The Cradle in the Grave

by Sophie Hannah

  ‘Yes,’ she said, giving him what he took to be some kind of waiting signal with her hand. ‘I’d say it’s likely that at some point, this man was a control freak who ordered his life successfully. But his control’s slipping. That’s the most interesting thing about him. He’s doing everything he can to stay on top of things, he’s clinging to the illusion that he’s in control, but he isn’t. He’s losing his grip on the real world, on his own position within it – possibly on his sanity. The same cards that reveal his meticulousness and love of order simultaneously reveal his irrationality and inconsistency. Think about it: he shoots Judith Duffy and Helen Yardley dead and leaves cards on their bodies. He attacks Sarah Jaggard with a knife, not a gun, in broad daylight on a busy street, not in her home, doesn’t kill her, and places a card in her pocket. He also sends cards to two television producers, whom he neither attacks nor kills, and then, to one of the producers, he goes on to send a photograph of Helen Yardley’s hand holding a card as well as a copy of her own book.’

  Ramsden surveyed the room to check they were all taking her point. ‘He thinks he’s got a carefully thought-out plan, but we can see that he’s all over the place, flailing around without a clue what he’s doing, imagining everything’s under control when in fact it’s accelerating all the time in the direction of uncontrollability. His mental trajectory is like a shopping trolley sliding down a steep slope, picking up speed as it goes, the wheels twisting this way and that – you know what the wheels on shopping trolleys are like, how hard they are to steer.’

  A few people laughed. Simon didn’t. He wasn’t about to take Tina Ramsden’s conclusions on trust just because she could demonstrate that she’d been to the supermarket.

  ‘He thinks he’s clever coming up with this square of numbers that seems to defy interpretation,’ she went on, ‘but they could be entirely meaningless. He could be mad, or just plain stupid. Possibly he’s got a nihilistic streak: he wants to waste police time by getting you all to chase a meaning he knows isn’t there. Or – and I know this isn’t very helpful, I know it sounds like I’m saying anything’s possible – he might be highly intelligent, and the sequence of numbers could be meaningful, containing a clue either to his purpose or his identity.’ Ramsden paused to take a breath. ‘But even if that’s the case, his choice of card recipients tends to suggest that the part of his brain that knows what it’s about is in the process of being swamped by the trolley-rolling-downhill part.’

  Simon opened his mouth, but she was in full flow. ‘Sarah Jaggard and Helen Yardley – okay, a clear link. Both were tried for child murder. Judith Duffy? Not only does she have nothing in common with Jaggard and Yardley, she’s their polar opposite: their opponent in an extremely high-profile controversy. Can’t your man decide what side he’s on? Laurie Nattrass and Felicity Benson – they’re linked to all three women via their work, but otherwise there’s no common ground. Nattrass and Benson aren’t personally involved in any child death cases.’

  ‘Let me stop you there,’ said Proust. ‘It transpires that Miss Benson is personally involved. We found out this morning that her father lost his job over a Social Services cock-up that led to a child death. He committed suicide.’

  ‘Oh.’ Ramsden looked a little flustered. ‘Well, all right, so Benson’s linked to child deaths via her work and her personal life. In a way, that proves my point even more. Basically, there’s no pattern. These people have nothing in common.’

  ‘Are you serious?’ said Simon. ‘I can describe the pattern in a sentence: he’s sending cards to people connected to the Binary Star documentary and the three cases featured in it: Yardley, Jaggard, Hines.’

  ‘Well, yes, obviously in one sense you’re right,’ Ramsden conceded. ‘Those cases loom large in his mind – I wouldn’t deny that. In fact, I’d say he’s likely to be someone who’s suffered a severe emotional trauma in connection with this issue. He could have lost a child himself, or a sibling, or a grandchild, to crib death perhaps, which might have led to an obsession with people like Helen Yardley and Judith Duffy. But to kill both of them when, as I said, they’re polar opposites in terms of what they stand for – there’s no sense or rationale to it. And the most worrying thing about the trolley-rolling-downhill type of killer is that he tends to accelerate before he smashes himself to smithereens.’

  ‘Sorry to interrupt, but . . .’ Simon waited to see if the Snowman would silence him. He didn’t. ‘You’re talking as if the killer’s link to the Binary Star film might be purely thematic – he’s a bereaved parent and that’s why he’s become obsessed with the three cases.’

