A Cross to Bear: A Jack Sheridan Mystery

by Vogel, Vince

  Instead, he looked about the place while Alex continued to forcefully glare down at him. From what he gathered, Cuthbert was sitting in some abandoned flat, the whole place empty of all furniture except the chair he was stuck to. Even the carpet had been removed. To the right of him was a window looking out onto the gray sky. At his feet he saw his laptop, and a ripple of fear ran through him. His eyes instinctively flitted away from it. Directly in front of him, behind Alex, was an open door with steam flowing out of it. He became aware of the sound of bubbling water, and a further injection of fear entered his body.

  “What’s going on?” he muttered in a trembling voice. “Is this some kind of joke?”

  “You’ve only known me five minutes, Mr. Cuthbert. Why would I pull some kind of elaborate trick on you? Do I look like a joker?”

  Dorring leaned forward and gave Steven a clearer view of his stern face.

  “Then what is this?” Cuthbert wanted to know.

  “What do you think it is?”

  Dorring placed the bucket on the floor and walked forward. Steven instinctively winced as Alex approached but couldn’t move a muscle in the chair. Alex knelt down in front of the laptop and opened it. The screen switched on, and Steven began sobbing pathetically when he saw the images that Alex had selected from its files.

  “I knew the moment I saw you,” Alex began as Cuthbert wept like a child, “that something wasn’t quite right. I have a gift, you see. I can see into other men’s black souls. And I saw into you. What did you do to my sister?”

  “Nothing,” he blubbered.

  Alex reached around and took something that was tucked in the back of his jeans. It was a plastic bag, and he quickly swooped forward and shoved it over Cuthbert’s head, pulling it tight around the neck so that Steven began pulling the bag into his gasping mouth and making a wheezing sound, his eyes almost popping out of his head as he was slowly asphyxiated. He struggled, but Dorring kept a firm grip on the bag and held it there for some time. Cuthbert’s whole body convulsed but was unable to move in the chair, his white freckled skin tugging at the glue to no avail, his fingers stretched out and reaching desperately for something. For life.

  Alex pulled the bag off and Cuthbert threw his head forward, panting heavily, his lungs trying to pull as much air into them as they could.

  “I’m going to do that again,” Dorring warned him. “Does my mother know about this?” He nodded toward the computer screen, which was still covered in horror.

  “No,” he panted in response. “She doesn’t.”

  “Did you do this type of thing with my sister?”

  Cuthbert’s face collapsed in on itself, and he wept uncontrollably. Alex moved toward him, and Steven began shaking his head, repeating no, but Dorring shoved the bag over his head all the same and pulled it as tight as he could. Again Cuthbert’s body convulsed as his terrified lungs scrambled for air that refused to come, his mouth tugging in the back. Behind the taut white plastic, Alex could see the man’s wide eyes staring into the possibility of his own death. It satisfied him to see this.

  Just as Cuthbert was about to pass out, Dorring removed the bag and again Cuthbert gasped for air.

  “You see how this works, Mr. Cuthbert,” Alex said, pressing his face an inch from the other’s. “After every lie—and believe me, I’ll know—and after every hesitation, I’m going to place the bag on your head. But the bag will only last another few goes before I get bored with it. Then we move on to other things. Things that won’t simply scar your body forever. No. We’ll move on to things that will scar your mind forever. So how will it be?”

  “Yes,” he wept, his whole face screwed into a ball.

  “Yes what?”

  “Yes, I did those types of thing to your sister.”

  Dorring’s face filled with rage, and he threw the bag back over Cuthbert’s head and pulled it as tight as he could without breaking it. Again the man went into spasms, his neck moving within Alex’s grip, trying to struggle out of it.

  “I forgot to warn you, Mr. Cuthbert,” Alex said, “that certain truths may also be punished.”

  50

  Having put the rather snotty friend of DCI Caldwell in her place, Jack walked the short distance back to Lange, tossing his cigarette into the curb as he did.

  “Let’s go see Shiva,” he said to the detective constable, reaching into his inside pocket and pulling out a pair of rubber gloves.

  They both gloved up, walked down the black-and-red-checkered path, and entered the plush interior of the house. It was full of antique furniture, with thick carpets, rugs, and tapestries from all over the world hanging on the walls, as well as the typical paintings of yachts. Something else that caught Jack as typical was the antique globe stuffed in a corner of the hallway, right in front of a tall grandfather clock and to the left of a bookshelf populated by perfect rows of leather-bound books. He’d been in countless houses of the upper echelons of London society and found them all quaintly uniform, just as he found that the lower classes appeared to live in similar uniformity in their dilapidated high-rise flats. Jack saw clones everywhere.

  “Shiva?” he asked the first white suit they came across.

  The man lowered his mask.

  “He’s in the kitchen.”

  “Cheers.”

