‘Yep, I’ve read it.’
‘But why choose such a small knife for such a big job? I mean, there’re plenty of more suitable knives on the market, butcher knives or chef’s knives, all with blades designed to carve through sinew and muscle.’
Knowles answered with a shrug.
She reached back into her briefcase, pulled out the file on Spartan the dog, again flipping to the coroner’s report. The fatal wound to the dog’s neck was caused by a blade roughly 18 mm wide and 74 mm long, consistent with that of a penknife.
‘Thacker did this with a penknife?’ Mason’s question to Neil Harris as he looked down on George Armitage’s mutilated body.
‘Spartan was killed with a penknife,’ she reminded a bemused looking Knowles. ‘The next day, Thacker kills George Armitage with a penknife.’ Prickly with a sudden adrenaline rush, she fingered through the file until she found the transcript taken of Thacker’s interview. Ran her finger down the page until she found the paragraph she sought. Read aloud:
‘That’s when I go for him. I don’t give a shit if he blinds me. He can fucking cut my head off for all I care. He killed my fucking dog and he’s gonna pay. I land a punch and floor the fucker. But just as I go in for the boot, he punches me in the bollocks and floors me. Next thing I know he’s out of there. Fucking gone he is. I think about going after him, but then I sees Spartan and… The fucker killed my dog, man!’
Jessop looked up from the page to see Knowles smiling warmly at her. ‘So much for reaching your shelf life, detective.’
Chapter Twenty-six
She made the call from the pub, instructing the duty sergeant at the station to ask Wayne Thacker if Spartan’s killer had dropped his penknife during their struggle. And if so, was that the same knife he had stuck George Armitage with?
By the time she and Knowles had walked back to the station she had her answer.
Yes on both counts.
Was this the real reason the killer had returned to the squat? On the off chance he’d find his weapon? When he didn’t, did he take out his frustration on Spartan’s corpse, and make damn sure Thacker got the message?
Located in the building’s basement, Knowles’ lab was as meticulously organised as the man himself, who was now adorned in a fresh white lab coat and latex gloves and was working fast.
Upon one of his spotless work tops lay a black-handled Victorinox Swiss Army Knife covered with a thin film of light grey aluminium lifting powder. The knife was open, revealing among other tools a Phillips screwdriver, wood saw, wire stripper, can and bottle opener, and a lethal looking serrated edge blade.
‘Okay,’ Knowles said. ‘I’ve got prints from the knife matching those of your boy Thacker.’
Jessop turned away from the knife and peered over Knowles’ shoulder at the PC screen, whereon was a magnified fingerprint alongside the mug shot of Thacker taken earlier.
‘Good news is I’ve also found a partial print on one of the blades not consistent with Thacker’s. I’m running it through IDENT1 now.’
Jessop tensed against a fluttering of apprehension in her belly. Eventually these moments always came, and when they did the rush was intoxicating.
She turned to another computer, where the screen flickered with thousands upon thousands of prints, searching the extensive IDENT1 database for a match out of the 8000,000 or so prints on file.
‘Keep everything crossed this bastard’s on file,’ Knowles said.
She hadn’t let the possibility of their boy not being on file cross her mind. Getting your hopes up was a dangerous business, but sometimes it couldn’t be helped.
She turned from the screen, paced the small room with its many elaborate tools of the Objective Investigator. These tools were born out of a necessity to catch killers with facts and evidence. As a Subjective Investigator, her tools were hunches, instinct, and tenacity. These were born from a dire need to heal the tear in her conscience over her family’s death, and honed from a life hunting the ghost of the man who’d torn the hole.
Her attention was drawn toward the bag of little Keisha Adam’s clothes. How would she deal with the horrific trauma? Would she get mad or even? Become crackpot or crusader? Because one thing was for certain, scars that run that deep never healed. They just scabbed over until you were old enough to pick the scabs off and confront the horror beneath.
Just as she would have to tomorrow.
‘Cathy?’
She snapped back to the present, saw Knowles grinning at her. ‘Sorry…what?’
