by J. E. Mayhew
“Right,” Kinnear said, thinking he wanted to take this woman home to meet Chris already. “There was no sign of forced entry to your house, Miss Quinn. Did anyone else have a key?”
“No,” she said. “I wouldn’t have left one with Don Pleavin; not to put too fine a point on it, he’s a nuisance. If I gave him my key, I’d never get him out of my house.”
“Really?”
“I don’t tittle-tattle about people, Inspector but that man is a menace,” she leaned in close. “He’s tried it on with me several times. His poor wife. I don’t know why she puts up with him!”
Kinnear nodded in agreement. “So, you can’t think of any time when you might have given someone else access to your keys or lent them out? Anything like that. Did you lose them perhaps?”
“No, detective. I may be in my seventies but I’m not senile yet. I’d remember if I’d let those keys out of my sight and I haven’t.”
“Then, is it possible you forgot to lock the back door when you went away on holiday?”
Jean Quinn gave Kinnear a look that made him gulp. “It was locked. Of that I am certain.”
“Right,” Kinnear said. He flicked through his notes. “Can you think of any reason why your house in particular was targeted?”
“Other than the fact I was away on holiday, no.”
“It would have to be someone local who had been watching the house to know exactly when you left and when you might return.”
“I can’t imagine any of the inhabitants of Hilbre Grove being capable of murder, Inspector,” she leaned towards him, again, “but that doesn’t mean they aren’t, does it? Can I ask, what happened in my house and at the Taylors’?”
Kinnear thought for a moment, considering how much information he needed to give. “In your house a man was killed and laid out on the mat. In the Taylors’, a woman was left in an armchair. In both cases the heating was turned up, we assume to accelerate decomposition…”
Quinn grimaced. “How fascinating,” she whispered. “And what do you think the killer hoped to accomplish by that?”
“I’m sorry?” Kinnear said, frowning.
“I mean, I presume most killers want to cover up what they’ve done. Maybe they’re a little frightened by it or by the consequences. Don’t they usually try to hide the bodies? Why did this one put those bodies out to be found?”
Kinnear nodded. “A good question. Tell me, Miss Quinn, where did you go for your holiday?”
“Tenerife. I was lucky enough to win a holiday in a competition…”
“Really? Can you tell me more about that?”
“Well, it was after my mother died. I was at a bit of a loss what to do. Dot from next door had just won this holiday through a new travel blog. They’re online, internet things, a bit like magazines. Very interesting, detective, they have crime ones too…”
“Call me Andrew, Miss Quinn. Yeah, my husband used to write a weekly blog about teaching. So this travel blog, what was it called?”
“Tarbock’s Travels, Andrew,” Jean Quinn said. “Dot said that Dave had been told that, because it was a new blog, they didn’t have many readers, so the chances of winning a holiday were really high. And they were. I won.” She looked a bit crestfallen. “Too good to be true, really, wasn’t it?”
Kinnear nodded, sympathetically. “Probably. So did you have any correspondence with Tarbock’s Travels?”
“Only by email. They bought all the tickets and sent the boarding passes online. Goodness me, Andrew. I’ve been had, haven’t I? Your killer wanted me out of the house at the same time as the Taylors so he could do these terrible things. How awful.” She clicked her fingers and started rummaging in her handbag. “I do have the correspondence, however. I printed it all off. Always feel safe when there’s a hard copy to wave around at a complaints desk. Here.”
Kinnear took the papers. “Thank you.”
“I’m sorry I can’t be more help.”
“I think you’ve been a great help. We have a lead through this and the Tarbock’s website you mentioned.”
Jean Quinn shook her head. “I doubt it, Andrew. I bet you a tenner the Tarbock’s Travels Blog is no longer online, and the trail is cold. All we have is a PO Box number. That might reveal something. A name maybe. I hate to say it, young man, but you have a clever psychopath on your hands, and he’s goading you.”