  ‘I only said he might . . .’

  ‘The connection has to be stronger and closer than that,’ said Simon. ‘I don’t know how thoroughly or how recently you were briefed, but Laurie Nattrass sent out an email on Tuesday to everyone connected to the documentary – doctors, nurses, lawyers, police, the women and their families, people at the BBC, JIPAC people. At 3 p.m. on Tuesday, nearly a hundred people got Nattrass’s email saying Fliss Benson would be taking over as executive producer on the film. Until that moment, she had no connection whatsoever to these cases. One of the people who received the email must be the card-sender. He or she read Nattrass’s message, immediately prepared a card for Benson and went out to post it to her at Binary Star, where she received it on Wednesday morning.’ ‘Dr Ramsden, all those on the receiving end of Nattrass’s email have alibis for one or both of the murders,’ said Proust. He might as well have waved his arms in the air and yelled, ‘Listen to me, don’t listen to him’. ‘Without exception. And unless DC Waterhouse thinks Sarah Jaggard and Sergeant Zailer are conspiring to mislead us – which I won’t be so naïve as to rule out, for he has a penchant for wrong-headed thinking – then we don’t need to bother with “he or she”. We know Baldy’s a man.’ ‘Yes,’ said Simon, ‘and we know he killed Duffy and attacked Jaggard, but we don’t know he’s the card-sender, and we don’t know he’s our shooter for Yardley.’ ‘We’re assuming he is, though, right?’ said DS Klair Williamson.

  ‘Yes,’ said Proust firmly.

  ‘I’m not,’ Simon told her. ‘Dillon White took one look at the police artist’s image and said no, he wasn’t the man with—’

  ‘Warning: DC Waterhouse is about to refer to a magic umbrella,’ the Snowman snapped.

  ‘There are two people involved in these killings,’ Simon presented his theory as if it were fact. He’d worry about maybe being wrong later. ‘One’s Baldy. The other could be a man or a woman, but let’s say “he” to make it easier. That’s who’s in charge, that’s the brain behind the operation: clever, controlling and in control. That’s who sends the cards, knows what the sixteen numbers mean and is challenging us – letting us know we’ll only catch him if we can prove we’re as smart as he is.’

  ‘So we’ve got Baldy and Brainy.’ Colin Sellers laughed.

  ‘The Brain could be paying Baldy to do his bidding,’ said Simon. ‘Or maybe Baldy’s loyal to him for some reason, owes him favours. When Baldy said, “You get too far in and then you can’t get out,” he was talking about the hold the Brain has over him. The Brain, the card-writer and sender, is the person Baldy tried to phone from Judith Duffy’s house, after he’d shot Duffy. He wanted instructions about what to do with Charlie, whether to kill her or not.’

  ‘If you’re right, then alibis or no alibis, anyone who received Laurie Nattrass’s email on Tuesday could be the card-sender,’ said Sam Kombothekra. ‘Or anyone at Binary Star, anyone either Nattrass or Benson told about Benson taking over as executive producer.’

  ‘I’d expect the Brain to have a firm alibi for Saturday, when Duffy was killed, but not for Monday,’ said Simon. ‘I think, after Baldy messed up with Sarah Jaggard and got interrupted by a passer-by, the Brain decided he’d take care of Helen Yardley himself. Then, with Duffy, he gave Baldy another chance. Maybe he’d given him a bit more training in the interim.’

  ‘I apologise unreservedly for DC Wate
rhouse,’ said Proust. Tina Ramsden started to shake her head, and opened her mouth to speak, but the Snowman drowned her out as he warmed to his favourite theme: Simon’s worthlessness. ‘You have absolutely no reason for thinking two people are involved in these attacks. A four-year-old boy who talks nonsense and the fact that Baldy tried to ring somebody? He could have been phoning his girlfriend to tell her he wanted toad-in-the-hole for his supper. He could have been phoning anyone for any reason. Well, Dr Ramsden? Couldn’t he?’

  Ramsden nodded. ‘When people find themselves in threatening situations, seeking reassurance is a common impulse.’

  ‘What, so he’s there in Judith Duffy’s hall with a dead body in front of him, holding Charlie at gunpoint, and he suddenly takes a break to ring a mate because he wants the comfort of a familiar voice?’ Simon laughed. ‘Come on, you’re not serious?’

