by David Hodges
‘And you made sure he used a new unwrapped reel of tape so that no one else’s fingerprints would be on it?’ she finished for him.
‘Oh, you are on the ball,’ he murmured. ‘But yes, I had earlier filched the library’s own part-used tape from the desk drawer while Maurice’s back was turned and substituted the reel I had brought with me, which was still sealed in its plastic bag. Then, after using the tape for my file, I conveniently forgot to return it before leaving, just in case it was a different brand to the sort normally supplied.’
‘Why use it on the second parcel and not the first?’
‘Had to, my dear, otherwise poor old Maurice might have been locked up before I’d completed my work – and I had to make sure he absconded once his alibi was withdrawn, not only, as you have already observed, so he would make himself look even more guilty but also to ensure he was still on the loose when my dear wife met her maker. Clever, eh?’
‘Surprised an intelligent man like Maurice Copely didn’t smell a rat,’ Kate retorted pointedly, with the emphasis on the word ‘rat’. ‘Especially over the business with your file and the Sellotape.’
He ignored the insult, merely smirking at her again. ‘Why would he?’ he said and held up his left hand to show his missing finger. ‘He could see that my disability made such a fiddly job difficult for me.’
‘You mean you made it look difficult,’ she countered. ‘Your disability didn’t stop you strangling four innocent women, including your wife, did it – and stringing up poor Will Fallow?’
His face noticeably darkened. ‘Fallow deserved all he got,’ he grated. ‘The little bastard had been rooting around like a little ferret after the witch woman was found dead and somehow he must have worked out that I was the culprit – possibly because of the keen interest I had shown in the Strawfoot legend at the start. Instead of informing the police, however, he decided to try to blackmail me. Big mistake. I couldn’t let that go unpunished.’
‘Will Fallow resorted to blackmail?’ she breathed.
‘Oh, the money wasn’t for him, you understand,’ he mocked. ‘It was to rescue his beloved Levels restoration project, which was almost boracic, and to save him and the historical society from public humiliation. Anyway, I arranged to meet him at Annie Laycock’s cottage – which, I feel sure you’ll agree, couldn’t have been a more appropriate place for his demise. ’
Kate shook her head. ‘You’re saying he was prepared to keep quiet about three murders in exchange for cash? I don’t believe you.’
‘Believe what you like, Sergeant,’ he replied, ‘but I have no reason to lie to someone who will also be dead very shortly!’
Haslar was only putting into words what Kate knew already but she should still have suffered a sense of shock at his chilling matter-of-fact statement. Instead, she simply stared at him, as if having difficulty taking in what he had just said. For some reason, she was getting very warm and finding it difficult to focus on his face. Damned whisky, she thought, and shook her head several times to try and clear the woolly feeling that seemed to be trying to clog her brain.
‘But why – why were those women killed in the first place?’ she said, her voice now sounding thick and distant as the room seemed to expand and contract around her.
‘Ah but they were all part of the grand plan,’ he said. ‘Resurrect a local legend and convince the police that they are dealing with a psychopath who is hooked on the story of Martha Tinney and obsessed with the desire to carry out a series of copycat killings. Then, when the wife of a respectable local businessman is murdered in the same way as the other women, it would be accepted that she is just another victim of the deranged killer.’ Another smirk. ‘Got right into the part too. Even dressed up in all the appropriate gear to give it a bit of authenticity, just in case I was spotted by someone, In fact, I made sure I was seen by one passing motorist when I did Melanie Schofield, just to reinforce my message, which I gambled on you and your colleagues picking up sooner or later when the witness came forward.’
Kate swayed slightly in her chair. ‘But your wife?’ she said, conscious of the fact that she was finding it difficult to phrase words. Shit! She felt drunk – wrong time and place for that! ‘You – you killed all those innocent women just so you could murder your wife?’
He shrugged. ‘’Fraid so, Sergeant. The witch woman had to go first, of course. I’d already learned from Fallow that she was one of the few people who still actually made the straw dolls I needed and it made sense to waste her at the same time as I was helping myself.’
