‘But he’s impotent. He has to be, what he’s doing doesn’t make any sense otherwise. He can’t get a woman pregnant the normal way, so he’s got to cut her open to impregnate her. The power feeds the sexual fantasy, he’s potent and rampant, and gets women pregnant…’ She stole one of my chips. ‘Why isn’t he on Viagra or something? Why not go to see an erectile dysfunction specialist?’
I picked the plate up and placed it in front of her. On top of the letter about Laura Strachan. ‘If he’s impotent, how come he managed to rape Ruth Laughlin?’
Alice chewed for a bit, frowning her way through it. Then picked another chip from the pile. ‘Maybe attaining an erection’s not the problem, it’s the motility of his sperm?’ She arranged seven chips in a straight line on the plate, side by side like the posts of a fence. Then another two below that. Picked up the squeezy bottle of tomato sauce and dripped a blob onto each of the first four chips. Then one more on the first chip on the second row.
‘So, what: you want we should start with the fertility clinics? See if they’ve got anyone who matches the profile? We’d never get a warrant for that.’
Brad was back, holding a tray. If he was bothered by the post-mortem photographs and pictures of dead women, he hid it well. He handed out the drinks. Passed Alice a fresh tea-towel bulging with ice. Smiled. ‘Anything else, you just let me know, OK?’
Alice held up a finger, then knocked her Jack Daniel’s back in one go. ‘’Nother of those, thanks.’
Soon as he was back behind the bar, she stuck her tongue out between her teeth and frowned at the paperwork. ‘Dear Boss, or From Hell?’
‘Not this again.’
‘One has details that weren’t released to the public, the other arrives with half a human kidney… When did Dr Docherty come up with the profile?’
‘Not sure. Henry didn’t get called in till we’d found Tara McNab in the lay-by. So, after Holly Drummond?’
Alice stacked the victim sheets, PM photos, and letters for all the other victims into a pile and put it to one side, leaving the info for Doreen Appleton, Tara, and Holly in the middle of the table. ‘So the profile was based on these three victims.’ She placed one letter beside Holly’s photo. One beside Tara’s. ‘And Doreen didn’t get a letter…’ Frown, fiddle, twiddle. ‘Dr Docherty thinks it’s because she was just a dress rehearsal, but what if he just didn’t write one because he didn’t need to, I mean it’s not till the papers start calling him a sicko and the Caledonian Ripper that he has to defend his honour, before that he’s happy to just chunter along doing his thing in private.’
Brad was back with her drink. ‘Here you go.’
She necked it and asked for another.
His smile drifted a bit. ‘You sure?’
‘Positive.’
And he was gone again.
She gulped down a mouthful of lager. ‘What if none of the letters are Jack the Ripper? What if they’re two separate people claiming responsibility for something they didn’t do?’
‘You think the Inside Man letters are fake? They can’t be – they’re all postmarked the day before the victims are found.’
‘The letters are about power and control and look at me, I’m so special. The bodies are about trying to create life…’ She picked up the two letters and added them to the pile at the end of the table. ‘Remove the letters from the scene and he’s painting a very different picture.’
I poured a fresh cup of tea. ‘You can’t – they arrived, they’re there, and they’ve got info only the killer could know.’
‘Or anyone on the investigation.’
‘So, what: it’s a wannabe with a time machine? Hops back a couple of days and mails them off before we’ve found the body?’
She tapped her fingers against the post-mortem photos. ‘But the bodies tell a different story to the letters… What if…’ The frown deepened. ‘What if the letters are real, but at the same time they’re fake too? The Inside Man doesn’t write them because he wants to explain himself, he writes them to confuse the issue, I mean he knows we’re going to use them to try to catch him, so he writes fake letters that have nothing to do with what’s really going on, they’re there to make us look in the wrong place.’ Alice sat back and grinned at me. Then took a big gulp from her pint. Stifled a belch. ‘It’s him, but he’s lying to us.’
‘Pfff… Sounds a bit advanced, doesn’t it? Thought most serial nut-jobs weren’t meant to be all that bright.’