‘We lucked out. Got an eight point match on the print. That’s pretty damn conclusive.’
She joined Knowles in front of the PC, stared at the black and grey fingerprint and the mug shot beside it. Late thirties, early forties, the Caucasian man had cropped hair, dark, intelligent eyes, and a strong nose. Around a sharp jaw line and thin lips he sported a couple of day’s worth of dark stubble which accentuated his high cheekbones and narrow face.
Their killer?
‘Terence Randal,’ she read over Knowles’ shoulder. ‘What’s his story?’
Knowles clicked on the mouse and Randal’s record appeared on the screen. ‘Born 1969. Father of two. English Literature teacher at Chatham Comprehensive until charged November 2002 for sexually assaulting one his eleven-year-old male pupils. Served nine of his fourteen years, where he retrained as a barber of all things. Released on good behaviour March this year.’
‘Is he on the sex offenders list?’
Knowles opened a link, scrolled and searched. ‘Yep. Currently resides at 16 Pell Street, care of us generous tax payers. Cuts hair full time at Cut Backs. Catchy name, huh?’
‘Sweeny fucking Todd would be more appropriate,’ she hissed pulling out her mobile and dialling Mason.
‘Got a suspect,’ she said as soon as Mason answered.
‘Who?’
‘Name’s Terence Randal. Sex offender. Lives at 16 Pell Street. I’ll rally armed response and meet you there in thirty.’
‘I’ll meet you there now if you like,’ Mason said.
‘Come again?’
‘16 Pell Street. I’m already there.’
‘What’re you talking about?’
‘That suicide I’ve been working…Guess who?’
Chapter Twenty-seven
Built on a sharp incline two kilometres east of Crossfields Park, Pell Street was a short, narrow street consisting of thirty terraced two ups two downs. The few residents who dared to live here were either students, drug dealers, or illegal migrants working for the dealers or for the small pizza/kebab takeaway on the corner of the street.
Recoiling from the smell of spiced meat and cooked cheese from the run-down takeaway, Jessop walked up the street’s steep incline toward the scrum of activity outside number 16. With every step she took she could feel the residents’ eyes boring holes in her back from behind the row of grubby, torn net curtains. She was no stranger to such paranoia, yet it never ceased to unnerve her, especially since thirty percent of the firearms locked in the evidence room back at the station had at one time or another passed through this postcode.
Standing a good three inches above the tallest of the group, Mason peeled away from the huddle of coffee drinking CSI’s and greeted her with a nod. ‘It’s definitely Randal. Sent Knowles his prints and he confirmed it.’
‘Time of death?’
‘Around three, three-thirty in the morning. Heating was on full so decomposition was accelerated. Still, it means he could’ve been at Crossfields Park around midnight and made it back here in plenty of time.’
It did, Jessop thought. ‘What about alibis for yesterday morning and last Saturday morning?’
Mason cast a glance down the infamous street, shrugged broad shoulders. ‘Of those who bothered to open their doors, not one’ll vouch for him. Brooke’s at his place of work now.’
‘Anything suspicious about the death?’
‘Everything’s suspicious in this bloody street. However, this on
e does what it says on the tin.’ He handed her a face mask. ‘Trust me, you’re gonna need it.’
The front door opened up directly into a shabby box living room with pea green painted walls and a threadbare blue carpet. The sparse furniture consisted of a tired faux leather sofa, an MDF bookcase stuffed with books, a five bar fire, a 15” TV, and what looked like an old VHS player.
In the centre of the room stood a flat-pack coffee table on which sat an ashtray spiked with butts, several spent Stella cans, a half full bottle of Bells Whiskey, and the local newspaper opened at the puzzle page, where Randal had nearly completed the days Sudoku puzzle.
‘Neighbour called it in,’ Mason said. ‘Wanna guess what tipped them off?’
Despite the mask Jessop wore, the stench of excrement and bodily gases was nauseating. Wouldn’t take long to penetrate the paper thin walls and find its way into the antiquated plumbing system. She wrapped her knuckles on the thin wall. ‘Neighbour didn’t hear anything?’