‘And – and Melanie Sch-Schofield?’
‘Ah, she was a gift. The historical society usually held its meetings at the library where she worked as an assistant, you see, so I’d got to know her pretty well – I think she saw me as a kind of agony aunt whom she could confide in. Anyway, shortly after I had gone down with my pretend flu then topped the witch woman, little Melanie actually rang me at home to see if my flu was any better.’ His smirk broadened. ‘So very touching – and also very helpful to me in selecting my next victim, for she happened to mention in conversation that she was going to a friend’s birthday party the following night in my village. She said she was a bit worried about going home afterwards because her parents would be out and her boyfriend was apparently a heavy drinker, which meant she was likely to be walking back. I knew this was one opportunity I just couldn’t pass up.’
‘You – you scumbag!’ Kate mumbled.
He ignored the insult. ‘A lot of waiting around, of course but it all worked out for the best in the end – and I was lucky too. I had no idea until I picked up some village gossip afterwards that she had a boyfriend who would ordinarily have run her home had they not fallen out.’
Kate squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head to try and clear away the fug that was developing. ‘And Claire Topping?’ she jerked out with even more difficulty.
‘Oh, I’m afraid her selection was down to you, my dear. You see, the evening you ran Nursey home, I had popped by your little cottage to quietly drop off that first parcel but saw you actually driving away as I arrived. Out of curiosity, I decided to see what you were up to and, after quickly dumping the parcel on your doorstep, I followed you all the way to the hospital, then back to Mark again afterwards. When you dropped that pretty little thing off, it was as if you had picked my next target for me. Sort of providential.’
Having already suspected that that was the case, the cruel revelation cut right into Kate, despite her increasingly muddled senses but somehow she knew she had to bury her feeling of guilt for the time being and concentrate on getting answers from him while she could – even if, in the final analysis, she never got the chance to do anything with the information.
‘But – but your own wife. What. . . ?’
Her voice trailed off as the room swam and he strolled over to her and bent down in front of the chair to stare intently into her face. ‘Money, my dear,’ he said softly. ‘The root of all evil, as they say.’ He drained his glass without taking his eyes off her. ‘My business was in serious financial difficulties, you see – facing bankruptcy in a couple of months, which I just couldn’t allow. So, in preparation for my Strawfoot debut, I took out a hefty insurance policy on the lovely Denise.’ He straightened up and collected Kate’s whisky glass from the coffee table, adding, ‘And the pay-out on that will solve all my problems once the inquest and Copely’s conviction are out of the way. All nice and tidy.’
Kate tried to hoist herself up in her seat but somehow couldn’t make her legs work properly. Her senses were really spinning now and his face seemed to have become horribly distorted, his voice booming at her as he thrust a small pill bottle under her nose. ‘Sedatives prescribed by the nice doctor to ease my trauma,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid I rather overdosed your whisky.’
Kate forced her eyes to focus and gripped the chair arms tightly. ‘Killing police officer . . . they’ll throw – throw away the key,’ she heard herself gasp breathlessly
.
He laughed again. ‘Who will know, my dear?’ he said. ‘They’ll never find you at the bottom of a peat bog and the Levels have an absolute abundance of those.’ He frowned suddenly. ‘Need to get hold of your car first, though. Have to get rid of it somewhere afterwards.’
He bent over her chair and she was vaguely aware of him rummaging through the pockets of her coat, then producing her keys and straightening up with a grunt of satisfaction. ‘Leave the old MX5 in the road, did you?’ his voice boomed.
‘Killing me won’t – won’t do you any good,’ she whispered as, despite her fading senses, she remembered the tell-tale deformity to his left hand. ‘You’ve . . . already . . . shit out.’
His face was right up close to hers now, and she saw uncertainty and a hint of panic in his blue eyes. ‘Shit out? What do you mean?’
She gave a humourless chuckle. ‘You’ve . . . fingered . . . fingered yourself . . . arsehole,’ she said in a hesitant slurred voice and before he could question her further, the black pit, which had opened up before her, swallowed her whole.