Brad was back with Alice’s drink in one hand and the bottle of Jack Daniel’s in the other. ‘How about I just leave this with you?’ Wink. ‘Staff discount.’ Obviously angling for a nice fat tip.
Alice downed her drink, topped up her glass, then went back into her satchel for a pad and a pen as Brad wandered off to clean something.
‘We need to rework the profile from scratch, ignore the letters, focus on the victims, the bodies, and the act.’ She drew nine boxes on the pad, filled each of them in with one of the victims’ names, then connected them with arrows. More lines with jobs and ages on them. More lines, keywords this time: SEX, PROCREATION, RAPE, LOVE, ANGER, PREGNANT, BABY, LOVE ME!!!…
She started adding dotted lines and circles. ‘Statistically, he’s going to be Caucasian – plus all the baby dolls are pink, not black or Asian and it’s not like you can’t buy ethnic dolls, I’ve seen them in the shops. And he’s at least mid-to-late twenties when he starts, because that gives him enough time to realize he’s sterile and work on his fantasy. He’s controlling, measured, narcissistic, very centred and sure of himself in public, but in private, or at home with people who know him, he’ll be shy and have trouble engaging socially.’ Alice doodled a baby’s dummy in the corner of the page. ‘I know that sounds counter-intuitive, but an inverted social anxiety disorder goes with the idea that he’s wearing a mask the whole time, he can be in control, because he’s someone else.’
Alice topped her Jack Daniel’s up again. ‘It won’t have been instant, he’ll have had to work at it, getting more controlled as he grows, more adept at burying the real him, hiding what he really is when other people are there.’
A shy, nervous young man, turning into a controlling tosspot who’s full of himself. Someone close to the police who knew how to manipulate the investigation. Someone who could send us all off on a wild bloody goose chase and make it look as if it was all our idea in the first place.
I sat back in my seat, drummed my fingers on the table top.
Someone who could write misleading letters, then make sure they were given centre stage. Someone who could sideline Alice’s input, because he had the ear of the King…
The Wizard’s Apprentice.
‘He’s even got his own narrative arc, hasn’t he? From bumbling curly-haired sidekick to this slick TV personality in a suit, right? And we all know what Nietzsche says about staring into the abyss…’
Someone like Dr Frederic Docherty.
41
Carriage lamps cast discreet golden blooms on either side of the front door. A little sign was screwed to the wall above the bell, telling residents to ring after eleven p.m. if they wanted in. So that’s what I did.
The Pinemantle Hotel sat two-thirds of the way down Porter Lane – less than five minutes from Division Headquarters – its concrete-and-granite bulk nestling amongst the crumbling grandeur of sandstone townhouses. A front garden, thick with rhododendron bushes and denuded beech trees, lurked in shadow behind Alice’s Suzuki.
She peered out at me from the passenger seat, one eye closed, swaying from side to side. Blinking in slow motion. She fumbled with her seatbelt and creaked the door open. Puffed out her cheeks. Slapped a hand over her mouth.
Perfect. Just what we needed at check-in – her blowing ribs and chips all over their gravel driveway.
A pause. Then she shuddered and picked herself out of the car. Lurched over, stiff-legged, to the portico. Slumped against me. ‘Mmmsleepy.’ The words slithered
out in a fog of Jack Daniel’s and barbecue sauce.
A shadow moved across the rippled glass panel in the door.
‘Try not to look like you’re about to puke everywhere or they won’t give us a room.’
‘Sleeeepy…’
Great.
The shadow filled the pane, then clunk – the door opened.
A man in slippers and a black cardigan blinked up at me, his face lined and sagging. Wafts of Ralgex and peppermint rolled out of him. ‘Can I help you?’
‘I need two rooms.’
He did a bit more blinking, going back and forth between me and Alice. ‘I see.’ He flexed his shoulders beneath his baggy cardigan then glanced down at Alice’s suitcase and my holdall. ‘Would you like some help with your bags?’
‘We’re fine, thanks.’
Alice tugged at my sleeve. ‘Twin room. I don’t want … want to … alone?’
