“You slept in the bed didn't you? You could have left skin cells on the sheets.”
“They didn't even know about me until days afterwards. All those sheets would have been through the hotel laundry system by then, and you know it.”
“Well, I just hope for your sake that they don't find anything to connect you with that room, or with me.”
“They won't. Now calm down will you?”
“Yes, right. I'm just getting a little nervous. They're floundering around as I expected them to but Connor is getting close without even realising it. I'll have to keep my eye very closely on the detective inspector.”
“You do that. That's your department after all. I'm just the delivery girl.”
“Just be careful that's all.”
The man hung up on her, and the woman in turn replaced the phone on the hook. The Chocolate Woman, as the police now knew her thought it odd that the man would be nervous. He'd never once struck her as the nervous type in any of their dealings so far. In fact he was probably the coolest and most controlled person she'd ever met. She'd considered him to have nerves of steel and a heart of ice, he was so cold and detached in his speech and in the way he'd delivered her instructions. She had no doubt that `nervous' wasn't something he really felt, just a phrase to incite her to be extra careful and vigilant.
She was confident that she'd left no traces at any of the crime scenes or at the hotel room. At lease, nothing that could ever be traced back to her. By following his instructions to the letter she'd ensured that no DNA, no personal items, not even a piece of paper that might contain a partial fingerprint had been left anywhere for the police to find. The man was good; she had to give him that. His knowledge of police procedures and of forensics was phenomenal. He could almost have been a policeman she thought, or perhaps a pathologist, but his knowledge came from all those years he'd told her he'd spent investigating various crimes for the newspaper.
She looked once again at the envelope that lay on the kitchen table. Picking it up she allowed her fingers to peel back the flap and play with the edges of the pile of crisp twenty pound notes that filled it to it's capacity. She enjoyed these paydays, and another ten thousand pounds would go a long way towards buying her way out of the country and enabling her to start the new life she'd planned when the job was over and done with. She'd collected it from the post office box as instructed that very morning, and now the cash would be added to her fees for the earlier jobs. She was becoming quite wealthy, and she liked the idea.
A few miles away, the man allowed himself to rest back against the soft leather backrest of his chair. He knew he'd chosen wisely. Tracy was the perfect woman to have become his angel of death, or Chocolate Woman as Connor and his people called her. How clever of him to have picked a woman with no connection to the case to do his dirty work. Tracy had been out of prison for less than a month when he'd approached her, and he'd been impressed by her attitude and her grim determination once he'd explained his aims. There weren't too many cold-blooded female killers around who'd do almost anything for money, but Tracy would. She'd just finished a ten year stretch for manslaughter, though he knew she'd been guilty of premeditation and had got lucky with her legal team and a soft jury at her trial. They'd only met once, when, heavily disguised, he'd explained his needs to her and given her the down payment of five thousand pounds that had bought her undying loyalty. She was intelligent without being too nosy, and she was just what he wanted. He'd planned everything meticulously, and then a chance meeting gave him the opportunity to further misdirect the forces of law and order and lead them up the proverbial gum tree when it came to the investigation of the killings he was about to enact.
Getting rid of Sam Gabriel had been a master stroke in more ways than one. Gabriel had defended her in court ten years previously at the outset of his career and had done his best for her but he'd been young and inexperienced at the time, and he'd lost and Tracy had gone to jail. She bore him no ill will however, but when he'd seen her coming out of the apartment that the man had rented for her, which he'd have known was obviously way beyond Tracy's limited finances, and Tracy had told the man about it, he'd known exactly what to do. First, he couldn't take the chance of Gabriel at some future date relating the news about Tracy and her new upmarket apartment to the police. She'd be a good suspect for the murders, being just out of prison and with a history of violence behind her and probably wouldn't withstand too much in the way of questioning. Secondly, killing Gabriel before his real plan had actually got under way was a stroke of genius because the police were now looking for a link between Gabriel and the Prentice case, and of course, there was no such thing. Fools! They could chase their tails forever and still come up empty handed. Sam Gabriel had been surprised when he'd `bumped into' Tracy on the street, but had seemed pleased when she'd explained about her new job. He'd happily accepted the free sample of the new product she'd offered him. It had been the last time Sam Gabriel would see his former client.
From that day forward the man had only communicated with her by phone, and she'd been a loyal and faithful participant in his scheme. He'd just have to be careful now that things were coming to a head. She mustn't be allowed to give anything away. Though he was confident of the fact that she didn't know his real identity or have any information that could lead Connor and his team to him, he would be wary from now on. Tracy might yet turn out to be a liability, and of course, liabilities were one thing that he simply couldn't afford.
The man closed his eyes and allowed himself to daydream a little, to see in his mind's eye the face that reminded him of just why he was doing all of this and who he was doing it for. As the memory of that face pushed itself to the forefront of his brain, a smile played across his face. He still had his memories, and they were alive in his head.
For now, Tracy could wait, liability or not!
