at night.”
“What kind of 'goings on' were they talking about, Sam”
“They said that sometimes they'd hear screams in the night, like a child in pain, a girl, they thought, and some of them said they'd seen a dark figure prowling the corridors in the dead of night, moving silently as though it was floating along, not touching the floor.”
“Oh, come on Sam. You don't expect me to believe in some ghost wandering around scaring girls shitless in the night do you?”
“I'm only telling you what they told us, sir. Oh yes, and they did say that girls sometimes disappeared and were never seen again.”
Now Ross's interest was aroused.
“Do you remember the names of any of those girls you talked to,” he asked.
“Oh God, no sir, sorry. It was years ago and they were only kids we met up with now and then at weekends. I don't think we even knew some of their names.”
“Okay, well, try to think of anything you can while we're out. Write down any memories you have that might help give us some additional background on the place. We're going to have to visit Speke Hill very soon. You might as well join us when we head over there. Your knowledge might be useful.”
“Right you are, sir,” said Gable, pleased to have the opportunity to work alongside Ross and Drake when the time came.
Chapter 16
Melanie
Crossing the car park to reach the pool car, Ross noticed Christine Bland casting a long look at a gleaming maroon Vauxhall Carlton, parked in one of the visitor spaces.
“Yours?” he asked, pointing to the pristine looking car, the Registration plate indicating the car to be around ten years old.
“Yes, it is,” Bland replied
“I thought you'd have owned something bang up to date and trendier than the Carlton,” he observed.
“Sentimental value, Inspector,” the profiler replied. “It belonged to my late father. He bought it brand new and it was his pride and joy. He looked after it as though it was his baby. When he died five years ago, I asked Mum if I could have it, and I've done my best to keep it as he'd have liked. Vauxhall ceased production of the Carlton a few years ago but the parts, if needed, are still cheap enough and in plentiful supply.”
“Nice,” Ross said. “Sorry about your Dad.”
“Thanks,” Bland responded. “He was a lovely man, my Dad. Supported me in everything I did as a girl, through uni, the lot. I miss him a lot.”
A companionable silence fell over the small group as they entered the car, and Drake drove out of the car park and headed for Bootle. On the way, Izzie decided to try and find out more about the new temporary addition to the team.
“If you don't mind me asking, Doctor,” she began, “but how did you get into the business of criminal profiling? We didn't get much chance to talk back there, thanks to Paul Ferris and his new information.”
“I don't mind at all, Sergeant. I always wanted to by a psychologist, from around the age of twelve or thirteen anyway. I was lucky, got the grades I needed to get into medical school, got my M.D. and then went up to Oxford and got a degree in Psychology, followed by another in Criminology. When I was suitably qualified, I applied to the Home Office to be included in their list of Criminal Psychologists, able to assist the police in difficult cases. I became fascinated by the actual science of exactly what made certain criminals tick, why they did the things they do and so on. An opportunity came along to spend a year studying with the F.B.I's specialist Criminal Behavioural Analysis Unit at their H.Q at Quantico in Virginia. I applied and was accepted, and the rest, as they say, is history. I came back and was employed as one of a small number of profilers working directly for the Home Office, on a full time basis, basically going wherever I'm needed when a force such as yours specifically asks for help with cases like this one.”
Drake was impressed and said so in no uncertain terms.
“Wow. That's fascinating. You must have been really determined to have gone through all that studying and training.”
“I wanted to make my parents proud of me,” Bland replied. “I'm pleased to say I think I succeeded.”
Ross, who'd listened intently to her reply to Drake's question, added.
“Well, Christine, with all that training and your obvious qualifications for the job in hand, I have to say I'm pleased you're here to give us the benefit of your expertise.”
“Thanks,” she replied. “I'm developing a few thoughts already. I'll know more after we've seen this poor lady and when I finally get to finish reading the case notes you gave me back at headquarters. I might need to talk to the pathologist too, a Doctor Nugent, I believe?”
“No problem. Maybe you can take Doctor Bland to meet our friend at the mortuary tomorrow, Sam, after she's had a chance to read up on the case?”
“Be glad to sir,” Sam Gable replied from her place in the back of the car, seated next to Christine.
* * *
“This is it, number forty-five,” Drake announced as she pulled the car to a halt on the street outside a fairly modern detached three bedroom house with a well kept lawn to the front, liberally planted with various hybrid tea roses in well kept borders. An almost new Toyota Corolla, in a fiery red, stood on the drive in front of a closed up-and-over garage door.
Ross hated the task that lay ahead of them in the next few minutes. Informing a loved one of the death of a spouse or other relative was about the worst job a police officer had to attend to in his career, and in a case like this, the thought of how the man's widow might react was almost too terrible to contemplate, but knowing there was no way to avoid what had to be done, he took a deep breath before grasping the door handle, ready to open the door, and then…
“Okay, let's get this over with. Izzie, in the front with me. You at the back with the Doctor, please, Sam.”
