“You never mentioned this to me before Dad.”
“I just thought he was being belligerent and melodramatic as he always used to be. It was only when I heard about the first murders that I realised he was probably seriously deranged and really meant what he'd said. I think, Inspector that his paranoia has built up over the years until he became convinced that he was still in love with Elizabeth Prentice, and she in love with him, and that he alone is responsible for bringing her husband's killers to justice.”
“I see. Please tell me Mr Cahill what the name of this avenging nemesis is.”
“Of course, I'm sorry. I should have told you that at the beginning shouldn't I? His name Inspector is Alexander, though he was always known in the trade as Sandy McLean, former chief investigative journalist of the `Sketch on Sunday'. He's your killer, of that I've no doubt.”
Lucy Clay immediately rose from the table.
“I'll get the name off to the station right away sir. We'll put a call out for this McLean.”
“Wait Lucy. Do you have an address or location of any sort for this man Mr Cahill?”
“I'm sorry Inspector. In the days I knew him he lived in London somewhere, don't ask me the address. He could be anywhere now of course.”
“And you're sure it was him on the phone?”
“Well, it was a lot of years ago Inspector, and people's voices do change with age, as I'm sure my own has, so I couldn't, hand on heart say with a hundred percent certainty that it was him, but he knew every detail of the case. He repeated certain things to me from articles we'd both written and he related things that only someone with his intimate knowledge of the case, and of Elizabeth Prentice would know. Also, why would anyone pretend to be him in order to get to my files and records and scare the life out of me like that?”
“Why indeed, Mr Cahill?” asked Connor thoughtfully. “Why indeed?”
Connor was about bring the interview to an end. He felt that Cahill had given him all he could for the time being. Further interviews might be highly productive, but for the moment Connor had a name and a likely suspect, though there were still many questions that needed to be answered. He needed to ask a couple of them before he left the Mount Pleasant.
“Do you know of any woman who might be helping McLean, assuming that he is the killer?” He passed a copy of the e-photo of the woman seen at the Regency Hotel to Cahill. “She looks like this, though the hair is probably a wig.”
“I'm sorry Inspector. I don't know of anyone who resembles this lady.”
“OK. Also, do the names David Arnold, Virginia Remick, Sam Gabriel, Andrew Forbes or Arminder Patel suggest any connection to the case to you? I already know about the connection with the Strides and Judge Tolliver, but these other victims appear random and unconnected as far as I can see.”
“Virginia Remick, Inspector, was the grand-daughter of George Turner. He was the editor of the Sketch on Sunday at the time McLean was asked to leave. Turner thought that McLean had gone too far in his reporting of Elizabeth Prentice's claims and that he was making the newspaper look foolish. I seem to remember someone by the name of Arnold being involved as a witness of some sort, though only in a minor way. As you already know, I'm sure; Andrew Forbes was Prentice's partner. Were you just testing me with that one? I've no idea about Sam Gabriel or Arminder Patel. The names mean nothing to me.”
Connor looked across at Lucy Clay. She had seen the significance of Cahill's words. They didn't have it all, but they had a connection. Connor was satisfied that at last he had a viable source of information, and a real and likely prime suspect.
“Shall I make that call now Sir?” asked the sergeant.
“What? Oh yes, please, make the call Lucy, then we'll arrange somewhere safe for Mr Cahill to stay in case we need to speak to him again. I don't want you disappearing again Mr Cahill. Is that understood? We'll protect you until we get McLean in custody, I promise you.”
Roger Cahill nodded, took another sip from the tea cup, and relaxed for the first time in days. He believed Connor's promise of protection was a good one, and he felt as though by revealing what he knew, a great burden had been lifted from his shoulders. He was getting too old for all this, and now he'd got it off his chest he thought that the old adage was indeed true and that confession truly was good for the soul!
Curry and Questions
Two days of relative inactivity followed Connor's meeting with Roger Cahill. After he and Clay had set the wheels in motion that he hoped would eventually lead to the apprehension of Sandy McLean the weekend had interceded in the investigation and things had slowed down almost to a crawl. Connor had also taken it upon himself to organise a `safe house' for Cahill and his son. He didn't want to take a chance on anything happening to his only real source of information concerning McLean, so he'd detailed Detective Constable Simon Fox to `baby sit' the two Cahills. D.C.I. Lewis had been furious when Connor had refused to reveal the location of his star witness, but Connor had decided that only he, Clay and Fox were to share the knowledge of the men's whereabouts. He'd explained to his boss that he considered the safe house's location a `need to know' subject, and until Connor had learned all that there was to know from the elderly journalist then no-one, including his boss, would have access to the location for security reasons. Lewis wasn't happy, but accepted that Sean was acting in the best interests of both the Cahills and the investigation.
As for McLean, the man appeared to have simply vanished off the face of the earth. His last known address had been an apartment in Pimlico in London, but a visit to the address by the Metropolitan Police, made at Connor's request, had found the place deserted. The neighbours had informed the officers who attended the apartment that McLean hadn't been seen for over a month, which Connor thought significant if he was indeed the killer. He imagined the man being holed up somewhere, preparing his aconite parcels and communicating with his as yet unidentified accomplice by telephone or email. In that assumption at least, Connor was on the right track.