  Jack and Lange made their way to the kitchen and found their man. He was carefully removing drinking glasses from a cupboard, bagging and labeling them as evidence. When he saw the two detectives enter, he lowered his mask and ushered them into the corner. In hushed tones, he explained:

  “There’s evidence of a cleanup in here, the lounge, the bathroom, and the hallway. The wife explained that she smelled bleach when they got home yesterday morning. It was the first thing that alerted her to someone else having been in the house. Other than that we’ve found more hair fibers on the couch matching in appearance to those of Becky Dorring. We’re removing the glasses for evidence of flunitrazepam. I think the killer may have used one to administer the sedative.”

  “Why’d he take her here, Shiva?”

  “I really don’t know the answer to that, Jack. It’s very inconsistent behavior. Highly risky. Perhaps that’s what he likes. The danger of taking girls to other people’s houses and killing them.”

  “Is there any clue as to how he got in?”

  “Pick set at the front door. We found evidence of the lock being scratched.”

  “What about the alarms?”

  “He rewired them externally. Simply opened up the junction box on the street corner and rerouted the phones. The call never went out. On Monday, British Telecom received a complaint from residents that several phone lines were down. The technician who came out didn’t bother reporting the tampered lines because he put it down to petty vandalism and didn’t want to waste police time.”

  “He couldn’t be assed with the paperwork more like,” Jack remarked.

  “Probably. Anyway, it’s early days, but I think this is most likely the place our man killed Becky Dorring.”

  “Any sign of prints yet?”

  “We’ve found several partials around the kitchen that look to have been fractionally wiped away. Could have happened during the cleanup, making them less likely to belong to the homeowners. But we won’t be sure until their prints are taken for elimination.”

  “Well, the wife’s in the van now.”

  “Thank heavens. That bloody woman was a nightmare to get out of the house.”

  “The husband should be here soon, so hopefully he’s a little more understanding than his spouse.”

  “Let’s hope so. I’ll let you know of anything when I get it.”

  “Before Scotland Yard?”

  “Always, Jack.”

  “Thanks, Shiva.” The forensic scientist nodded and returned to the cupboard while Jack turned to Lange. “I need you to score up some uniform and take them door to door. See if anyone noticed anything. My guess is that they didn’t. I also need you to have a look at local CCT
V.”

  “Can’t do, sarge,” Lange interrupted.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that I checked the moment I got here. But when I called the council, they told me that there aren’t any cameras round this area for at least a mile. The locals had a campaign to have them removed about a year ago.”

  “What the hell?”

  “They ran a campaign. Signed petitions sent to the local MP and all that stuff. Marched on parliament. They got them taken down.”

  “Bloody typical.”

  “I don’t think it’s a bad thing, sarge,” the detective constable remarked. “People don’t always need to be watched. Policing them should be enough.”

  “You don’t know people like I do, George.”

  “Yeah, but spying on them, it’s wrong. How do we know that the people using the information those cameras gather can be trusted?”

  “We’re the ones behind the cameras, George. Us.”

  “But who else?”

  “Look, don't get all 1984 with me. Just ask yourself this: why has Brixton town center still got cameras? And Lewisham? And Hackney high street? The estates all over London? Housing schemes? Why switch them off here and not everywhere else? Why is it that just because this lot think they’re better, they should not have to be watched? I don’t think you’ll find your liberty here, George.”

  “Fair point.”

  While he said this last statement, Jack took a look around the kitchen and saw something on the side that piqued his interest. It was a pizza menu, the same as the one he’d almost tripped ass over tit on when he’d gotten out the car. He glanced at it and saw the address of the takeaway.

  “That can’t be right,” he said, walking over to it.

  “What can’t be right?” Lange asked, a slightly bewildered expression on his face.

  Jack picked the menu up in his gloved fingers and looked at it.

  “I thought it a minute ago when I pulled one of these off my shoe,” he said. “The address of this place is nearly ten miles away.”

  “So?”

  “So why are they delivering all the way out here?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Jack looked at the thing in his hand, the way it had a little handle on it so that it could hook on to doorknobs without being easily blown off by the wind. It was a clever design, Jack thought, because you could never ignore it. You had to take it off the doorknob when you came in. It caught your attention, and you were forced to at least look at it. Any normal flyer arriving on your doorstep would make it straight into the bin with all the rest of the junk mail without even a split second’s glance, but not this little blighter.

  A sudden thought hit Jack, and he made his way through the thronging white suits and out the door. On the doorstep, he glanced to the left and then to the right of him, along the line of houses going up the street either way. On several of the other doors, he saw the same pizza menus, but most had been removed. Jack went out onto the pavement and walked along until he reached one of the houses that still had the menu on the door handle. He walked up the pathway and rang the bell to the house. He waited. Nothing. Then he knocked hard and repeatedly pushed the bell. Still nothing. He knelt in front of the door and looked through the letterbox. Lying on the carpet below was a number of letters, evidence that no one had been home for a while.

  On the street outside, a rather upset-looking Mrs. Paterson-Crowley was stepping out the back of the van, strenuously wiping her hands with tissue.

  “Mrs. Paterson-Crowley,” Jack uttered coming toward her from the house, “can you tell me if number twenty-six is away at the moment?”

  She looked at him, her expression one of scorn. But, like before, she held it back and merely answered.

