Fearful Symmetry

by J. E. Mayhew

  “So who are we going to see?” Laura said, interrupting his thoughts.

  “Josh Gambles’ old social worker. If we have some background on him, we might be able to run him to ground. We tend to think of ourselves as free spirits going where we please, but most people run along in the same ruts most of the time. Hopefully, Mr Gambles is a creature of habit like the rest of us and we can use that against him.”

  Blake turned the Manta off the M56 and followed the A road into a pleasant market town. He’d never visited Stockton Heath, but he quite liked its bustle and activity; some towns seemed stagnant, shops closing down, people hanging around. This place felt busy. The satnav on his phone took him to Glamis Street. The houses were all well-kept red brick Edwardian villas with planters and pots in their small front gardens.

  A plump, round-faced old lady in a red cardigan stood in her front garden as they pulled up. “Are you Inspector Blake?” she said.

  Blake nodded. “This is my assistant Ms Vexley. Are you Mrs Whiteford?”

  “Yes. Come on in and I’ll make you a coffee.”

  Jenny Whiteford’s house was small but beautifully decorated. The hall tiles had been polished and sealed so that the colours shone out and the wallpaper matched them perfectly. “You keep a nice house, Jenny,” Laura said. Blake flashed her a look; the deal was she kept quiet. He didn’t want her to derail any conversations.

  Jenny smiled, clearly flattered. “Thank you. I try my best, but it isn’t easy when you get to my age. I like a bit of wallpapering and painting, though.”

  They settled in the cosy front room and Jenny soon came back with coffee and biscuits. “The officer who called said that you were interested in a boy called Josh Gambles,” Jenny said, and her face clouded as she said the name.

  “If possible, Mrs Whiteford. I believe you were his social worker.”

  Jenny Whiteford sighed. “I was for all the good it did him. I tried my best for that boy, you know but sometimes, the odds are stacked against you. I wouldn’t call Josh Gambles one of my success stories and it breaks my heart to say that. People often paint social workers as interfering do-gooders and I’m fine with that as long as we do good. I’m not sure I can say we did Josh any good at all.”

  “Can you tell us anything about him; his past or where he might be now?” Blake said.

  Jenny frowned. “I’m not sure. It would be breaking a confidence…”

  “Jenny,” Laura said, leaning forward and putting her mug down. “We wouldn’t normally ask but we’re afraid that Josh might be in terrible trouble and other people might be in danger.”

  Blake held his breath and bit his tongue.

  “It’s no surprise,” Jenny said at last. “Josh was hamstrung from the start. His father was physically abusive, and his mother left the house when he was nine.”

  “When was this?” Blake asked.

  “Around 2004 or 5. I became involved with Josh when he was ten or eleven. I worked for Wirral Social Services then. Josh was taken into care and fostered but he could never settle. Fiercely bright boy. Did very well at whatever school he landed in, but he could never settle. He was obsessed with crime and violence. A bit of a fantasist, too.”

  “A fantasist?”

  “He told the kids at school stories about his parents; he’d tell them they were film stars. I remember one occasion when we were called to an emergency meeting because he’d dressed up as a policeman and tried to direct the traffic. He was a very mixed up kid.”

  “He must have got a hard time from the other kids in school,” Blake said.

  Jenny nodded. “Ooh, terrible. Bullied mercilessly. He didn’t help himself, though. He’d target other vulnerable kids. There were some serious incidents…”

  “What kind of incidents?” Laura asked.

  “He was accused of sexually assaulting a younger girl in his school. Some foster carers refused to have him again because he’d been cruel to their family pets. He was difficult to place. The incidents increased and we moved him out of area in the end. To Manchester. I was still involved. We moved him around a lot to spread the load on foster carers.”

  Blake shifted in his seat. He felt sorry for the boy Jenny described but, at the same time, he’d seen the carnage caused by the man. “Did he continue to be obsessed with crime and violence?”