‘Nope. Said Randal was the perfect neighbour. No noise, no fuss, kept himself to himself.’
Murderers and sex offenders often did, she thought, turning to the man in question.
Naked from the waist down and wearing only a grey sweatshirt on top, Terence Randal hung against the door leading to the kitchen by an extension cord. His feet were but an inch from the carpet, on which lay a scattering of books and a TV remote control.
She followed the cord over the top of the door to where it was tied to the door handle on the other side.
Death by auto erotic asphyxiation? Didn’t exactly fit with the power seeker profile she’d built on their killer. But then such killers didn’t have a tendency to play by the rules. If they did, her life would be a hell of a lot easier.
Eyeing the TV remote, she asked, ‘What was he watching?’
Mason tensed, shook his head. Stepped over to the TV and switched it on. A moment later she had seen enough and instructed the film be turned off.
She took a measured breath. She could stomach most things, but paedophilia was beyond her comprehension. ‘Do we know who the boy is?’
‘Not yet. The recording’s a VHS tape. Dated Feb 96. My guess is the boy must be in his mid twenties by now.’
‘Could be the pupil he raped. Get Davies hunting him down. Any other known victims?’
‘None.’
She stepped toward the bookcase, curious to know what a paedophile English teacher liked to read. Kahlil Gibran or Alexandre Dumas maybe?
Wouldn’t that be nice?
She ran her eyes along the parade of book spines, the majority belonging to Stephen King, John Grisham, and James Patterson. Easy reading at its most commercial. Further down, stuffed between more King and a handful of Dean Koontz she spotted John Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men, Orwell’s 1984, and Salinger’s Catcher In the Rye. Staple school Curriculum classics every kid should read.
Had Randal’s two kids read them?
She asked Mason, ‘You notified next of kin yet?’
‘On it now.’
‘Who is it?’
Mason scrutinised his mobile, reading from the screen. ‘According to Davies, his youngest son, Nathan. Got himself a D and D charge three years ago.’
‘What about his eldest son?’
Mason scrawled down the tiny screen. ‘Oliver Randal. A year older. Corporal in the Marines. Serving in Afghanistan when he was killed in action August 2010.’ Mason’s mobile rang. He answered, listened, the furrows deepening on his brow. Hung up. ‘Shit.’
‘Brooke?’
‘Yep. Randal was working yesterday. Started at 10.00am. The shop’s got CCTV of it.’
Jessop grimaced. ‘How old’s Nathan?
‘Twenty-six.’
She glanced at the blank TV screen, on which a minute ago a young boy was being sodomised by the monster hanging beside her.
Crackpot or crusader?
‘Mid twenties, huh?’ she mused.
‘Yep.’
‘Nathan local?’
‘Tippet Court.’
‘What does he do?’
Mason tapped and scrawled. ‘Estate agent. City Living Properties.’
‘Call them.’
A minute later Mason was off the phone. ‘Nathan threw a sicky. Said he had a sore throat.’
Jessop looked at Nathan’s dad, his throat red and swollen from the cable biting into his neck. ’Must be hereditary.’
Chapter Twenty-eight
‘The pupil Randal raped is one Toby Nash,’ Davies reported through Jessop’s mobile on speaker phone. ‘Twenty-seven. Lives with his family in Belfast since they moved there thirteen years ago. Needless to say, he wasn’t exactly overcome with grief when I told him about Randal.’
‘Any family over here?’ Mason asked.
‘Nope.’
‘Hunt down his class mates,’ Jessop instructed. ‘And any local friends he may have kept in touch with over the years.’
‘On it.’
She hung up as Mason eased the car to a stop alongside Randal’s car, a black Mini Cooper S with his firm’s livery stencilled on it. She surveyed the six-year-old estate of luxury apartments, each with a balcony overlooking the river, and none going for any less than £200,000. She remembered when this plot of land used to be the city’s bus depot until it was relocated across town to a cheaper postcode.