Chapter 20
It was dawning on Donald Pleavin that he hadn’t just been called down to the interview room to ‘clarify a few details’ as Kath Cryer had suggested. His cheeks were reddening by the second and he looked as if he was sucking a particularly large and angry wasp. Kath suppressed her smile of satisfaction and pulled the sleeve of her jacket over her splint.
“You spend a lot of time watching the Grove, Mr Pleavin,” she said, giving DC Manikas a sidelong glance as if she shared a secret with him. “Why is that?”
Pleavin scowled. “Why d’you think? I’m Neighbourhood Watch Coordinator, aren’t I? I wouldn’t be doing a very good job if I didn’t watch things would I?”
“True,” Manikas said, nodding slightly. “But that generally means keeping an eye out if neighbours are away or if you see suspicious activity in the area. It doesn’t mean logging down the comings and goings of every van and car in Hilbre Grove.”
“And that’s a crime is it?”
Kath shook her head. “No. It could be very useful for us, but I couldn’t help noticing that you log the movements of your neighbours too. Very convenient if you want to know when they’re likely to be out.”
“That’s not why I do it,” Pleavin muttered. He stretched his mottled hands flat on the tabletop and stared at his fingernails. “I just need to keep track of people…”
“But why? So you could break into their houses?” Kath said. “Your neighbours have concerns about you, Mr Pleavin, d’you know that? They don’t like the way you roam freely through their back gardens…”
“I’m just checking up,” Pleavin said. “No harm in that.”
“I’ve also heard tell that you can be a bit ‘hands on’ with some of the female residents of the Grove. Is that right?”
“This is disgraceful,” Pleavin snapped. “I came here voluntarily. I’ve a mind to make a complaint.” He made to stand up but Manikas raised a hand.
“Please, Mr Pleavin,” he said. “You have to appreciate that we need to look into every aspect of life at Hilbre Grove. Whoever killed those people there knew a great deal about Hilbre Grove.”
Kath’s phone rang and she stepped out of the room for a moment. It was Kinnear.
“Apparently, Pleavin went to Aphrodites, and he was one of Tina White’s paying clients. His wife just told me. She’s not a happy bunny at all, poor woman. I just wanted to take her home.”
Kath grinned. “You’re a soppy get, you are, Kinnear.”
“I’ve got to go, there’s a member of the public here.” He hung up and Kath went back into the room.
“So, Mr Pleavin,” she said, sitting back down. “What can you tell me about Ellen Kevney and Aphrodites?”
Pleavin pursed his lips. “Who?”
“Come on, Donald,” Kath said. “You follow the news avidly. You know that Ellen Kevney is missing. We know you were a regular at Aphrodites. If you want to draw this out, we can go and look at the membership list. You’ll be on it, I’m sure. Ellen Kevney was a member too.”
“I never did anything,” Pleavin said. “I just went to watch…”
Kath looked bored. “I’m not really interested in what you do in your spare time, Mr Pleavin, as long as it’s legal. Nobody is judging you. But if you know anything that might help us find Ellen Kevney then you should say.”
“I didn’t know she was a member, honestly. I just went along once in a while. I didn’t really speak to many people there.”
“How about a man called Ralph Vaughan? Speak to him at all?”
“Never heard of him.”
“What about Tina White?”
> Pleavin’s eyes widened as he realised just how much of his private life had been exposed to the cruel glare of daylight. “What about her?”
“You are one of her paying customers I believe,” Manikas said.
Pleavin blinked, breathing rapidly. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Cast your mind back about three weeks, Donald. It was a Sunday evening. What were you doing?”
“I think you already know. Stop goading me,” Pleavin muttered. “I was watching Tina…”
“Are you alright, Mr Pleavin?” DC Manikas said. The old man looked pale. He winced and rubbed his left arm.
Kath continued to verbally bludgeon him. “Hogtied on a bed, unable to move. Is that your thing, Donald?”
Pleavin tugged at his collar. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Boss.” She felt Manikas touching her arm, but she was in full flow, now.
“I mean, it’s not a huge leap of the imagination is it? Going from that whole tied and helpless scenario to hurting someone. D’you see what I mean, now?”