  Jenny nodded. “Yes. That’s why it’s funny… funny peculiar, I mean… that you’ve turned up, Inspector Blake. You see, Josh was an avid fan of Searchlight and you…”

  Blake nodded and held up a hand. “Yes. It was a long time ago…”

  “But it is relevant,” Laura cut in. “When you say an ‘avid fan’ what do you mean?”

  “He never missed an episode. He would record each programme and watch them incessantly. One foster family ditched him just for that. When the show ended, he was about twelve, but he carried on watching them. He’d recorded them on an old VCR.”

  “These foster families,” Blake said. “As he got older, would they have tended to be in or around Manchester?”

  Jenny nodded. “Yes, and in care homes in Cheshire, too but he still returned to the Wirral from time-to-time. There were a couple of families who could work with him.”

  “You wouldn’t remember who they were, by any chance, Jenny?”

  “Only one sticks in my mind because they were such an eccentric family and they fostered so many children. Literally hundreds of them. I wrote their name and address down so many times, it stuck in my head. Albert and Maggie Green, 1, Hilbre Grove, Upton.

  Chapter 34

  Andrew Kinnear sat at his desk and looked at the list of phone numbers and van registrations. What a waste of time. Ever since Cavanagh had taken over, Kinnear had been pinned to the desk by paperwork. There must be something better he could do.

  “You’re deep in thought, there, mate. Found something?”

  DCI Matty Cavanagh stood right at Kinnear’s shoulder, leaning over him. He had his hands in his pockets and his Hugo Boss aftershave almost choked Kinnear.

  “No, sir, just wondering, really…”

  “Wondering what exactly?” There was something about Cavanagh’s tone. It was too friendly. Kinnear had been here long enough not to trust Cavanagh; he was pally and one of the lads one minute and then he’d be at your throat for some minor cock-up the next. At least with Blake, you knew where you stood. Blake would bollock you for shrugging, but he acknowledged good policework when he saw it.

  Kinnear felt his collar tighten. “Well, most of these van numbers, they’re all legit and DS Dirkin has already gone through them. It seems like a waste of time…”

  Cavanagh frowned thoughtfully as though he was considering a deep philosophical question. “Do you know, you’re dead right, Andrew,” he said at last. “You come with me and we’ll pop over to the custody suite in St Anne Street…”

  “Sir?”

  “We pulled Mark Skelly last night. He’s kicking his heels at the moment. Got him on selling knock off goods but I thought we could go and ruffle his feathers a bit. See what he comes up with.”

  Kinnear felt the blood drain from his face. The last person he wanted to face now was Mark Skelly, especially after he’d promised him that no more would be said. He stood up and caught Vikki’s eye as he left the room. She gave him a sympathetic smile and went back to her cataloguing evidence.

  They took Cavanagh’s car, even though it was only a short walk and, by the time they’d negotiated the Liverpool traffic, it would take the same time if not longer. He looked left and right as they pulled out of the carpark and onto Liver Street.

  “So d’you think Skelly is capable of murder, Andrew?” Cavanagh said, keeping his eye on the traffic.

  “I’m not sure, sir. He’s shacked up with a girlfriend and they’ve got a little kid…”

  “Harold Shipman had a wife and four kids, mate. Didn’t stop him.”

  “No, sir.”

  “A few years back, Skelly was burgling a house when he was disturbed by the
owner; a frail old man in his late seventies. He beat him almost to death. In another break-in, he raped a teenage girl in her bedroom. He’s no pussycat.”

  “No, sir,” Kinnear muttered, blushing. He’d not really dwelt on Skelly’s previous crimes in too much detail because he wanted to eliminate him from the enquiry. “But he’s an opportunist. The murders at Hilbre Grove were planned.”

  “If you were going to plan a series of murders. Why would you commit them right next-door to each other? Seems like bad planning to me.”

  “Well, I suppose that depends on the reason for the killing, sir,” Kinnear said.

  “How is Blake, by the way?” Cavanagh said, out of the blue.

  “Fine, sir,” Kinnear blurted out before he could stop himself.

  “So, you’ve spoken to him?”

  “Just briefly, sir.”