CHAPTER 24
Jane Rundle was sitting on the edge of her chair in the interview room when Roscoe walked in. She was plainly very nervous and he could see that the thin veined hands gripping the cup of coffee on the table in front of her were trembling slightly.
She looked up when she heard the door open, studying him owlishly through her large pink glasses, and frowned when he introduced himself in his usual brusque fashion. ‘I wanted the officer in charge,’ she said. ‘Is that you?’
Roscoe was tired and he scowled at her. ‘The boss is at headquarters,’ he retorted. ‘It’s me or nothing, love. Now, what’s this about knowing the ID of the man we are looking for?’
She grunted, gulped some coffee, then stared into her mug. ‘I want your assurance that I will receive police protection before I say a word.’
Roscoe dumped himself in the other chair. ‘Listen, Mrs Rundle—’
‘Miss!’
‘Miss Rundle, we don’t have the resources to provide police protection unless there is a very specific reason for it. Your best protection is telling us what you know, so we can arrest this man and put him away where he belongs.’
She thought for a second. ‘There’s something else too – I want immunity from prosecution.’
Roscoe looked confused. ‘You want immunity? Immunity for what?’
‘Blackmail,’ she said simply and waited until he closed his mouth before continuing. ‘Mr Fallow, God rest his soul, had suspected this man as being the culprit for some time. I don’t know how he found out but he told me who it was and that he intended making him pay – literally. He was going to set up a meeting—’
‘Annie Laycock’s cottage?’
She nodded. ‘And tell him unless he paid a substantial sum, Will would go to the police.’
‘You were prepared to let a multiple murderer off the hook for money?’
‘It wasn’t like that. You have to understand that Will was devoted to his restoration project for the Levels’ ancient sites and he desperately needed the money to prevent the whole thing failing. Once he had got his money, he fully intended tipping the police off about the man by an anonymous phone call.’
‘And that made it all right, did it?’
‘Of course not but Will was dead set on the idea. I tried to change his mind but he wouldn’t hear of it.’
‘And why did Fallow confide in you in the first place?’
She fidgeted uncomfortably. ‘We – we had a thing going between us.’
‘A married man? All a bit sordid, isn’t it?’
‘I know it was wrong but—’
Roscoe sighed heavily. ‘I’m not interested in your moral behaviour, Miss Rundle, and I don’t think CPS will do anything about the blackmail issue – Fallow’s dead now anyway.’ He leaned forward, staring at her intently. ‘What I do need, however, is the name of this psychopath before he kills again.’
She bit her lip, hesitating.
‘The name, Miss Rundle,’ he snapped.
‘Neville Haslar,’ she said. ‘He’s your man.’
Detective Superintendent Ansell stared out of the window of the SIO’s office, thinking. Having been subjected to an angry ‘get your finger out’ tirade from the assistant chief constable in another short briefing at headquarters, he was not in the best of moods, and the pile of newspapers he had brought up with him from the station duty office – screaming such headlines as ‘Bloodbath On The Somerset Levels’ and ‘Cops Without A Clue’ – had only exacerbated his foul mood. Roscoe’s briefing on Jane Rundle should have given him the shot in the arm he so desperately needed but Ansell was a careful, analytical man. The information looked good – too good, in fact – but it needed consideration. To jump now as a kneejerk reaction to the roasting he had received from his boss was unwise and definitely not his style. The last thing he wanted to do was to compound his alleged ‘felony’ of dragging his feet by taking ill-thought-out precipitate action that would end in tears.
‘Want me to pick Haslar up, Guv?’ Roscoe said, losing what little patience he possessed after several minutes’ silence.
Ansell turned on him. ‘What for?’ he queried.
Roscoe looked bewildered. ‘Well, multiple murder would sound about right.’
‘And where’s your evidence?’
‘We’ve just got that from Jane Rundle.’