“Kath, he doesn’t look right,” Manikas said again.
She stopped. Sweat trickled down Pleavin’s forehead and he pressed his hand against his left shoulder. “I want to go home,” he gasped. “I don’t feel well at all.” He stood up, swayed, and then crashed to the floor.
*****
Blake wanted to bang his head against a wall when he heard the news, either that or just walk out, jump in his car, and go home. Mind you, knowing his luck his ageing Opel Manta would choose that moment to give up the ghost. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and dragged his fingers through his hair.
“What were you thinking of, Kath? He’s an old man, for God’s sake.”
Kath Cryer rolled her eyes. “I didn’t know he had a dodgy heart, did I, sir? Anyway, you said to question him.”
“I did, Kath. I didn’t say to interrogate him. He’s clearly not a suspect. I just thought he might be hiding something.”
“Sorry,” she said, tugging at the splint on her wrist. Blake had noticed how she fidgeted constantly with it. “He’s such a flake though. Putting himself up there as a pillar of the community when really he’s perving around people’s houses. He nicked Gretchen Jones’ underwear off her washing line.”
“Allegedly,” Blake said. “And anyway, that’s hardly a reason to give him the third degree. He’s in hospital now. Look Kath, are you sure you’re okay?”
Kath frowned at him. “Yeah, course I am. What d’you mean, sir?”
“You seem to be on edge. I know you try to shrug it off, but the shotgun incident was a big deal. If you decided that you wanted counselling…”
“That’s rich,” Kath muttered and then bit her lip.
“What do you mean by that?”
Kath took a breath. “Well, you don’t look too great yourself, sir. No disrespect but we’ve been running around in circles for weeks now and it’s taking its toll on all of us. You included.”
Blake wasn’t sure he liked the tables being turned on him like this. What irked him most was the truth of what she said. Blake wasn’t sleeping well, Laura was getting on his nerves and the whole issue of the house and what to do with it weighed on his mind more than it should. “I appreciate your concern, Kath,” Blake said, at last, “but it’s you we’re talking about.”
“Honestly, sir,” Kath said, “I’m fine. Pleavin just got to me, that’s all. I’ll apologise to him if that helps. I don’t know what else I can do.”
“Let’s see what happens, shall we? You’ve got my full support if he makes a complaint of any kind. You know that.”
Kath gave a brittle smile. “Thanks, sir."
“Come on,” Blake said. “The others will be waiting.” He led her out of his small office and into the Major Incident Room where Kinnear, Chinn, Manikas and other team members waited.
Blake looked at the pictures jumbled on the board and drew a long breath. “Two dead bodies. Only one identified. No arrests. And we’re no nearer to finding Ellen Kevney.”
“Thanks to Andrew’s extra-curricular internet activities,” DS Vikki Chinn said, “we have a number of clear images of the mysterious Ralph.”
Manikas grinned over at Kinnear. “I bet you never thought your dodgy porn habit would be a boon to the force, mate.”
Kinnear pulled a face at Alex Manikas. “I don’t have a dodgy porn habit and if I did, I don’t think I’d be watching that lot.” he shivered. “Needed a bit of warm lighting. Gave me goose bumps…”
“I take it we’re having them clipped down to headshots so they can be used for public broadcasts, sir?” Kath said. “Call us if you see this sex face…”
“I can’t imagine the Super’ would be happy about showing the full video at the next press conference, Kath,” Blake said, happy to see she’d bounced back; she still seemed fragile to him, though. “But yes, we have a couple of clear headshots…”
Kinnear sniggered and Blake gave him a withering look. “What about Tarbock’s Travels, Andrew? Any luck with them?”
“As we suspected, sir. The website is down, and the PO Box just leads to an office in the Baltic Quarter of Liverpool. We’ve put in a request for the identity of whoever set it up but nothing back as yet.”
“But we do know that our killer went to great lengths to entice Jean Quinn and Mr and Mrs Taylor away. It must have cost a few quid, too. This person knows the Grove and has access to money.”