Confession is Good for the Soul
The Mount Pleasant Hotel stands in its own grounds, a majestic building that was once the home of a titled lord, at another time a military hospital caring for war-wounded troops and then after a period of post-war decline bought and renovated by a burgeoning hotel chain, gradually being transformed into the four star pleasure palace that had been chosen by Roger Cahill the elder for his meeting with Connor and Clay. At first Cahill had resisted Connor's insistence that he be accompanied by his sergeant, Cahill's fear and distrust of all strangers only giving way when Connor insisted fiercely that he must have his sergeant with him to take down any notes required. He would be too busy talking to Cahill, he'd said, to bother about taking accurate notes, which would be essential to the interview. Cahill, being a former journalist recognised the validity of Connor's words and eventually though reluctantly agreed to Lucy's presence.
Connor and Clay arrived first, the tyres of the Mondeo making a satisfying crunching sound as they covered the expansive gravel of the approach drive to the hotel. That sound in itself served to give a feeling of opulence to anyone's arrival at the Mount Pleasant. Nice touch, thought Connor. A uniformed doorman held the main doors open for them as they entered the lobby of the hotel, and they soon found themselves in the `Westminster Bar' which had been decorated to resemble a typical nineteenth century gentlemen's club, with leather sofas and armchairs, low and highly polished tables, a large open fireplace, and copious amounts of newspapers and up to date magazines covering a multitude of subjects placed neatly on small side tables for the reading pleasure of the guests.
Connor selected a table near the back of the room which would afford them a degree of privacy. There were no overlooking windows and Connor would have a clear view of anyone entering the room. He hoped that Cahill would be pleased with his choice. He ordered a tray of assorted sandwiches and large pots of tea and coffee in an attempt to make Cahill fell a little more relaxed when he eventually arrived. Connor hoped he wouldn't be late and that the tea and coffee wouldn't be cold by the time he arrived.
He needn't have worried. Barely ten minu
tes after the detectives had arrived, Cahill, accompanied by his son walked tentatively into the `Westminster Bar'. Cahill the elder looked every one of his seventy eight years. He walked with a pronounced stoop and, as he and his son arrived at the table, having caught Connor's wave of greeting, Connor could see that the old man had bags under his eyes and those eyes showed a redness and had a hollow sunken look that told of Cahill's fear and lack of sleep. Connor had no trouble in recognising the look of a worried man. Cahill, he quickly decided, was no killer. This was without doubt a man in fear for his life.
“Hello Inspector, Sergeant.” The younger Roger Cahill spoke to introduce his father. “This is my father, Roger Cahill. Dad, this is Detective Inspector Connor and Sergeant Clay.”
Connor held out his hand, and as Cahill senior reached to take it in a handshake the detective could see the old man's hand shaking with trepidation. Whatever this man knew, it was enough to make him afraid of his own shadow by the looks of things. Despite his age and the trembling in his hands Cahill's handshake was firm and resolute. He and his son sat down opposite the detectives and Connor asked Lucy Clay to pour whatever beverages the two men required. Cahill the elder took tea, his son decided on coffee. No-one took the proffered sandwiches. Connor hoped that no-one would query his expense requisite form. He noticed too the appearance of the old man. Cahill might be getting on in years, and he might be terrified out of his wits, but the man had style. He wore a crisp white shirt, a red and black spotted bow-tie, and a quality dark blue jacket that would have been expensive when new. His trousers were a slightly paler shade of blue from the jacket and showed neat, well-pressed creases down the centre of the legs, though they had a crumpled look that came from a relatively long journey in a seated position. Connor thought that he and his son must have driven for at least an hour to get that crumpled look. In many ways Cahill looked the typical news hack, ready to leap up from his desk and hit the streets in search of a scoop, though Cahill wouldn't be doing any more leaping at his age, Connor was sure of that.
“Mr Cahill, thank you for coming to talk to me. I appreciate how hard this must be for you,” Connor began.
“Do you Inspector? Do you really think so? I doubt that you have any real idea of just how hard it really was for me to come here today. Do you realise that just by being here I could be exposing myself to the person you're looking for?”
“Listen Mr Cahill. I asked you to allow me to have a larger police presence here but you insisted on just me and the sergeant. You didn't even want her here at first, remember? We could have made sure of your safety if you'd let me have a few officers stationed around the lobby and the bar.”
“What, and publicise my presence to all and sundry? He's probably watching everything you do you know, I hope you realise that Inspector. He probably also knows just about everything about this case as you do.”
“And just how would he be able to do that Mr Cahill?”
“Because he's very clever and very resourceful, and always was. He'll no doubt have a source or two within the police force. He always used to. There are always one or two officers or civilian employees in every force who are willing to leak information in return for a small consideration Inspector. I hope you're not so naïve as to think there aren't?”
Unfortunately Cahill was correct as Connor well knew. It wasn't the same as being bent or downright dishonest, but he hated those within the police force who would sell their souls, and vital information, to the press. It was against all the regulations of course, but it happened, always had done, and probably always would.
“OK. Let's assume for a minute that you're right. What your man doesn't know, and can't possibly do so is the location of this meeting because only Sergeant Clay and I are privy to this location and even the sergeant didn't know about it until we were in the car. I kept it from her at your request, so I'd say we're pretty safe here wouldn't you?”
