Mason led the way, easing open the door to the bedroom. Hesitated.
Jessop snuck past him, saw what had caused her usually unflappable DI to falter.
In his late teens, the man dressed in pressed sky blue pyjamas was sat in a wheelchair with his wrists bound to the arm rests by two belts. He had a balding pallet and carried some excess weight around his neck and midriff. His red cheeks were puffy and tear streaked as he sobbed and moaned. He was not gagged, and Jessop wondered why he hadn’t called for help.
Brooke stepped into the room, crouched beside the distraught man. ‘I’ve got it.’
Stomach knotted, Jessop left the room, strode across the hall to the second bedroom. Opened the door to a room painted magnolia with wooden slat blinds and a standalone wooden wardrobe.
In the centre of the room, upon the chocolate coloured duvet on the double bed, lay the girl she had conversed with briefly on the high street bench.
Angela Hardy was naked and spread eagled, yet her modesty was spared by the sheet of blood, which had bled from the ragged tear in her chest. The shape and direction of the spillage suggested the fatal wound to her heart had been inflicted whilst Angela was lying down. The weapon, a bloodied, serrated-edged kitchen knife, lay upon Angela’s bedside table next to a Janet Evanovich novel and Angela’s mobile phone.
‘Didn’t even bother to hide the weapon,’ Mason said.
She nodded. ‘No need to now. He knows we’re onto him.’
Mason eyed Angela’s mobile phone on which the killer had texted Jessop. She clocked his concerned expression and knew what he was thinking.
Because she was thinking the same.
She left the room, returned to Brooke in the next bedroom with the man still moaning and crying.
‘He’s mute,’ Brooke said.
Jessop noticed the cup of pens and pencils on the bedside table.
Brooke handed her an A5 pad of lined paper. ‘He had this in his lap.’
Stomach churning, she took the pad, read what was written on the cover in green marker pen: William’s book. She flipped over the page and read what was written in red pencil on the pad’s top page: To live is to suffer, to survive is to find some meaning in the suffering.’
She looked at the wheelchair, wondered what affliction had befallen William to warrant it. Struggled to comprehend the hell William must have endured this last hour. Yet the killer hadn’t made him watch Angela’s death.
Why?
She turned to Brooke, whose damp eyes vocalised what she was thinking: Hadn’t William suffered enough?
Stepping out of the room, she stalked down the hall and kicked the beaten door aside. She ignored the looks from the two uniformed officers standing guard, and blanked the greetings from the CSI team who had just arrived.
She leant against her car, lit a cigarette, and thought about the look Mason had shot her in the bedroom when they’d seen Angela’s mobile next to the knife.
The bastard had her mobile number.
And that was no bluff.
Chapter Seventy
The Undertaker agreed with her, and no sooner had the conversation ended then Jessop was back on the phone and dialling Ray, praying he answered.
After six agonisingly long rings Ray answered with a weary, ‘What’s up?’
‘We’ve got a problem.’
‘No shit we have.’
Through gritted teeth she said, ‘Listen to me.’
Ray listened, not once interrupting. When after she’d finished he did speak, his tone was as serious as she’d ever heard it. ‘Tell me what to do.’
She did, and a moment later Chloe was on the line.
‘It’s just temporary,’ Jessop reassured her after explaining what was going to happen.
‘What? Days, weeks, months?’
‘I’m not sure, sweetie, but we’re very close to catching him.’
‘Yeah, sounds it.’
Jessop gripped the steering wheel tight, noticed out of the corner of her eye the coroner wheeling Angela’s body down William’s wheelchair ramp. ‘Grow up, Chloe. This is happening. I’d rather it wasn’t, but it is, so we have to deal with it.’
‘Shit.’
‘The witness protection unit will go through everything with you when they pick you up. They’ll arrange a secure line of communication between us as soon as you’re settled in the safe house, okay?’ She slid down in the car seat, hating herself for putting her family through this. ‘I’m so sorry, sweetie.’