  ‘I’m not convinced there’s any loss of control or irrationality involved,’ said Chris Gibbs, standing up. ‘Whether there’s two of them or only one, how do you know everything that’s happened so far isn’t part of a plan? Just because Helen Yardley and Judith Duffy have both been killed . . .’

  ‘Which strongly suggests the killer doesn’t know which side he’s on, or maybe he’s reached the point where he can only remember names now, and not which side they’re on,’ said Tina Ramsden. Simon approved of her willingness to muck in. She gave as good as she got on the interruption front, and didn’t seem to take offence if people disagreed with her.

  ‘It doesn’t necessarily suggest that,’ Gibbs looked around for support. ‘Let’s say the killer’s Paul Yardley . . .’

  ‘Would that be the same Paul Yardley who has alibis for Monday and Saturday, no Cockney accent and a full head of hair?’ Proust asked. ‘Talking of full heads of hair, Gibbs, you appear still to have one. Didn’t I tell you to shave it off?’

  Simon willed Gibbs to go on with his theory, and he did. ‘Let’s say Yardley’s belief in Helen’s innocence wasn’t as rock solid as he made out it was – maybe he did have his doubts, even if he never expressed them. Most men in his position – let’s face it, you wouldn’t know, would you? Not for sure. All Yardley knows is that his life’s been ruined – first he lost his two sons, then his wife was sent to prison, then he lost his daughter to Social Services. Getting out of bed in the morning must have been a struggle for him, but while Helen’s still in prison, he’s got a purpose, and that’s to get her out. Once she’s out, there’s nothing more to aim for. She’s busy with Laurie Nattrass and JIPAC. What’s Yardley thinking about, day after day, while he fixes people’s roofs?’

  ‘Facias and sofits?’ Sellers suggested with a chuckle.

  ‘Make your point, Gibbs,’ said the Snowman wearily.

  ‘What if Yardley’s the type for brooding? What if he starts thinking someone ought to pay for all the shi—all the suffering he’s been through? Whose fault was it? Helen’s, perhaps, if she killed his sons. Duffy’s? Thanks to her, Yardley lost his wife for nine years.’

  ‘What about Sarah Jaggard?’ Simon asked.

  ‘Sarah Jaggard wasn’t killed,’ said Gibbs. ‘She wasn’t even hurt. Maybe she was never supposed to be. Maybe she was supposed to mislead us, to broaden the focus out, from Helen Yardley’s case to other similar cases.’

  ‘Let me get this straight,’ said Proust, smoothing down the lapels of his jacket. ‘You’re saying Paul Yardley killed his wife and Judith Duffy because he wanted to punish someone for wrecking his life and, of the two of them, he wasn’t sure which was to blame?’

  Gibbs nodded. ‘Possibly, yeah. Or there’s another way it could work: not as an either-or, but he blames them both equally: Helen for the loss of his two boys, and Duffy for the loss of Helen and his daughter.’

  Simon thought both these possibilities stretched credulity somewhat, but he was pleased Gibbs had put them forward. At least one of his colleagues had an imagination.

  Tina Ramsden was smiling. ‘You seem to have a whole team full of psychological profilers,’ she said to Proust. ‘Are you sure you want me to stick around? I have to say, I can’t agree about there being two people involved.’ She looked at Simon and shrugged apologetically. ‘And I’m as certain as I can be about the escalating irrationality. The card-sender as the rational, controlled one doesn’t work because the way he distributes the cards isn’t regular – sometimes he posts them, with no violence, or emails them in photographic form; other times he leaves them in the pockets of murder victims.’

  ‘The numbers, if we knew what they meant, would lead to us identifying him,’ said Simon. ‘It’s a challenge. He’s sending cards to people he sees as his intellectual equals, people he thinks ought to be clever enough to crack his code.’ Seeing Sellers open his mouth, Simon raised a hand to stop him. ‘Were you about to say that Helen Yardley was a childminder, and Sarah Jaggard’s a hairdresser – not great intellects, as the Brain would see it, and yet they got a card each?’

  Sellers nodded.

  ‘No. They didn’t. Helen Yardley and Sarah Jaggard did not get a card each. Judith Duffy did not get a card.’ Simon listened as the sound of confusion filled the room. ‘Yardley, Jaggard and Duffy weren’t the intended recipients of those three cards. Anyway, Duffy was dead by the time she got hers. Those three cards were for us: the police. Our job is to work out what’s going on, right? Laurie Nattrass and Fliss Benson’s work consists of trying to unearth the truth that lies behind three miscarriages of justice.’