“He could have followed you.”
“Yes, he could have, but hen I'm sure you'd have recognised him by now if he were here, wouldn't you?”
“He might be waiting to follow me when I leave and he could follow me back to here I'm staying and do me some harm there.”
“Right. That brings me to my exact point Mr. Cahill. You'll be far safer if you tell me what you know and then allow me to arrange police protection for you, if I think it's necessary.”
The younger of the Cahills broke into the conversation.
“Inspector Connor. Dad really does want to help you, but can't you see he's frightened? Even I didn't realise just how scared he is until I met him today. Like I said, he hasn't even told me where he's hiding out.”
“I can see he's afraid Mr Cahill, but believe me, he needs to tell me what he knows.”
“He's right Roger,” said the old man. “If I don't tell him and then something happens to me, the killer could get away with everything and Mr Connor here might never find out who he is. He's bloody clever, like I've told you already.”
Lucy Clay, realising that Cahill was about to divulge his secrets readied her notebook, pen poised.
“Please Mr Cahill,” said Connor. “In your own time.”
Cahill took a drink from his tea cup, then set the cup down in its saucer, looked around the room as though checking once more that they weren't being watched, and then he began his story.
“It all seems such a long time ago. When the Prentice case first began, I was the lead crime reporter for the Echo. We were only a small local paper of course but we tried to put out a professional and informative paper that could hold its own against the big dailies. I reported on the murder of course, and the local police were very helpful, as they always were to the Echo. Nothing confidential was disclosed of course, but enough to give me the bones of a good story and enabled me to keep the readers as well-informed as any of the dailies could. After Stride was cleared, and then Miller's conviction the whole case seemed to go away for a while, but then his murder in prison resurrected it for a while, and then of course the posthumous appeal came along. He was acquitted as you know and the case became front page news again for a time. My boss at the paper was very much into `human interest' stories, especially those to do with the victims of crime so he sent me along to try and get interviews with those closest to the Stride and Miller Families, and the widow of the murder victim, Prentice. Terence Stride had killed himself of course, which added a certain pathos to the whole thing, but his wife hadn't yet committed suicide when I did my first set of interviews. It was clear to me from the beginning that the widow of the murdered man was by far the most unstable and suggestible woman I'd ever met. I'd ask her for example if she'd thought that either of the two men had been guilty of her husband's murder, and she jumped at the thought and immediately twisted it until she'd become convinced in her own mind that both Stride and Miller had been in it together and that the two of them had killed her husband for some reason. Of course, she couldn't explain what that reason could have been, and I saw that she was a seriously tragic and disturbed lady. I didn't give her wild stories and theories much page space to be honest, rather concentrating on the effects of the case on the families of the two dead men, who I thought were more deserving of a little sympathy by that time. After all, they'd both been innocent men and their families would have to live without them for the rest of their lives. They were just as much the victims of trauma as Elizabeth Prentice, who didn't go out of her way to elicit much in the way of sympathy, believe me.
Anyway, soon after I'd done my series of interviews one of the big dailies ran a weekly series of articles written by one of their whiz-kid investigative journalists. He'd fallen hook, line and sinker for Elizabeth Prentice's tales of conspiracies and cover-ups, and his editor allowed him to run with the totally implausible theories she'd fed him with. His own journalistic instincts and skills should have told him how stupid the whole thing was and his contacts should have been able to put him straight, but there was one thing that clouded his whole handli
ng of the story Inspector.”
“Which was?”
“He fell in love with Elizabeth Prentice! They were around the same age, and he became totally besotted with the woman. It became so bad that his stories became ever more lurid and sensational until his own newspaper refused to print them and he left his job under something of a cloud. It transpired that his love affair with the grieving widow was doomed from the moment he lost his job with the paper, because, once he was no longer in a position to give her rantings a national audience through his column, she dumped him. He was angry and crestfallen all at the same time and never held such a well-paid or prestigious position with any of the big dailies again. His career went right off the rails. Elizabeth Prentice ended up having a relationship with a police constable of all people would you believe? That only served to make our friend even more bitter and twisted. When he telephoned me a few weeks ago with the preposterous idea that he was going to write a book on the case and wanted to use my records and files of my interviews with the families, I just thought that he was off his rocker. I mean, who'd want to read all of that again after all these years? He did say though, that he was going to throw new light on the case and maybe even reveal the name of the real killer. I told him that my files were personal and private and not for public consumption and that he'd have to get his information elsewhere. Then he came up with the ridiculous story about someone being out to get us because of our connection with the case. I told him to bugger off. Well, as you know from my son, two days later I was mugged, all my credit cards and personal identity documents stolen and then there was the break-in at the house. When the killings began, I just knew he was behind it.”
“Why didn't you call the police there and then Mr Cahill?” asked Lucy Clay.
“Because he threatened my son, Sergeant. When I refused to give him what he wanted, he said that he'd get what he wanted from somewhere else, and that he wanted me to keep our `little conversation' private and confidential. He said that if I revealed that he was interested in the case to anyone he'd make sure something horrible would happen to young Roger here.”
Purple Death Page 20