A pause, when she thought her daughter had hung up. Then, ‘Do you really think he’s after us?’
‘I have to assume so.’ Jessop thought she heard a sniff on the end of the line. The last thing she needed was to picture her daughter crying. ‘Listen to me. This is gonna happen really fast, so I need you and Vicky to start packing now, and only essentials, understand?’
Another pause. ‘Okay?’
‘I love you and I promise we’ll talk soon, but you gotta hustle and I need to have another quick word with Ray.’ Before she had time to dwell, Ray was back on the line and asking if she was okay.
‘I’ve been better. You?’
‘Top of the world.’
He wasn’t, of course, but she’d resigned herself to never hearing him admit it. ‘Listen, I’m obligated to tell the unit about your condition.’
‘Understood.’
‘Don’t be a hero, Ray, I mean it. These guys know what they’re doing. They’ll be able to get you help and medication without jeopardising yours and the girls’ safety.’
‘Okay.’
She squeezed her eyes shut against the warm swell of tears. ‘Look, you better get packing.’
‘Already done, honey. I’m wearing all I need.’
Against every emotion she felt, a laugh escaped her lips as she pictured Ray in his boxer shorts and t-shirt climbing into the back of the unit’s van. ‘Do me a favour?’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll look after her.’
Her throat closed tight. There was no one in the world she trusted more with her daughter’s life. She knew without any doubt if it came down to it, Ray would willingly give his life to save Chloe’s, even if he wasn’t dying. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘And I’m sorry.’
‘You will be if the digs we’re going to aint got broadband and Sky plus. Reckon I’d rather have a crazed killer on my arse than two disgruntled two teenage girls.’
She knew the safe house her family was being taken to. It was a refurbished farmhouse twenty miles out of the city on the outskirts of a sleepy village, whose residents were oblivious to the danger they would face if ever they decided to welcome their new neighbours with homemade cakes and preserves. Usually the house was reserved for witnesses in high profile cases against people with the money and means to ensure the witness never made it to court. Jessop had been there only the once to talk to such a witness. He had survived.
‘I love you, Ray.’
‘Enough to still be my wife?’
‘That may have to wait a while.’
‘All the time in the world, sexy.’
If only that were true, she thought, hanging up before her voice cracked.
Chapter Seventy-one
Back in the war room Jessop watched as Davies fast forwarded the CCTV footage to the point where she approached the bench on which sat Angela Hardy. All around her the world went about its business: men, women, children, couples, hustling and bustling, paying no attention to the two women on the bench.
Except one.
One among them had gotten close enough to hear the words exchanged between the two women at the precise time they had been spoken.
She studied the footage until…‘Stop.’
Davies froze the film just as Angela turned her head towards Jessop and uttered the four words the killer had picked up on.
Jessop mouthed the words to herself and scrutinised the people close enough to the bench to be able to hear them. Angela had hardly shouted the words from the roof to
ps. They had been carried quietly on a weary exhalation which even she had struggled to hear.
Scrutinising the frozen image, she picked out a young mother pushing a pushchair five yards from the bench. Two elderly black women walking arm in arm ten yards from the bench. No lean, six foot men in their late twenties. And no one wearing a grey hoody.
‘I’m beginning to believe this guy really is a ghost,’ Davies mumbled, zooming in and around the bench. ‘Still can’t figure out why he texted you knowing we’d be straight onto the footage and looking for him hovering around you?’
Jessop slumped back in her chair, rubbed her stinging eyes. ‘Because he knew we wouldn’t find him. It’s all part of the game.’
‘Well he’s bloody good at it.’ Davies took a sip from a can of Red Bull. ‘Of course, he may have bugged the bench. Anyone could pick up covert listening devices on the internet these days. But even if he had, how could he be sure you’d eventually sit there next to his latest victim?’
Jessop tensed. Had he already targeted Angela after seeing her previously in town with William? If so, what were the chances of her sitting next to Angela on the day he’d planned to kill her?
Zero.
Her gorge rose.