  He had everyone’s full attention. ‘We need to start looking at the two things separately, the violence and the cards. In the first category, two women were murdered and one threatened at knifepoint, all three connected with crib death murder cases. In the other category, five cards were sent, three to the police, however indirectly, and two to documentary-makers – all five to people the Brain thinks might be intelligent enough to make sense of his code. There’s nothing irrational about any of it,’ Simon addressed Tina Ramsden. ‘It makes perfect sense, and it means that Fliss Benson and Laurie Nattrass aren’t at risk of attack, any more than we all are.

  ‘The choice of victims for the violent behaviour also makes sense: Helen Yardley and Sarah Jaggard were picked for a reason, though not the most obvious one. The Brain wanted to show us that we’d underestimated him. That’s why Judith Duffy was the next victim, not Ray Hines.’ Simon was sure he was right about this. ‘We forced his hand. On Saturday, Sam here was quoted in every national newspaper as saying that our working assumption was that the killer was a self-appointed punisher, attacking guilty women he thinks have got away with their crimes. But that’s not his motivation, and later that same day he proved it to us by killing Judith Duffy – I’m using “he” as shorthand for “he or she”, remember.’

  ‘Sexist,’ a female voice mumbled.

  ‘He may have had no reason to kill Duffy whatsoever, other than to demonstrate to us that we were wrong about his motivation,’ said Simon. ‘Just as he’s meticulous – writing his number fours and number sevens the same every time – he’s also objective, or so he thinks: fair and clear-thinking. He wants us to notice that about him. He’s probably someone who associates vigilantism with extreme stupidity – unwashed, tabloid-reading hang-em-and-flog-em proles. He wouldn’t like the symbolism of that, because he’s clever, and if I had to guess, I’d say he’s middle-class. He wants us to realise that any justice doled out by him, or by Baldy on his orders, is exactly that: noble justice, not grubby revenge. By murdering the leaders of the two warring armies – Helen Yardley and Judith Duffy – he’s showing us he’s fair and impartial.’

  Everyone stared. No one wanted to be the first to react. Proust stood with his arms folded, staring up at the ceiling, his neck almost at a ninety-degree angle. Was he meditating?

  ‘Well, if no one else wants to jump in, I will,’ said Tina Ramsden, after nearly ten seconds of silence. She held up her notes so that everyone could see them, and tore them in half, then in half again. ‘You have n
o idea how annoying it is to have to do this, after I sat up most of last night cobbling all this together, but I’m no use to you if I’m not honest,’ she said. ‘I defer to DC Waterhouse’s superior analysis.’

  ‘His what?’ Proust turned on her.

  Ramsden looked at Simon. ‘I prefer your profile to mine,’ she said.

  ‘So you think his plan was to sweep you up in his arms and give you a good rogering?’ said Olivia Zailer enthusiastically. She’d dropped everything and come to Spilling to take care of her sister after her ordeal, having first checked Charlie had no injuries that would necessitate any heavy lifting or staunching of bodily fluids.

  ‘No idea,’ said Charlie. ‘All I know is, he sent me a love letter – well, a love scrap of paper – and told me to get back as early as I could on Saturday.’

  ‘But then, when he next saw you, he didn’t make a move.’ Olivia wrinkled her nose in disappointment.

  ‘The next time he saw me was just after I’d had a gun held to my head by Judith Duffy’s killer. I was too shaken up even to remember that sex might have been on the cards, and Simon was more interested in interrogating me about the man they’re calling Baldy.’

  Liv snorted. ‘His work-life balance is like a seesaw with a concrete rhinoceros strapped to one end. Still, at least he sent you a sweet letter – that’s a big step forward, isn’t it?’

  Charlie nodded. She and Olivia were sitting at her kitchen table, drinking tea, though Liv had brought a bottle of pink champagne. ‘To celebrate you not getting shot,’ she’d explained.

  The sun was shining as if it couldn’t tell the difference between summer and winter; Charlie had had to lower her kitchen blind. Since Simon had sent her those eleven words, the sun had shone almost constantly, even though whenever she caught the local news there were big grey clouds covering the Culver Valley. Charlie trusted her own senses; the TV people had got it wrong.