The woman who answered the door in response to the ringing of the doorbell looked to be in her mid-fifties, slightly overweight though not obese, with auburn hair that fell to her shoulders and looked in need of washing and brushing. Ross assumed worry about her husband had brought about the temporary neglect of her otherwise neat and well turned out appearance. She wore a cream blouse, and brown trousers that ended at a pair of brown house shoes of a similar colour.
“You must be the police,” she immediately stated as she took in the rather large contingent of people standing
on her doorstep.
“Yes, and you must be Mrs. Melanie Proctor,” Ross said as he held up his warrant card to identify himself, and sought confirmation they had the right woman in front of them.
“Yes, please come in. Do you have any news of Mark?”
“Let's go inside and sit down, Mrs. Proctor,” Drake urged as the woman seemed to hesitate for a second before moving aside and admitting the four of them. “We can talk better indoors rather than on the doorstep.”
“Oh yes, of course, I'm sorry, please come in.”
Melanie led them into a spacious living room, neatly furnished with three-piece suite in deep red leather, good quality carpet with a soft, deep pile in a dark grey shadow design, and a large screen television in one corner. A bookcase stood against one wall and a standard lamp stood in the corner opposite the television. A chest of drawers stood under the window and Ross couldn't help but notice the wedding photograph proudly displayed on top of the chest, a younger and slightly slimmer version of Melanie Proctor smiling with happiness beside her husband, Mark.
“Sit down, please,” she invited, and Drake, Gable and Christine Bland did as she suggested while Ross remained standing behind Drake's chair, while Melanie stood looking nervously at the officers from a position standing in front of the cream marble fireplace.
“Do you have any news of Mark, then?” she now asked again after Ross had introduced the others. “Has he been involved in an accident? It must be that. I told him not to buy that bloody Subaru, it was too fast for him, but I think he wanted to show off in front of the boys at school. Is he in the hospital, Inspector? Was someone else hurt? Is that why you're here?”
Ross knew she was babbling, her words flying from her mouth from a nervousness born of fear. He'd witnessed this type of behaviour previously over the years as a kind of 'advance denial' reflex that kicked in to protect the speaker from potentially hearing bad news. He tapped Izzie Drake on the shoulder, and the sergeant spoke.
“Mrs. Proctor, Melanie, please, calm down. Inspector Ross needs to tell you something.”
It worked. Melanie Proctor fell silent for a few seconds, and then spoke once more.
“Forgive me Inspector, I'm sorry. It's just that I've been so worried. Please tell me if my husband's alright or has he been hurt in some way?
Andy Ross took a deep breath and then said, as sympathetically as he could.
“Mrs. Proctor, I'm sorry to inform you that we believe your husband was the victim of a vicious assault that took place in St. Mark's churchyard…”
“What? Wait a minute, I heard about that on the news on Radio Merseyside. But, that poor man, was…he was…”
“Dead, I know, Mrs. Proctor. I'm sorry to tell you we have good reason to believe the body currently in the mortuary is that of your husband, Mark Proctor.”
Melanie Proctor didn't shout, she didn't scream or become in any way hysterical. She stood staring directly into Ross's eyes for about twenty seconds as his words seemed to bore their way into the deepest recesses of her consciousness, and then, as all the colour in her face drained away, leaving her looking paler than a ghost, she simply fell to the floor in a dead faint, so fast, none of the officers could move to try and catch the poor woman.
“Oh shit,” said Ross.
“She'll be fine sir,” said Drake. “Sam, go and find the kitchen, bring her some water, and if you can find a towel or something, wet it and bring that too.”
“Right you are, Sarge,” said Gable, heading for the door.
“Can I help?” Christine Bland asked.
“She's only fainted,” Ross replied. “We'll bring her round in a minute.”
Eventually, they did just that and Drake and Gable gently laid Melanie Proctor on the sofa as she seemed to struggle for breath.
“Do you want us to call a doctor?” Ross asked, or maybe someone to come round and be with you?”
“No, thank you. Why do you think it's my Mark?”
“We sent a photo of the victim to all police stations in the area, Mrs. Proctor. Inspector Woodruff at Copy Lane recognised the man from the photo you'd given them at the station. I'm afraid I don't have much doubt that the victim in the churchyard is Mark.”
Tears were now flowing copiously from the woman's eyes, which were becoming redder by the second. Ross hated moments like this. There was just no way to make such moments any easier for the bereaved.
“I'm so sorry, Mrs. Proctor, but if we're to find who did this we need to ask you a few questions, and eventually, we'll need you to come and identify the body officially.”
“Oh my god, no. It can't be Mark, Inspector. Who could possibly have wanted to hurt him?”
