Stefan waited for a reaction, but Claire’s eyes stayed focused on the car in front of her.
‘I’ve got teams out with the dogs, and a there’s heavy police presence out looking for Hatcher. I’ve been in touch with his father, and he’s flying back on the next available flight from Scotland,’ he said.
Claire’s face was unreadable. If she was relieved they’d had a break in the investigation, she didn’t show it.
‘I want more people up here to search the farm,’ she said. ‘Anything in his locker at the slaughterhouse?’ she shouted over her shoulder at Harper, who was jogging towards them.
‘Nothing in the locker. If he had a mobile, he’s got it or he’s dumped it somewhere,’ he said.
‘I want the surrounding fields cordoned off and searched,’ she said. She rubbed her shoulder. Christ, it hurt.
Elias had remained quiet, but had noticed her rubbing her shoulder. He felt a surge of energy in his body and recognised it instantly.
Compassion.
And it was all for Claire Winters, which surprised him.
‘We’ve had a look around the outhouses. There’s a small building round the back… it’s got a trough in there, and a suspension system above it. That farm hand, Hal? He says it’s usually kept locked. Out of use,’ Stefan said. He paused, watching the frown on her face. ‘What’s the matter?’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘You don’t think this is all too easy? All this evidence suddenly piled in our lap, all where Hatcher lives? Quite easy to find, too?’
He shrugged. ‘I think it is what it is.’
‘Yeah, fucking luck. It’s a breakthrough, Guv,’ Elias said.
‘So why would he take so much time and care, watching over the girls, finding out their movements, the location of CCTV cameras, hiding his face, only to get sloppy when he killed Felicity?’
She circled them both, her arms wrapping tighter around her body when the wind picked up, raging across the open fields. ‘You know it doesn’t add up.’
‘Given what we know so far, not all the lights are on up here,’ Stefan said, gesturing to his head. ‘Hatcher’s messed up. Made his mistake. Felicity put up a fight, caught him by surprise, he panicked and tried to clean her up like the others, but missed her toenails.’
Claire prodded a finger into his chest, her face deadly serious. ‘I find it hard to believe Hatcher could be clever enough to organise any of this.’
Stefan batted her hand away. ‘I’d have thought you’d be happy. We’ve got all this evidence that’s just landed in your bloody lap.’
‘But no Hatcher!’
‘It’s only a matter of time before the dogs track him down.’
Claire started to speak but couldn’t find the words. Instead she glowered at him. Elias pulled his eyes up from staring at the floor. He felt more than a bit awkward when he spoke.
‘Douglas Hatcher has volunteered to come to the station and answer any questions we have for him. He’s just as shocked as you are, Guv. Said William is incapable of masterminding something like this.’
Stefan frowned, turning to face Elias. ‘You’re going to ignore all the evidence here? Hatcher did it. End of story… And when it comes down to it, none of us really know what someone is capable of. None of us.’
Claire turned on her heels, ignoring him, and walked from the forecourt. She headed towards the outbuilding drawing the most attention.
‘We’re finished in there, if you wanna go in,’ said Charlotte, the principle SOCO. ‘You may want a face mask when you get suited up.’
Claire ignored her and pulled on the Tyvek suit given to her, along with her overshoes and gloves. She declined the face mask. She wanted to smell the place. Breathe it in. Experience what the victims must have felt and feared before drawing in their final breath.
She walked inside. Her eyes darted around, seeing the stains on the floor. Rust-red and brown.
Blood and shit.
The suspension bars above were also stained. She glanced into the trough. More stains. She sniffed hard, recognised the smell of blood.
William Hatcher’s mind, she thought, must be one of the most depraved and scarred she’d ever come across.
‘We’ve found more hair in here too,’ Charlotte said, watching Claire. ‘Human hair.’
Claire’s eyes flickered over her face, then back to the trough. She shut her eyes.