She also remembered finding thirty-three-year-old Haley Mercer buried in a shallow grave in one of the flat’s foundation holes after her debt-laden husband, Justin, a contractor on the new build, had taken out his frustration on her with a tire iron.
Another neighbourhood, another ghost.
Mason said, ‘Nathan’s sheet said he was single at the time of his arrest.’
‘So?’
‘To afford to live here, he’s either sharing the place or he’s the slickest estate agent in the city. Rent or mortgage can’t be any less than eight hundred a month.’
Jessop considered this as Mason led the way, taking long strides to the block’s communal door. She could sense the urgency in her DI, could see his perpetual frown furrowed deeper than ever. Such intensity was part of the man’s appeal. It suited him, was as much a part of him as his brooding eyes and strong jaw, and she struggled to imagine him any other way.
Mason buzzed the intercom to Nathan’s apartment. ‘Think he’s in?’
‘He’s ill isn’t he? Where else would he be?’
‘Yeah?’ came a voice from the intercom.
‘Nathan Randal? I’m Detective Inspector Scott Mason. I need to have a chat about your father.’
‘What about him?’
‘I’d rather not say over the intercom.’
Mason waited for a response, received none. Pressed the intercom again, stepped back from the block’s communal door and looked up. Jessop followed his gaze to the two apartments on the third and top floor. With the late October dusk drawing in, both had lights on, yet the intercom remained silent.
She met Mason’s eyes and nodded. Mason punched the intercom, this time pressing buttons at random. A moment later a voice asked who was there.
‘Police. Open up!’
‘How do I know you’re the police?’
‘Come down here and I’ll arrest you for obstruction. How’s that?’
The door buzzed open and Mason barreled through. Jessop followed, taking the stairs two at a time, and was still a floor behind by the time she heard Mason banging on Randal’s door.
‘Nathan? You aint doing yourself any favours here, son. All we wanna do is chat about your old man!’
Mason rested an ear against the door, listening. ‘Nothing.’
Jessop stepped to the door. ‘Nathan, this is DCI Catherine Jessop. The longer you leave this the more grounds we have to break the door down and let ourselves in. And then it won’t just be a quick chat we’d want. Your choice.’ She nodded to Mason, who made the call for armed response. She watched the peep hole in the centre of the door for any movement. Saw none
and felt a sense of dread creep beneath her flesh. The door was solid wood, and even the super fit Scott Mason wouldn’t be able to break through as he had at Carly’s yesterday.
‘How long?’
‘Ten,’ Mason said, hanging up.
‘You see any other way out of his apartment? A fire escape or anything?’
‘Nope.’
‘Christ.’ Jessop paced the landing, looked through the window to the dark river that flowed alongside the estate. She saw Randal’s mini still parked next to Mason’s car, and recalled seeing lights on in both of the two apartments on this floor.
She stalked across the carpeted landing to the second of the two apartments. Sure, people had a tendency to play deaf dumb and blind where witness statements were involved. But when it came to direct involvement in an unfolding drama, curiosity or the need to help were compulsions few could resist.
But not in this case it seemed.
At the door she looked directly into the peep hole. Saw quick movement, a blink. She knocked and stepped back. Mason joined her.
‘Get ready,’ she whispered.
The door opened two inches to reveal a security chain and one half of a forty-something male face with light brown skin and lank, black hair. Jessop held up her ID and smiled. ‘Sorry to disturb you, sir − well, that is if we haven’t disturbed you already with all the shouting and banging.’
‘How can I help you?’ asked the man with a heavy Asian accent.
‘We have a couple of questions regarding your neighbour, Mister Randal. May we come in for a sec?’
She spotted the widening of the man’s pupil; a typical reaction to threat and fear. The man frowned and a droplet of moisture fell from his brow onto his nose. Yet his hair and face were dry.
She tapped Mason’s arm and quickly stepped aside. Mason kicked the door harder than she’d expected, his long leg powering through the door. There was a loud crack and a yell as the chain splintered from the wood frame and the man took the door’s full force in the face, knocking him back onto the floor.
Hurt (The Hurt Series) Page 9