‘Two rooms. Have you got anything adjoining?’
A handkerchief appeared in his hand, followed by a long snottery honk on his nose. ‘I think we might be able to accommodate you.’ Then he turned and doddered back into the hotel.
Tartan carpet surrounded a wooden reception desk with a stag’s head mounted above it. Hunting scenes and portraits of men and women in olde-worlde uniforms and dresses punctuated the walls – surrounded by heavy golden frames.
The man took our names, car registration, an imprint of Alice’s credit card, then held out a pair of room keys. ‘Breakfast is from half six till nine thirty in the Balmoral Room. I’d suggest you leave it until after seven though – we have a large party of police officers staying with us and they tend to hog the buffet.’ He pointed off to the left. ‘And if you’d like to put your car in the car park around the side, I’ll give you a token to get in.’
‘Thanks.’
He rummaged under the desk for a bit. Then emerged with a frown. ‘Could’ve sworn they were here… Just be a tick.’ And he was off, slippers scuffing at the tartan carpet.
Soon as he was out of sight I reached over and plucked the register from the reception desk. Flicked back through it a couple of days.
The page was covered in cops. Rhona was right: the whole team from the Specialist Crime Division had checked in, along with Jacobson and his Lateral Investigative and Review Unit.
And last, but not least: Dr F. Docherty, room 314.
‘… was Love Amongst Ruin and “Home”. Five to midnight and you’re listening to the Witching Hour, with me, Lucy Robotham.’
The token I’d got from the night porter opened a barrier that led into a car park built beneath what looked like conference facilities. I took the Suzuki between the thick concrete pillars and dumped it in the first available space. Sat there for a minute with my head back as my right foot throbbed.
‘… take a look at tomorrow’s papers and the Daily Record leads with “Gotcha!” Scandal rocks Number Ten as the Business Secretary Alex Dance is arrested for perjury and attempting to pervert the course of justice…’
Another couple of breaths and it had settled down a bit.
‘… Press and Journal has “Parents’ fear for missing Charlie”, going with the hunt for missing five-year-old Charlie Pearce…’
God what a day…
‘… The Independent and the Scotsman both go with the ongoing manhunt in Oldcastle for the Inside Man. While the Castle News and Post devotes its front page to a letter supposedly sent in by the killer to—’
I clicked the radio off. Levered myself out of the car. Leaned heavily on my cane, and hobbled back towards the exit.
Couldn’t get a mobile signal in the car park, but as soon as I stepped outside it was up to four bars. My thumb picked out the numbers, the hotel concrete scraping against my jacket as I leaned back and listened to it ring.
A porridge-thick Easterhouse accent brayed out of the earpiece. ‘Police Scotland, Oldcastle Division.’
‘That you Daphne? It’s Ash Henderson. I need to know if you’ve still got Rock-Hammer Robertson kicking about.’
‘Ash, you auld bugger, how’s the foot?’ The sound of fingers attacking a keyboard rattled down the line.
‘Like I’ve got a hedgehog in my shoe. Joe well?’
‘Silly bugger fell down the stairs and broke his collar bone… No – according to this Mr Robertson has been released without charge.’
After what he’d done to Cooper and Jacobson? Lucky Mr Robertson.
‘Got a number for him?’
‘Give us a minute…’
Wednesday
42
‘… Are you serious? It’s gone midnight!’
‘How much?’
There was silence from the other end of the phone as I hobbled into reception. Then Rock-Hammer Robertson was back. ‘Hundred and twenty a day. Plus expenses.’
‘And I want a full background check by seven a.m. Parents, childhood, police, the lot.’
‘Tomorrow morning? You’re off your—’
‘Thought you said you were good.’
There was no sign of the night porter as I popped behind the reception desk and searched through the keys on their hooks. Three-one-four was missing. Which meant Dr Fred Docherty probably had it on him. One key, right at the bottom of the rack, had a red leather fob with the word ‘Master’ on it.
‘Not exactly giving me a lot of time, are you?’ A sigh. ‘I’ll see what I can do. No promises though.’
I grabbed the master key, limped to the elevators and thumbed the button.