“There is the other link, sir,” Manikas said.
Blake groaned. “Yes, I know, I know. The Searchlight programme.”
“Could the Scissor Man be using the show in some way?” Vikki said. “Maybe to taunt you?”
“That would be the height of my luck at the moment, Vikki, yes. It’s possible, I suppose. Can we call him Ralph? I hate all this ‘Scissor Man’ nonsense.”
“Except, we aren’t sure Ralph isn’t victim number two, sir…”
“True,” Blake said. “All the same…”
“Jean Quinn made a good point,” Kinnear said. “Normally, killers try to hide their victim’s bodies. They don’t leave them out on display like this one did.”
“Jean Quinn? Who’s she, some kind of Miss Marple?” Blake snorted. “I can see her point but, on the other hand, most bodies get found eventually and the killer got themselves three weeks’ head start this way.”
“But they were left to be found, sir,” Alex Manikas said. “Plus, they went to all the effort of planting the pictures. It does seem designed to grab your attention or get at you in some way.”
“You could have a word with some of your old colleagues, boss,” Vikki said. “They might remember someone who made a nuisance of themselves when the show was on TV. It’s got to be worth a try.”
Blake shrugged. “Nothing to lose, I suppose. Although the nearest person I know probably won’t be too glad to see me.”
Chapter 21
Blake pulled up his Opel Manta outside the high wooden gates of Bramble Cottage in Caldy. This was the most affluent corner of Wirral. Here, detached mansions sat in their own grounds, surrounded by high, sandstone ramparts and mature gardens. Footballers and minor celebrities lived here, using it as a bolt hole close to the motorways but more or less unknown to the outside world.
A less cottage-like entrance to a home, he couldn’t imagine; the gates were set in a high red brick wall with a metal intercom panel set into the pillars. There wasn’t a bramble in sight, either. Beyond the wall, grew a thick layer of bushes; rhododendrons and yew trees battled with each other to obscure any view of the house. Blake remembered the house well and knew that it was more of a mansion than a cottage. He sighed and climbed out of the Manta. He didn’t want to be here, he knew, but he couldn’t ignore the fact that there was a connection between him and the things the killer had left at the crime scenes. And they all pointed back to Searchlight. He just hoped Superintendent Martin didn’t find out or Blake would never hear the end of it. Anyway, what�
��s wrong with looking up an old friend? Though Blake would hardly class Armitage as a friend.
As far as he could remember, the last words Blake had uttered to Armitage were ‘fuck you.’ So he wasn’t sure what kind of reception he was likely to get. It had been at a party at this house, in fact. The wrapping up party for the Searchlight programme. Armitage had been the frontman for the show along with Emerald Fisher. At the time, Blake had been devastated at losing the show. Armitage had shrugged it off with typical laddish bravado. He thought he’d got a secure future in television; he was good-looking, articulate and educated. He had started in the nineties, reading the regional news but quickly made his way onto national TV; breakfast television, reporting on serious crimes around the country and occasionally hosting.
For Armitage, Searchlight had been a steppingstone, but his future footholds in the industry became smaller and more precarious. Nowadays, he did the voice-over on a ‘live footage’ police programme that followed coppers on their duties. He’d done them all, over the years. They morphed and changed from titles like ‘On the Beat’ one minute to ‘Camera Crew 999’ the next but the content remained the same; a parade of the same targets of middleclass outrage: drunken weekend brawlers, or feral teenagers on mopeds and in stolen cars or travellers without insurance. They were hate figures and bogeymen paraded before the public and brought down for their satisfaction late on a Friday night. Other than those, Blake had heard Armitage’s voice on an advertisement for house alarms and he’d cropped up on a celebrity quiz show once.
Blake could remember Armitage at that last Searchlight party, bumping into miserable researchers and runners who had lost their jobs, sloshing red wine onto the thick carpet and telling Blake to lighten up. To the likes of Ross Armitage, this was a celebration, not a funeral. At the time, it felt like the end of the world to Blake. He hadn’t realised that would come later with the death of his daughter.