“That's one of the questions we need to ask you. Do you know anyone who might have held a grudge of any kind against Mark, or perhaps someone he'd upset at work recently?”
“No, nobody at all. Mark is a teacher, Inspector. As far as I know he doesn't have an enemy in the world. He teaches P.E. at Speke Hill”
Melanie continued to speak of her husband in the present tense. Ross knew it might be a while before she used the past tense, accepting he'd gone.
“Alright, and I know this is hard for you, but we have to ask these things. When did you last see Mark, Mrs. Proctor?”
Melanie suddenly began shaking and her body almost convulsed as it became wracked with sobs and tears of pure grief.
Ross spoke quietly to Izzie Drake.
“I think we should give her some time. Izzie, you know what we need to find out from her. You and Sam stay here with Mrs. Proctor. Try and question her again when she's recovered slightly. I'll call Copy Lane, see if they can spare a patrol car to run me and the Doc here back to Headquarters, and also get them to send out a Families Liaison Officer to sit with Mrs. Proctor after you leave. Hopefully by then she'll have given us the name of someone, a friend or relative who can be with her. She shouldn't be on her own at a time like this. Before you leave, fix a time for her to come and identify her husband's body.”
“Okay, sir.”
“And Izzie?”
“Sir?”
“Don't be all day about it, know what I mean?”
“I know exactly what you mean sir,” Drake replied.
Ross turned again to Melanie Proctor.
“Mrs. Proctor, this is terrible news for you, I do appreciate that, but anything you can tell us may be helpful in finding whoever did this to your husband.”
“I understand, Inspector,” she sobbed.
“Let's make a nice fresh pot of tea, Melanie,” Izzie said. “We'll talk again in a few minutes when Inspector Ross and Doctor Bland have gone, okay?”
Melanie Proctor nodded and allowed Sam Gable to lead her into the kitchen, leaving Izzie Drake to talk privately with Ross for a minute.
“She's in shock, Izzie, so go easy on her, but try to find out anything you can about her husband's day to day life and activities. We need to establish whatever links him and Matthew Remington as well, which is vital if we're to move this case forward.”
“No problem sir. We'll use the gentle touch with her, see what we can prise out of her.”
“I thought you'd be talking to her yourself,” Bland said to Ross.
“Izzie knows exactly what she's doing, and she and D.C. Gable will probably get more from her than I will, being women and perhaps more empathic with Melanie.”
“Ah, so you do employ a little psychology in your methodology,” Bland smiled at him.
“Well yes, I'm not a total dinosaur, Doctor. We do try to be sensitive to victim's families as well.”
A knock on the door was answered by Izzie, who admitted a uniformed constable to the hallway.
“Constable Holland, sir. I'm supposed to drive you to headquarters,” the young man said to Ross.
“Excellent, let's go, then, constable.”
On the way back to town, Ross took advantage of their time together to find out a little more about Christine Bland.
“So, where
are staying while you're in Liverpool?” he asked.
“The Marriott,” she replied.
“Very nice,” said Ross.
“Yes, it is. The room's excellent and I can work in it if I need to.”
“So, what do you think so far?”
“It's too early to draw any conclusions yet, but you've already established that there must be a link between the victims. Once I read through the case files I may be in a position to offer a suggestion or two.”
“Well, I hope you can offer something that will help us identify who or what we should be looking for, and soon.”
“I'll do my best, Inspector. I don't offer miracles, but if I can at least point you in the right direction, establish a motive, anything to help, I will.”
* * *
Meanwhile, Izzie Drake, having questioned Melanie Proctor about her husband's friends, regular routine and more now sat back and allowed D.C. Sam Gable to ask the widow of Mark Proctor a number of questions based on Gable's own knowledge of Speke Hill, gleaned from her own friends who'd lived and been educated in the orphanage and school.
“So, Melanie, Mark was a P.E, teacher, right?”
“Yes, he was actually recently promoted to head of the P.E Department at the school. It made him very proud.”
“I'm sure it did. Tell me, did Mark teach just the Upper or Lower School pupils, or did his job entail teaching both groups?”
“Oh, the whole age range, not just the younger or older children.”
“Thanks, and did he teach just boys, or the girls as well?”
“Both. Speke Hill is a co-ed school, with mixed classes, although the children are accommodated separately of course.”
“Yes, I see. Melanie, do you think any of the other teachers in the P.E. department might have been jealous of Mark's promotion?”
“Oh no. that's preposterous. The staff members are all very friendly. Mark said they were a great team to work with.”
“Okay, but we have to ask these questions, you do understand?”
Melanie nodded, her eyes puffy and red with tears as she reached for another tissue from the box Gable had found in the downstairs bathroom not long ago.
All Saints- Murder on the Mersey Page 15