She heard the screams of Hannah Davenport again, calling for her daughter, resounding through her head. She tried to bury them away, deep down somewhere else where she couldn’t hear them any more.
For the first time in what seemed an age, it was something she couldn’t force herself to do.
CHAPTER 62
The night sky was clear, except for another random flurry of snowflakes bouncing around in the wind. Claire watched the flakes batter against her office window, then returned her attention to the man sitting opposite her, her eyes taking in every inch of him.
A tired-looking Douglas Hatcher, with his well-lined skin, sat facing her, clasping his hands tightly in front of him on the table.
His expression was pained.
He shook his head and picked at the rough skin around each of his fingertips. His nails were filthy.
‘That’s not my son.’ He pushed the image taken from the CCTV camera opposite McDonald’s back across the table towards Claire. ‘William is taller than this man, for a start.’ His dark eyes met hers. ‘Whatever you’re accusing him of doing is…’ He searched for the right word. ‘… It’s impossible.’ He picked a lump of skin from his cuticle, flicking it to the floor. ‘I’ve never seen him in these clothes before, either.’
Claire’s mouth pulled into an icy smile as she leaned closer. ‘How’d you explain the blood traces in the trough from the outbuilding on your farm?’
Douglas grimaced. ‘I can’t, can I?’
‘What about the photographs of each victim in your son’s bedroom? Then there’s the hair, the colour a pretty close match to Felicity’s, in the boot of William’s car. The hair has been ripped out, root intact, we’ll get a match. We’re confident it’ll be Felicity’s.’
Douglas hesitated. ‘It’s a company car.’
‘Which only you and your son actually drive… and you’ve been in Scotland since the end of October.’
Silence.
‘Tell us about that,’ Claire continued. ‘Why didn’t you take William to see his mother?’
Douglas grew angry. ‘Have you ever seen someone dying of cancer, Chief Inspector? Let me tell you, it’s not something I’d wish on my worst enemy, let alone my son.’ He paused, pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘I wanted to protect him. I didn’t think he’d be able to cope, mentally.’
‘Your son’s got some mental impairment, I understand?’ Stefan said, sceptically.
‘It’s been… difficult. William’s never been diagnosed. I didn’t want to keep dragging him from one doctor to the next when he was younger.’
‘But you left him behind to tend the farm and work a normal job?’ Claire said.
Douglas sighed. ‘Look, I don’t expect someone like you to understand. He’s socially inept, not brain-dead.’ He pointed a finger at her. ‘I never left him in charge of the farm. Hal is my second-in-command but he tries to make William believe he has a say in things. And having the job at the slaughterhouse helps him. As far as the boss there is concerned he’s just a little odd.’
Douglas wiped a tear away from the corner of his eye. ‘I can’t explain what’s been found on the farm. I made Will promise to keep up his appointments though. I hoped it’d be enough until I got back from Scotland.’
‘What appointments?’ Claire’s voice was full of unease.
‘What, something you didn’t know already?’
‘Answer the question.’
He looked down at his fingers, picked away at a bit more skin. ‘Tell me, Chief Inspector… have you heard of psychotherapy?’
CHAPTER 63
Claire f
ound the home number for Mitchell Curran, and after the fifth ring his wife answered the phone.
‘He’s out, Chief Inspector.’
‘Where?’
‘Working late at the office, I should imagine.’
‘Are you sure this time?’ Claire heard the soft intake of breath. Exasperation probably, but Claire didn’t give a damn what Stephanie Curran thought. She’d lied to her before. There was nothing to stop her doing it again.
‘What do you mean by that?’ Stephanie’s voice was calm but there was a hard edge to it. She was pissed off.
‘He’s working late and you’re not sure where,’ Claire said.
Stephanie sighed. ‘What did you want my husband for, exactly?’
‘William Hatcher.’
‘Who?’
Claire paused, letting the silence hang heavy. ‘William Hatcher. Is he one of your husband’s clients?’