  “Just checking he was okay. That sort of thing?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Cavanagh took his eyes of the road and looked hard at Kinnear. “I wish I could command that kind of loyalty, Andrew. I really do.”

  Kinnear said nothing as they pulled into the carpark of St Anne Street Station.

  *****

  As soon as Kinnear and Cavanagh left, Vikki Chinn switched screens on her computer and reviewed the information that had come in since Blake had left the case. There was a lot of noise but very few concrete leads. The victim at Jean Quinn’s house had been positively identified, though. She picked up the phone, glancing around as Blake answered.

  “Hi, sir,” she said, lowering her voice. “Yeah, I thought you might like to know that the body you found at number three was, surprise, surprise, a chimney sweep by the name of Charlie Hulme, forty-five. His wife reported him missing ten days ago but he had a history of going off on drinking binges. So, there wasn’t a massive search party as you can imagine.”

  “Is he local?” Blake asked.

  “Prenton on the Wirral, sir.”

  “Did his wife have a list of appointments?”

  “Apparently, he kept the appointment book in his car because he got so many calls as he was working.”

  “Is it worth talking to her?”

  “I’d steer clear if I were you, sir,” Chinn said. “There’s Family Liaison Officer round there who’ll tear you a new one if you go asking questions without permission, if you pardon the expression.”

  Blake laughed. “Point taken.”

  “Anyway, I suspect he was just chosen randomly. The killer needed a chimney sweep to fit with the picture and he was the first available.”

  “What about Albert Green? Have they interviewed him?”

  “Cavanagh and Alex Manikas brought him in. Grilled him for ages,” Chinn almost whispered into the phone. “Alex wasn’t happy at all. The poor old man didn’t know what day it was. At least Cavanagh has crossed him off the list of suspects.”

  “Hmm, yes. Or maybe he just didn’t ask the right questions,” Blake said. Vikki could hear the doubt in his voice.

  “D’you think Green was involved?”

  “I’ve just been talking to Gamble’s social worker of old. Guess who was a foster parent for little Josh?”

  “Albert Green?”

  “Exactly. Listen, what’s Hilbre Grove like now? Many reporters?”

  “It’s pretty quiet, sir,” Vikki said. “Cavanagh has managed to make it really dull for them by having a huge list of suspects, leads and requests for information…”

  “Plus, our little friend, Josh, isn’t stirring them up, right now. I dread to think what he’s busy with. Okay, thanks Vikki, I appreciate this.”

  “No worries, sir, take care, yeah?” Vikki put the phone down and looked up, straight into the eyes of DI Kath Cryer.

  “Anyone we know?” Kath said, grinning.

  “Just the boss, Ma’am,” Vikki said.

  “Yeah but which one?”

  “The one who knows what he’s doing, Ma’am,” Vikki said, with a smirk as she returned to her keyboard.

  “Nice one,” Kath murmured and returned the smile.

  *****

  Blake slipped his phone back into his pocket and pulled the Opel Manta out into the road again. Laura watched his face carefully but couldn’t work out what he was thinking. “So, are we calling in on Albert Green?” she said at last.

  “I think it might be useful,” Blake said.

  Laura felt her stomach lurch, but she said it anyway. “Maybe you should wait in the car and I’ll talk to him.”

  Blake flashed her a concerned look. “I don’t think that’s wise, Laura. I thought you didn’t want to be left alone.”

  “I know but Albert Green’s an old man. He hardly poses a threat and if you go thundering around the Grove, then Cavanagh will get wind of it and the Superintendent will have your head on a pole. He’s just told the world that you’re off the case. Anyway, if Cavanagh has given Green a grilling, he’s hardly going to want to talk to another policeman is he?”

  Laura could see the emotion in Blake’s face now and felt quite gratified; he was actually conflicted.

  “Alright,” he said at last. “But I’ll be right outside. You just need to ask him a few questions about Josh.”

  Laura patted Blake’s knee. “You keep your eyes and ears open.”