A knock on his door announced the arrival of Catherine Nickels. The pathologist stood on his doorstep armed with two bags containing an Indian take-away. Connor stood staring at her for a moment, her face a pleasant and welcome diversion after the rigours of the last few days.
“Now then Sean Connor, are you going to invite me in or stand staring at me until this food goes stone cold?” she said with mock seriousness.
“Sorry Catherine, yes, of course. Come in. I was just thinking how good you look.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere Detective Inspector. Now, shall we eat?”
Catherine hadn't skimped on the unexpected treat. Together they devoured two sumptuous Madras curries, boiled rice, a selection of onion bahjees and vegetable samosas, a plateful of fresh crisp poppadums, and two bottles of chilled cobra beer each. Both studiously avoided making reference to the case in hand until the meal was finished. Catherine related to Connor the case she was working on, a young woman who'd died unexpectedly at the age of twenty one from a rare and relatively unheard of heart condition. Undetectable, she'd said. The poor woman had been a walking time-bomb, her heart waiting to explode at any given moment without anyone having an inkling that she carried the awful condition around with her. After dinner the two of them retired to the sofa in Connor's lounge where Catherine soon brought the conversation around to the aconite killer.
“The word on the grapevine is that you're making progress Sean.”
“Well, a bit, though we still don't have a clue as to where our prime suspect might be hiding away. Like the rest of this case Catherine, it's all a bit of an enigma. Nothing seems to fit together the way it should although certain pieces are beginning to fall into place.”
“Sean, you should be pleased. You're making progress and there haven't been any more killings have there?”
“No, not yet. It doesn't mean there won't be though, unless we get our hands on our man soon. Plus, Lewis is mad at me for not telling him where I've stashed
the Cahills away. He thinks I don't trust him.”
“Well, he is your boss Sean. Shouldn't you at least keep him informed about what you've done with them?”
“Look Catherine, Cahill told me that McLean boasted of having contacts in the police force all those years ago, he could still have one or more, I just don't know. It's not that I don't trust the boss, but he talks to people who talk to other people. He only has to let something slip and the wrong person could get wind of where they are, and my case could be blown away. As it stands, only three people know where the Cahills are, so if anything leaks then I know where to look for the source. Fox won't let anything out, he's incarcerated with the two of them and won't be leaving them for a minute and that only leaves me and Lucy Clay. I won't blab, so if anyone does find out where they are it'll be down to a loose tongue on Lucy's part, which I don't think will happen.”
“You've got a point I suppose.”
“Yes, and that's not all. I got a call from Charles Carrick in Birmingham today. He's been taken off the David Arnold Case. It seems that his boss and D.C.I. Lewis have been conferring and because the Arnold case is so obviously linked to our series of murders, it's been deemed wise to put them all together under one inquiry. Charles is sending me all of his files and the report on his interviews with Maggie Prentice. They don't amount to much apparently. She's gone all tight-lipped now that she thinks she's given us as much as we asked for in the beginning. She won't reveal another thing. Personally I think she'll plead insanity as her defence and will probably get away with it.”
“My, my, you do sound down and depressed over it all Sean. I thought you'd be pleased to be making as much progress as you are.”
“I am pleased Catherine. It's just that things don't quite add up in my mind. I normally have a feel for a case, but this one just confounds every ounce of logic I try to apply to it. Whoever is behind it all is an obvious master of deception. He assumes identities to throw us off the scent, not fake identities mind you but real people, and they all seem to be connected to the case. I know where and how some of the victims are connected now thanks to Cahill, but the others are still a mystery. There's something else that's bugging me as well.”
“Go on Sean, what is it?”
“That's just it Catherine. For the bloody life of me I can't think what it is. Somewhere, recently, someone said something that didn't mean a lot when I first heard it, but then later I realised that I'd missed something vital. It's there at the back of my mind but I just can't place what it was, or who said it. As soon as I do, I know I'll be on the right track, I'm sure of it. I just need to review every piece of paper and every witness statement again when I get back to the office tomorrow. If it's there, and I'm sure it is, then I'll find it. I just wish to God I could remember it now. It's been driving me mad.”
“Well, I'm sure it'll come to you. You've been under so much pressure to solve the case I'm not surprised that certain things are a bit confused in your mind. It's only natural to fail to remember something that might have appeared insignificant at the time but which now has some significance for you. It's a matter of the brain having to sort out the minutiae of the case and then pressing the correct recall button so to speak.”
“I hope you're right Catherine, I really do.”
Catherine rose from the sofa. It was getting late.
“Right then Mr Connor,” she grinned. “I think that's quite enough of business for tonight don't you? Whatever you need to remember will be waiting for you when you get to the office in the morning, but for now I want to know whether I have to drive home alone at this late hour or whether a very nice gentleman might desire a little company to see him through the night?”
Sean stared hard at the beautiful pathologist. His reply, when it came, was exactly the one she wanted to hear.
“Upstairs! Right now if you please Doctor Nickels!”