‘No, Detective Inspector,’ Ansell said sharply, ‘you haven’t got anything of the sort – you have an allegation from a distraught woman who was having an affair with one of the victims. You have absolutely nothing else – no forensic evidence, no witness ID, not even a positive link to any of the victims, except Fallow – and, if I’m not mistaken, Mr Haslar has a pretty good alibi for at least the first killing by being in bed with the flu! Rundle could be off her head or simply making the whole thing up to get back at Haslar for some reason.’
‘But surely, Guv. . . ?’
‘Surely, balls! Of course we should interview Haslar again but arresting him now would get us nowhere. All he would have to do is deny the allegation and we would have to chuck him out again but by then he would be forewarned about our suspicions and take even greater care to cover his tracks.’
Roscoe released his breath with a sound like a high-velocity round leaving the muzzle of an automatic pistol. ‘So what do I tell Jane Rundle?’ he retorted.
Ansell gave him one of his watery smiles. ‘Just say thank you for your information, Miss Rundle,’ he patronized. ‘It will receive our urgent attention. OK?’
As far as Roscoe was concerned, it wasn’t OK, for he had had just about enough of Ansell’s demeaning remarks and was close to boiling point. But he was saved from what could have been a very career-limiting reaction by a peremptory knock on the office door.
‘Sorry, Mr Roscoe,’ Tom Green gulped, a familiar-looking computer print-out in one hand, ‘but I am still getting no response from DS Lewis—’
Ansell wheeled to face the civilian operator. ‘Kate Lewis? What do you mean?’
Roscoe glared at Green as if he had just contravened the Official Secrets Act. ‘I gather she wanted a telephone subscriber traced, Guv,’ he muttered. ‘Some routine inquiry she was following up.’
‘How long have we been trying to reach her?’
Green looked really unhappy now, like a man caught between two fires. ‘It’s well over an hour now, sir, which I felt was most unlike her, so I telephoned her home address and got her husband.’
‘And?’ Ansell snapped.
Green hesitated. ‘It – it seems Kate – DS Lewis – left the house in a bit of a rush to follow up some lead on the inquiry and Hayden has only just discovered that she left her radio behind.’
Ansell hissed his disapproval. ‘Do we know why she wanted the name of this subscriber or where she was going?’
Green shook his head. ‘No, sir but Hayden said he’d given her a members list of red sports car
owners from a local car club, and she apparently went ape when she took a look at it. I don’t know whether that’s connected.’
Ansell’s face hardened. ‘He gave her a list? How the hell did he manage to do that if he was on the sick?’
The embarrassed civvy said nothing, so Ansell continued in the same angry vein. ‘And why didn’t DC Lewis report this before? Hells bells, he’s supposed to be her bloody husband!’
Green hesitated, then said, ‘He said she told him not to – something about needing to score.’
‘Shit!’ Roscoe breathed, now looking very alarmed. ‘That means she was on to something important and didn’t want to share the info until she was sure. She could be in loads of trouble.’
‘This is what happens when officers do a Lone Ranger job,’ Ansell snarled, snatching the print-out from Green and scanning the contents.
Roscoe scowled. ‘Can you blame her, Guv?’ he said. ‘So far, every idea she’s put forward has been laughed out of court.’
But the barbed remark was lost on Ansell as the name on the print-out jumped straight out at him. ‘Get some units out to this address pronto,’ he rasped at Green and, even as the civvy left the office almost at a run, he snatched his coat from the back of a chair and literally pushed Roscoe out of the office ahead of him. ‘I hope you’re up to high-speed driving, Ted,’ he snapped, ‘because Kate Lewis’s life may depend on it.’
‘So who was the mystery subscriber on that print-out?’ Roscoe threw back over his shoulder as they left the incident room.
Ansell practically spat the name and pushed past him in the corridor. ‘Neville Haslar!’
The DI threw him a sideways glance. ‘Enough grounds for a pull now then, is there, Guv?’ he queried grimly.
‘Shut it, Ted!’ his boss replied. ‘Just concentrate on staying on the road!’