  They drove on and Blake outlined what he wanted to find out. It was growing dark when Blake parked the car around the corner from Hilbre Grove and Laura followed him as he crept to Green’s house. The end of the Grove still had barriers across it and a marked car sat in the middle of the cul-de-sac presumably to reassure the other residents. Albert Green’s drive was shielded from the police car by the dark bulk of the house. Laura felt Blake’s hand on her shoulder, and he nodded, his face in shadow.

  She sneaked up the drive to the front door and knocked gently. At first there was no answer and she turned to Blake who hid behind the bushes at the bottom of the drive. He made a knock-again gesture and Laura was about to do so when the door swung open. Albert Green peered out. He looked haggard and licked his lips. “What do you want? I’ve told the police all I can…”

  “I’m not the police, Mr Green. My name is Laura Vexley. I’m an animal psychologist…”

  “Are you?” Albert Green blinked at her.

  “Yes. Mr Blake sent me. He thought your pets might have been upset by the intrusion yesterday. All those nasty policemen upsetting your cats.”

  Green frowned. “William Blake sent you?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “All right then,” Green muttered and pulled the door open. Laura tried not to wrinkle her nose at the pungent smell that filled the house. “Can I make you a cup of tea?”

  “No thank you, Mr Green,” Laura said and cleared a space on the edge of an armchair. “How have your cats been since the ordeal?”

  Albert Green picked up a fat white cat with a pink nose and sat it in his lap. “I think they’ve all been upset but Minky, here has been off her food.”

  “Minky looks lovely, Mr Green. How old is she?”

  Albert thought for a moment. “One hundred and forty-three.”

  “A good age, then,” Laura said, not missing a beat. “I would recommend plenty of warm milk and wrap her in a blanket when she sleeps. Is she used to visitors?”

  Green shook his head. “No. Then, suddenly, we have all these policemen trampling all over the house.”

  “And nobody else?”

  “No,” Green said.

  “Not even your children?”

  Albert Green frowned at her. “My children?”

  “I met an old friend of yours Jenny Whiteford, the social worker. Do you remember her? She said you looked after hundreds of children in your time.”

  “Literally hundreds,” Albert said. “Yes. Some of them visit every now and then…”

  “And Josh,” Laura said. “Does he visit?”

  Albert Green’s eyes narrowed and he settled back into his chair. “Sometimes,” he said, his voice hardening. �
��Why do you want to know?”

  Outside, Blake kept to the shadows of the bushes that fringed the side of number one. He scanned the area for any police activity but it was quiet. On the other side of the road, a lone dog walker stooped to pick up the mess his pet had just deposited and then walked on. Blake held his breath. The walker had gone but Blake found himself staring at a van. A white van with ‘Chimeree’ written on the side. If it had been there the other day, officers would have noticed it. And it would have been spotted by the mass of journalists crowded at the entrance to Hilbre Grove. That van had arrived very recently and there was only one person who could have driven it.

  Chapter 35

  Laura stared at Albert Green as he crushed the growling cat against his chest. “Mr Green, you’re hurting the cat…”

  “Who are you to come here, questioning me?” he hissed, his face a mask of hatred. “Bitch! Prying and nosing around.” Saliva dribbled from the corner of his wet mouth. “Josh told me you’d come. He warned me you’d be all nice as pie but a snake underneath. Why is everyone interested in old Joshy all of a sudden?” The cat gave a final growl and wriggled from his grasp. “You wanna know how often Joshy Boy visits? Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

  Laura’s heart thumped against her chest as Green twisted in his seat and looked over his shoulder. “Oh, Joshy Boy,” Green called in a reedy voice. “There’s a nice lady to see you…”

  The door to the hall creaked open and a dark shape emerged from the shadows behind. Laura recognised the man from the house in Frankby straight away. He was still dressed in black and still grinning horribly. His dark hair hung to his shoulders and a well-kept beard finished the look. Laura would have said he was quite handsome under other circumstances but, with his face twisted into this evil smile, he looked like a demon. “Hello again, Laura. Come to visit my old friend Albert?”