Stephanie thought a moment. ‘No, I don’t believe so.’ She gripped the receiver tighter in her hand. ‘What’s this about?’
Claire hung up without another word. Her hand rested on the telephone as she looked at Stefan, then Douglas. ‘She doesn’t know your son.’
Douglas shrugged. ‘Maybe she genuinely doesn’t know.’
‘I doubt that.’
Douglas sat forward and buried his face in his hands, shaking his head. ‘I can’t believe this is happening.’
Claire’s eyes remained cold. ‘You’d better start believing… This is real.’
‘I’ve told you already, my son couldn’t mastermind something like this. Maybe he’s been set up.’
‘What, by Curran?’ she said.
‘Yes, why not? He can be linked with each victim, you said it yourself.’
She paused. ‘And here’s another theory. Maybe Curran picks them out, and your son murders them?’
‘Now you’re being ridiculous.’
‘You can’t argue with cold hard facts, and the evidence at your house and in your vehicle.’
‘You’re making an assumption.’
‘And your farm was a killing ground for three innocent women, Mr Hatcher. If I were you, I’d stop clutching at straws and help us find your son before he kills again.’
Douglas broke down. His shoulders rose and fell with his grief.
She lowered her voice. ‘Stefan, I want Mitchell Curran brought in. Now. Find him.’
‘Yes, Guv.’
‘Organise a warrant to search his house and office at F. B. C.’ She turned to Douglas. ‘Start singing… Where would William go if he couldn’t come to you?’
He frowned.
‘Tell me,’ she snapped. ‘Help us, help your son.’
CHAPTER 64
Mitchell Curran sat watching the news reports on the TV in his office, and the live updates streaming across the bottom of his laptop screen. He stared hard at the headline sweeping across the bottom of the page.
William Hatcher wanted in connection with the murders of three women.
This wasn’t good.
Not for him, not for anyone. He knew people at F. B. C. would be asking the questions he feared, dreaded… If they weren’t already, they very soon would be.
He went to his filing cabinet and his mobile rang. He stared at the caller ID and saw it was his wife. He let it go to voicemail. He knew she’d have questions. Questions he wasn’t prepared to answer, not right now anyway.
She was probably wondering why he wasn’t home yet, why he was staying so late. This was something he rarely did, but tonight he thought it was necessary.
He opened the filing cabinet just as his phone beeped.
1 New Voicemail.
It could wait.
He pulled out the files that were now fast becoming a ticking time bomb, about to destroy his life if he let them.
Four manila files altogether.
He brought them over to his desk and spread them out, staring at each one in turn.
Nola Grant.
Sara Thornton.
Felicity Davenport.
There was one more file staring back at him.
He hesitated, eyes fixed on the name neatly written on the front. A name that was going to mean repercussions. A name he’d rather forget for ever. It would change everything at the centre.
His fingers traced over the name, following every line and curve.
William Hatcher.
He found himself asking questions. Questions he knew the answer to but pretended he didn’t.
How bad is this going to get?
He didn’t want to go home. He couldn’t, not yet. He needed to see an old friend, just until he got his head straight. His friend would know what to do. He’d always been there in times of crisis. It was his job, wasn’t it?
See the friend.
Get his life back on track before everything he’d worked so hard for, for all these years, fell away and shattered.
CHAPTER 65
Fallon’s toes curled forward, gripping the edge of the diving board. Looking down into the water, she jumped, tucking her legs up underneath her just before she plummeted into the deep end, letting herself sink to the bottom. The sound of the music from the side of the pool pulsated under the water, drowned out and muffled. When her toes touched the bottom, she pushed up, her head breaking the surface.
The pool party was in full swing, fuelled by drugs and alcohol. All her friends were there. All of them had money – naturally – or rather, their parents did. All of them were tanked-up to the brink, lounging around or dancing in their swimwear.