She’d unwittingly picked his target for him by sitting beside Angela. The girl was dead because of her.
Was this the bastard’s intention? To cripple her with guilt? Yet another sick fucking game to mess with her head?
The need for a cigarette consumed her. She attempted to quash it by drinking coffee and refocusing on the street scene, but it remained lodged in her sub-conscience. Just as the guilt would remain until she caught the bastard and proved herself wrong.
‘Zoom out as far as you can,’ she instructed Davies.
Davies clicked on the mouse, the image of the street widening as the bench got smaller and smaller.
‘Stop.’ She surveyed the now all too familiar scene with its usual cast of the hot dog vendor, the old boy who sold the evening paper outside Boots, the father and son who sold their hand carved jewellery, the Big Issue vendor on the corner of Lewis Street, and the blind busker and his golden Labrador, all scraping a living on their respected pitches, oblivious to the evil among them.
‘Fast forward.’
Davies sped the film on until she told him to stop at the moment grey hoody appeared from the mouth of Lewis Street. The bench appeared in the same shot, forty yards to the left. Angela had gone, replaced by a young mother with a pushchair.
Jessop frowned at the image, its cast of street traders still in place on their respected patches.
Well, almost all of them.
The Big Issue vendor’s pitch on the corner of Lewis Street was vacant.
She sipped her coffee, told Davies to fast forward again. ‘Keep an eye on the corner of Lewis Street. Tell me what you see.’
Davies leant forward, eyes glued to the screen as the film sped forward. ‘No one there.’
‘Not yet,’ she said, keeping one eye on the time at the bottom of the screen as elsewhere she and Mason were chasing grey hoody through the streets. ‘There, stop!’
Davies paused the image just as the Big Issue vendor reappeared from Lewis Street wearing his red tabard. The time, she noted, was 13.16 - six minutes after they’d lost grey hoody down Bartholomew Street.
She reached across the table and grabbed the map of the city centre. Ran her finger along the killer’s supposed escape route through the discount clothing store. Lewis Street ran alongside Bartholomew Street and could be accessed through Lewis department store, where Paul Bromley had shopped prior to his death.
A minute later, she and Davies were reviewing the CCTV footage of the high street from Sunday, the day Tanya was killed. At no point during the day was the Big Issue vendor there.
Jessop braced herself as Davies found the footage of each of the victims shopping on the high street. She watched Paul Bromley and Stewart Nichols amble up the street toward the camera and the corner of Lewis Street. Paul held the Lewis carrier bag containing his new polo shirt; Stewart, a Next bag. She shifted her attention to the Big Issue vendor holding aloft the magazine and smiling in the face of ignorance as his pleasantries were ignored by the passing public. The couple was twenty feet away and approaching at a leisurely pace. She glanced back at the corner and the vendor had vanished. She paused, skipped back a frame, pressed play, and watched the vendor duck down Lewis Street. A moment later, Paul and Stewart turned left down the same street.
‘Fuck,’ she hissed as the vendor’s patch remained vacant. ‘Why the hell didn’t you pick this up, Tom?
‘Pick up what?’ Davies snapped. ‘He aint exactly following them, is he?’
No, he wasn’t. He’d anticipated their destination and had beaten them to it. And was now following them home to begin his observation and plan his kill.
Jessop bit down hard on her gums. They’d been so focused on searching for what they thought was there, they’d neglected to look for what wasn’t there.
Look too hard and you risk missing what you seek.
Just as she was about to tell Davies to load up the footage of Samantha and Vicky, the vendor returned to his pitch, magazine in hand and smile fixed across his pockmarked face.
She looked at the clock at the bottom of the screen. ‘Rewind.’
Davies rewound to the moment Paul and Stewart had taken the corner. Three minutes passed before the vendor’s return.
Davies said, ‘What the fuck’s he up to? Why isn’t he following them?’
That was the question. ‘Show me the Samantha and Vicky footage.’
A moment later they were watching the vendor disappear from his pitch on the corner just before Sam and Vicky ducked down Lewis Street. Three minutes and twenty seconds later, he’d returned.