Pay Off
Tracy was becoming nervous. She hadn't heard from the man for nearly three days. After receiving her last payment she'd left the house only for a brief time to visit the local supermarket where she'd bought sufficient provisions to last her until the middle of the following week. He'd always been explicit in telling her to expose herself to as little public scrutiny as possible. He'd been good about getting rid of Sam Gabriel for her. That was essential to ensure that no-one knew she was in town of course, but he'd been absolutely furious when she'd asked to use part of his precious supply of aconite to dispose of Patel. She'd actually thought that he might kill her himself for having added another victim to the list. She'd explained however that Patel had assaulted her years earlier when they were both teenagers, and had laughed about it afterwards, bragging to his friends about what he'd done. She had never forgotten his hands as they'd groped her, pulling at her clothes, removing them before forcing himself on her in such an appalling way. Afterwards, he'd walked away, leaving her bleeding and battered on the ground.
“No-one will believe you,” he'd mocked. “You're nothing but a little slut, and everyone knows that. You'd drop your knickers and spread your legs for any of the boys in town on a Saturday night, so why should they think you didn't do the same for me?”
She'd known he was right. She had a reputation for being `easy', and Arminder Patel was from a good home, with a well respected father who ran the local newsagents shop. Arminder had never been in any trouble with the law, whereas most of the local police force knew the young Tracy Willis by name. She'd fallen in with the `wrong crowd' at an early age and she was popular with the boys. It wasn't long before Tracy had realised that if she gave the boys what she wanted, her own standing in the `gang' rose until she'd reached a point where she'd learned to trade her body for the things she wanted while being able to detach herself from the physical sensations of the act of intercourse, and anyway, they were her friends. With Arminder Patel it had been different. He'd forced her to do what he wanted totally against her will, and Tracy had vowed revenge. Why she hadn't told the other boys she really never knew. They would have broken Patel's legs at the very least, but no, something within her kept the secret of her violation until she could find a way to pay him back, and that opportunity came once she'd learned how to use the aconite, how much to give and how to insert it into the chocolates. Funnily enough, the man eventually said that the killing of Patel might actually suit his plans. Like Sam Gabriel, another seemingly random killing might help to further confuse the `plods' as he called the policemen who would surely be trying to track him down. As for Patel, the stupid fool hadn't even recognised her after all those years! She'd even wished him a good day as she'd left. Perfect! Tracy had revelled in her moment of glory.
Now though, the man had left her in limbo, without instructions and with no contact. She'd expected him to call with further instructions, but so far there'd been nothing. What if he'd deserted her, left her to her own devices and skipped the country or something like that? Another even more frightening thought found its way slowly into Tracy's mind. What if the man were to do a runner, and then plant enough evidence to implicate her in all of the murders, so that she'd take the blame for everything? Clever bastard! She'd done it all of course, except Tolliver. He'd done the old judge himself, but they'd never believe that would they, and why should they? If he'd set her up for the murders there wasn't a lot she could do to convince the cops that she hadn't done them all, and would it even matter to them? Then there were the others. She'd no idea who they were, but the man had told her he'd killed before, that it was easy, and that no-one would ever know about his `beginnings' as he described them. What if he'd made sure that Tracy was the one who was eventually blamed for those as well?
She became suddenly afraid that that was exactly what he'd done. Why else would he leave her without contact for three days? He was supposed to tell her what to do and he'd abandoned her, just like every other low-life man she'd ever known. Tracy Willis was getting angry. Maybe, she thought, she ought to go to the police herself, and tell them that he'd
made her do it, blackmailed her or something. They'd maybe go for that.
She almost jumped out of her skin when the phone began to ring. It was him!
The smooth voice at the end of the telephone line instantly allayed Tracy's fears. Five minutes later she was on her way out of the apartment, heading for the nearest station. An hour later she arrived at the place he'd designated in the phone call. This was the place where she would find the final payment for her services, the big one, the one that would give her the chance to get out of the country once and for all and start her new life somewhere warm and sunny, Spain perhaps.
As she waited on the deserted embankment by the river watching a family of ducks gently meandering along by the bank she caught sight of a small boat approaching from downriver. As it drew closer she saw the name on the prow of the tiny vessel. `The Cormorant' came closer to shore and Tracy saw a man in the wheelhouse, waving to her. Thinking him to be a simple boatman who would often wave to pretty girls on the riverbank she waved back. She saw the man step from the wheelhouse, thinking he wanted a better look at her legs, she'd always been proud of her legs, and as he did so, he waved again. Tracy waved back and then the man appeared to be holding something in his hands, something long and black, and then he was pointing it at her and there was a muffled noise that seemed to emanate from the black thing, and then everything went blank in Tracy's mind. Her face literally exploded from the force of the bullet's impact, and Tracy Willis was dead before her brain had the chance to register the fact that she'd been shot. Her body pitched over the low parapet and fell into the dark waters below. The tide would soon carry it down towards the sea, where the man hoped it would disappear for ever. If not, it might be washed up on the riverbank in a few days and be just another unidentified murder victim with nothing to tie her to him of course.
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