The indoor pool was flanked on one side by floor-to-ceiling glass windows that looked out into the vast garden. The cold outside, mixed with the heat of the pool room, caused the glass to fog, and it dripped condensation. The wall behind the bar had a mock-mosaic image of the Greek god Poseidon, pointing his trident down, a fierce look in his eye.
Fallon reached the side of the pool and was about to climb out, when a tall boy of around seventeen held out his hands and grinned down at her. She eyed his torso, his black swimming trunks and his wet messy blond hair.
She smiled. ‘Julian.’
‘Dockley,’ he replied, as he gripped her hands and hauled her from the water. She grabbed her towel from a bar stool and wrapped it around herself.
‘Jägerbomb?’ she asked, drying herself. He grinned when she chucked her towel at him playfully and slipped behind the bar to mix the cocktail.
He eyed her torso as she poured him a drink and longed to see just how far the tattoo on her belly dipped below her bikini bottoms.
*
From his vantage point in the garden, the man had watched them all behaving like rabid dogs. Going crazy with the drink and drugs, and dancing around in time to the music like people possessed.
He’d stayed near the side of the pool house at first but as the condensation had taken hold of the glass wall, he’d edged closer. The air chilled him to the bone. The stars above were shining down, no clouds overhead. He watched his breath in front of him as he breathed out, a white fog circling his face.
He eyed the target.
She seemed to be all over some young toff at the bar. He remembered how to access the dressing room area joined to the pool house. He’d seen her use this many times before, when he’d been here in secret, preparing for this night. He knew it was only a matter of time before she’d go there to change. He also knew the lock on the door to the garden from the changing room was still broken.
He moved slowly through the snow. She had to go in there sometime. Taking her really did all depend on if she was alone. This was hit or miss. William could only run from the police for so long. Time was running out.
He played the waiting game.
*
Thirty minutes passed. Fallon found herself kissing Julian before they’d even made it into the changing room. They’d had a few drinks, shared some small talk, then got straight down to what they both wanted.
They stumbled through the door from the pool, l
aughing as they tripped over each other’s feet in the semi-darkness. There was only one window letting the light of the moon seep inside, casting shadows around them.
Julian pushed her back onto a large leather sofa before collapsing on top of her. She was in fits of giggles as he clumsily pulled at her bikini top. She leaned forward, pulled at the string behind her back and whipped the garment off and over her head.
‘I hope you’ve got something,’ she said, as he planted passionate kisses down her neck, his tongue tracing the curves of its ivy tattoo. ‘Julian?’
He groaned against her throat, pulled back and looked at her.
Her eyes narrowed. ‘You’re not getting near it otherwise.’
‘Oh come on!’ He slumped to the side. ‘I’ve not got anything. I’m clean.’
‘I don’t fucking care. It’s getting knocked up. I don’t want a bloody kid.’
‘Aren’t you on the Pill?’
‘Obviously not,’ she said, ‘it makes you fat.’ He sighed, looking down at her semi-naked body. That tattoo down her belly seemed to call for him. He dipped his fingers down the front of her bikini bottoms. She squealed, slapping him playfully around the face.
He removed his hand. ‘Fuck’s sake.’ He paused, looking into her mischievous eyes. ‘You’d better be worth it, Dockley,’ he said, pushing himself off the sofa. He backed towards the door and pointed at her. ‘Don’t go anywhere.’
He opened the door to the pool, music flooding the room. It was so loud it rumbled around inside Fallon’s skull. She watched him disappear, slamming the adjoining door hard, then wrapped her arms over her chest. This room was colder than the pool room and she pushed herself deeper into the sofa.
The room span when she laid her head back. She heard the last music track end before the sound of The Chemical Brothers’ Setting Sun started to pound through the speakers. Her body twitched to the beat, willing Julian to hurry the hell up.
When she felt the icy draft come from the back door, she arched her feline-like body and tried to look over her shoulder.
The Principle of Evil: A Fast-Paced Serial Killer Thriller (DCI Claire Winters, Book 2) Page 25