Jessop reached for the phone and called Ray, who answered with ‘You got him?’
‘Not yet. You on the move?’
‘Just loading up now.’
‘I need to speak to Vicky.’ A second later Vicky was on the line. ‘Sorry sweetiebut I need to ask you something important.’
‘Okay.’
‘Now, I need you to think hard for me, can you do that?’
‘I’ll try.’
‘Good. Sunday, twenty-fourth, twelve days ago, you and your mum went shopping in town. You bought some Anais Anais perfume from Boots. Do you remember?’
A pause, then, ‘Uh-huh. We had lunch at Bella Pasta.’
Jessop consulted the report Brooke had prepared using credit card and bank statements detailing the victims’ spending habits over the fortnight prior to their deaths. Under the date corresponding to the footage on the screen before her she spotted an amount of £23.47 payable to Bella Pasta. ‘Good. That afternoon, do you recall having any contact at all with the guy who sells The Big Issue on the corner of Lewis Street?’
Another pause, longer this time.
‘Take your time, sweetie. It’s important.’
‘Oh, yeah,’ came the small voice. ‘We did.’
‘What happened?’
‘Well, mum must’ve dropped her purse somewhere down Lewis Street, because suddenly the Big Issue bloke was tapping her on the shoulder and handing it back. He was really sweet. Mum bought one of his magazines with a fiver and told him to keep the change.’
Jessop’s grip on the phone tightened as the scenario played out in her head. Through gritted teeth she thanked Vicky and said she’d be in touch as soon as they were settled. A minute later she was listening to the answer service on Stewart Nichols’ phone telling her to leave a message. She didn’t, instead hanging up and dialling again. On her third attempt a disgruntled voice answered with a blunt hello.
She apologised for the late call then jumped right into it. With a bit of prompting, Stewart Recalled the day he and Paul had gone shopping. And yes, they too had had contact with the Big Issue vendor.
‘That’s right, down Lewis Street. He sort of appeared from nowhere with Paul’s w
allet in his hand. He said he’d seen it fall from Paul’s jacket pocket. There was no question it was Paul’s, and no cash or cards were missing so we thought nothing more of it. In fact, Paul bought a magazine from him. Gave him a tenner and told him to − ’
‘Keep the change,’ she hissed.
‘That’s right. Paul was a great believer in one good turn deserving another.’
Even if the favour meant having your throat sliced? ‘What did Paul keep in his wallet, Stewart?’
‘Christ, everything.’
‘Driving license?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Does this mean − ’
She hung up and stared at the image of the Big Issue vendor plying his trade on his designated corner. He was part of the scenery, someone as familiar to the town’s shoppers as the department store he stood beside. So familiar, in fact, you didn’t notice him. Actually went out of your way to ignore him, wishing he was not there so as to deny yourself the shame of not buying one of his magazines.
She zoomed in close on the pockmarked-face. For although the vendor fitted the witnesses’ physical description of mid twenties, slim, around five-eleven, and did indeed resemble the E-FIT in the shape of his narrow face, the pockmarked skin presented a problem. But then only one witness had seen his face, Stewart Nichols, and on that occasion the killer had sported a beard, sunglasses and baseball cap. Stewart had also said the killer had hair beneath the cap. The Big Issue vendor had a shaven head, which was why Knowles had found no trace in the grey hoody’s hood. But how hard was it to pick up a wig, or to shave your hair off these days?
She zoomed in as far as the technology allowed. The scarring crept up from the vendor’s neck, over his jaw, and onto his right cheek. It looked like the aftermath of severe teenage acne. She skipped forward until she had another angle of the face, and noted the scarring wasn’t as obvious on his left side.
Davies printed the image, then printed several more taken at every angle available to them. In each shot the vendor’s eyes were smiling as he greeted potential customers with a pleasant good morning/good afternoon.
‘What the hell’s he so happy about?’ Davies asked.
Hurt (The Hurt Series) Page 21