  “They’re away until next week,” she said in her haughty manner.

  He didn’t thank her, simply turned and walked back toward the house, still holding the menu. Stopping at the gate, he got his phone out and dialed the number on the front. The place opened at ten, and even though it was only just after nine, he expected there to be people getting the restaurant ready. The first call rang out. He tried again. No answer. He then repeatedly rang, hoping to annoy them into answering. Finally, they bit.

  “We’re not open yet,” came an annoyed voice.

  “I know, but I’ve got a big order for you that I was hoping you’d take early.”

  “How big?”

  “Kids’ party. Fifty of the little bastards all screaming out for pizza. The caterer let us down.”

  “Okay. Sure, I’ll take it. Can I have your address?”

  “Sure. It’s 26 Bayfield Road, N11 3EE.”

  “For Christ’s sake,” came the exasperated voice on the other end.

  “What did I say?”

  “You’re the latest to call us from that poxy street.”

  “But I found your menu on my door.”

  “That’s what the others said too. We’ve been getting calls since Friday from people in that area. It’s really pissing us off. We’re at least an hour away from you.”

  “What other addresses called you?”

  “A couple of others from Bayfield, but also Gloucester Street, Mills Square, and I think Richmond Way. All in that general area. Some prick has been playin’ jokes with our menus. Look, I gotta get goin’.”

  Jack put the phone down and glanced back at the menu. He’s placing them on the doors and then checking later went through his mind. Having selected a place that still had its menu on the front door and assuring himself that the house was empty, the killer was then breaking into it and taking the girl back later, pretending it was his home. To Jack, it made no sense. It was so much work just to find somewhere to kill. Especially if he’d done it two other times as well. Was Shiva right? Was the killer thrilled by the prospect of being discovered committing murder in someone else’s house? Was it Steven Cuthbert who was doing this? Did he want everyone to know he was the Beast?

  Jack felt unable to share this latest theory with Lange without looking daft. He pondered whether to send the detective constable to the pizza shop to question them more thoroughly, to find out the exact addresses that called them. Would this lead them to the other two crime scenes? He quickly realized this would be like trying to find a specific needle in a stack of identical needles. Pretty hopeless. No. Like so much already, he’d keep this one to himself.

  “You find out anything about the menus?” Lange asked as he came out the house and down the pathway toward him.

  “It was nothing. Nothing more than a hunch that turned out to be nonsense.”

  “Shame. Anyway, Shiva says they won’t have anything for us until late afternoon at the earliest. And he told me to stress to you that that would be the earliest. Did you wanna go and see Holby? See if we can’t see who this Beast is.”

  “I found out.”

  “What?”

  Lange’s features creased into a look of confusion, his facial muscles creeping up toward his forehead.

  “Last night on the way home, I was passing his office and saw the light on. So I went and had a chat with him.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me, sarge?”

  “I was waiting for the opportunity. And here it is.”

  “So what did he say?”

  “It’s the stepfather, Steven Cuthbert. He’s the Beast.”

  “Then why aren’t we screeching tires round to his now?”

  “Because I need his wife to give us a statement, and she’s round my house feeling pretty low at the moment.”

  “But he could be the killer, sarge. We need to move now.”

  “I don’t think he is.”

  “But he’s in her diary. The things he did.”

  “That makes him a beast, not necessarily a killer.”

  “But we should still be arresting him right now.”

  “Hold on, George. Use your noggin a little first. Have you not thought that if we arrest Steven Cuthbert we need small details such as evide
nce. Real evidence. Not a diary I stole and then the off-the-record statement from a shrink I found out about through said diary. I need Helen Cuthbert’s statement first. I went to see her last night. She told me that Becky came to her once and said something was up.”

  “Then go get her.”

  “She’s in a bad way. I don’t want to rush her.”

  Jack’s pocket vibrated and he pulled his phone out. It was Tommy Bishop.

  “Shit,” Jack said to himself. “I was supposed to have rung Tommy last night, but I forgot.”

  “Then you’d better answer it.”

  Jack rolled his eyes at Lange and placed the phone to his ear.

  “Tommy,” he said.

  “You were supposed to update me last night,” Bishop scolded.

  “Sorry, Tom, I was up to my neck.”

  “So tell me now.”

  “I managed to find out about this Dr. Holby.”

  “Okay, Jack. What about him?”

  “I spoke to him and found out that Becky Dorring’s stepfather, Steven Cuthbert, had been abusing her since she was thirteen. I spoke to his wife, Helen Cuthbert, last night and she pretty much confirmed it. She’s coming in to make a statement today. Then I’ll issue the warrant for his arrest.”

  “So you’re going after him, then, for the killings?”

  “Not yet. Just for the abuse for now. I’m not a hundred percent he did the rest. Why would he kill two complete strangers and then risk it all on his own stepdaughter?”

  “It does happen. Maybe it was because the first two girls looked like Becky. Maybe it’s always been about Becky.”

  “I don’t think so, Tom. I’m going after him for the abuse, but I’ll simply look to eliminate him from enquiries over her killing.”