‘When I checked with your employers they said you weren’t as gormless as the nurses’ halls made you look. I’m trusting you not to screw this up. Because if you do, we’re going to be having words, understand?’
‘I told you, it wasn’t my fault. A job like that should’ve had—’
‘And this is strictly between us. Nothing goes through the company books. You report to me, and if anyone asks you’re just taking a couple of days off for personal reasons. Tell them you’ve got the norovirus or something; there’s a lot of it going around.’
Ping – the lift doors slid open, bringing a wash of Vivaldi’s ‘Four Seasons’ with them.
‘Done.’
I pressed the button for the third floor. The lift whirred and clunked its way up the building as I pinned the phone between my shoulder and my ear and snapped on a pair of blue nitrile gloves. ‘I want to know where he goes, who he talks to, if he’s got a lock-up, or a house somewhere.’
‘I’ll be all over him like plukes on a teenager.’
Ping – the doors opened on a tartan-floored corridor. A sign on the wall: ‘ ROOMS 301–312 ~ ROOMS 313–336 ’
The corridor to the right took a dogleg, then up a couple of steps.
‘You see anything dodgy, you call me. You don’t touch anything, you don’t go charging in, you call me.’
‘Yeah, yeah, I know the—’
‘Say it.’
A sigh. ‘I call you.’
‘Good.’ I took out the master key. No sign of light seeping out under the door of 314, so either Dr Docherty was already asleep, or he was out. ‘Now shut up for a minute.’
The key slid into the lock. Turned delicate and slow. Then click. I eased the door open.
The curtains hadn’t been closed properly, letting in a thin wash of yellow light that leached the colour out of the room, turning the tartan carpet monochrome.
Bed was still made, the blanket tucked in tight, a room-service menu on one of the pillows. Nice room. Big enough for a small couch and a coffee table by the window. Spotless.
Back to the phone. ‘I want you outside the Pinemantle Hotel on Porter Lane from half five at the latest.’
‘And you want a full background tonight as well? You have heard of sleep, haven’t you?’
‘Time for that when you’re dead.’ I hung up and slipped the phone back in my pocket.
One bedside cabinet had nothing but a Gideo
n Bible and a hairdryer in it, the other was neatly layered with socks and pants. The narrow drawer under the desk was stuffed with all the usual hotel information bumph – folders, binders, and leaflets. Nothing under the bed. Bathroom: a stick deodorant, pink toilet bag, toothbrush in a plastic holder, toothpaste, floss, two tubs of hair gel, bottle of aftershave.
The wardrobe hid a red wheelie suitcase. I hauled it out and had a rummage inside. A Tesco carrier-bag full of dirty underwear sat in one corner, a couple of books in the netting pouches built into the lid. There was a solid, zipped compartment above them. I eased it open.
Well, well… I reached in and pulled out three pairs of black lacy thongs. A scarlet lipstick was next, then a pair of dangly silver earrings with blue stones in them, and right at the bottom: a push-up bra.
I sat back on my haunches. So, maybe he liked to dress up and become Susan at the weekends? Didn’t prove anything. They all went back where they came from.
The two suits, three shirts, and the overcoat hanging in the wardrobe got a quick search, then I was back out in the corridor, as if nothing had ever happened.
Locked the door again.
Stood there, frowning at the wood.
Docherty wasn’t likely to leave anything incriminating lying about in his hotel room, was he? Housekeeping would find it. He wasn’t thick, after all…
Retching echoed out from the open bathroom door of the adjoining room. Alice’s feet stuck out at right angles to each other, white socks twitching as she heaved.
She’d only been in it twenty minutes and her hotel room already looked like a teenager’s bedroom. Clothes all over the floor, more on the chair, the bed rumpled, papers spread all over the little desk.
Her socks twitched again.
‘You’re a disaster…’ I picked up the jeans, folded them and draped them over the back of the chair. Hung the jacket up in the wardrobe, and the stripy tops. Picked up the scattered socks and underwear. Put them back in the suitcase. Stuck it in the corner.
A Song for the Dying Page 35