Deep Fear

by Deep Fear (retail) (epub)

  ‘Monk is Jason, next door with your pal, and Tinny is his brother, Barry,’ Bick replied. Kelly made notes. She could see that he was enjoying dobbing in his mates. They had their third man.

  ‘Surname?’

  ‘Copeland.’

  ‘Can you give me an address?’ she asked.

  ‘Sure,’ he said.

  After she wrote it down, she looked at Brian Wick and sighed. Hunches were a detective’s enemy, but she knew – just knew – that Brian Wick, despite being a fucktard thug from Wankersville, was not her perp.

  ‘Have you heard of the poet, Shelley, Brian?’ she asked. Bick looked wary, as if it was a trick question.

  ‘Is that a friend of Brandy’s?’ he asked. Kelly closed her eyes.

  ‘What about Aira Force?’ she asked.

  ‘Isn’t that the new kickboxing game from Sony?’ he replied, genuinely excited.

  ‘Have you ever read any poetry at all, Brian, ever?’ she asked. Brian searched his brain.

  ‘There was an old woman from…’ he began, grinning. Kelly held up her hand.

  ‘Enough. Thanks, Brian,’ she said.

  Kelly got up and a uniform opened the door for her. In all the time she’d interviewed him, Brian Carter had not once asked about Brandy Carter. He wasn’t the slightest bit interested in how a girl that he’d shared his flat with had died. Or where she was now, or how her family was. Kelly didn’t know why she wasn’t surprised. She went next door to see if Phillips had managed to get a full name for Tim the Monk, and if he had also snitched on his brother. She thought of Brandy Carter’s last night alive. Not only had she had group sex for drugs, she’d been brutally murdered and no doubt tortured by somebody else too.

  Chapter 32

  As Kelly walked to the other interview room to check progress with DC Phillips, she was handed a piece of paper. On it was a note to call a DI from West Yorkshire police. Instinct told her to act upon it sooner rather than later. She knocked on the interview room door and put her head round. The large man, arrested with Bick, was crying and Phillips was standing in the corner with his arms folded.

  ‘Need a word,’ Kelly said. Phillips followed her out and shut the door behind him. ‘What’s he said?’ she asked.

  ‘He hasn’t actually come out with many comprehendible words yet, but the ones he has are pretty interesting. He’s adamant he didn’t kill Brandy, but he’s sorry for hurting her.’

  ‘Has he given a name? Our lovely Bick has informed me that he’s called Jason Copeland, and his brother, Barry Copeland was there too. Apparently all three had intercourse with her the night she disappeared.’

  ‘Christ.’

  ‘Indeed. Our suspect’s DNA so far is unquestionably legitimately all over our bodies. Drop that bombshell on young Jason, and tell him his mate has dobbed him in, and see what happens. And ask him where his brother Barry is.’

  Phillips nodded.

  ‘Thing is, none of these wasters owns a car or, as far as I can see, has access to one. Our suspect needed a car – the dogs smelled Brandy’s scent up to the road at Aira Force car park, and they smelled Moira’s up to the road where I parked – as close to the church in Watermillock as possible. These losers don’t drive. We’ve got twelve hours to get as much out of these boys as possible. But I’m chasing twelve vehicle tracks from Aira Force, and CCTV coming and going at the A592 junction, at the Glencoyne caravan Park – they’ve got the only CCTV along that road,’ she said. Phillips understood that he was to delay the boys as long as possible, so they could piece together Brandy’s last movements.

  ‘By the way,’ Kelly said. ‘Look, this is an example of Brian Wick’s handwriting,’ she said, holding up a piece of paper. The scrawl was that of a five-year-old, hardly a literary enthusiast.

  Phillips looked at Kelly and reflected her own frustration. It would be so easy to pin everything on a gang of rampant boys who tortured for kicks, but it wasn’t to be their day. Phillips went back into the interview room and Kelly dialled the number of the DI in West Yorkshire who wanted to speak to her. It didn’t take long to track him down.

  ‘DI Kelly Porter? Good morning. Look, I received a memo from your constabulary about two murders you’ve had over there in Cumbria,’ said the DI.

  ‘Yes, that’s correct, it went out to five northern constabularies. It was a long shot, we have reason to believe that we have a mature killer, but there are no cold cases in Cumbria matching the MO. We’ve got a few missing persons and I’m chasing them. What have you got for me?’

  ‘Between 2009 and 2012, we had a spree of homicides across the county, and by the time they stopped, two officers had made significant links between all four of them,’ said the DI.

  ‘What do you mean, they stopped?’

  ‘Like I said, the last one was four years ago and, since then, there have been no more. Not that we know of.’

  ‘What was the MO?’ Kelly asked.

  ‘Torture, mutilation, calling card and sexual rage,’ answered the DI.

  ‘What was the calling card?’ she asked, her heart beating.

  ‘References to the bible,’ he said.

  Kelly’s mind raced. It wasn’t poetry but it was writing: it was communication, and communication that transmitted a message. ‘What kind of references?’

  ‘Well, they seemed random at the time, but when we put them together, they all shared the same theme of punishment,’ he said. ‘It all basically came down to one thing, which is why when I read your directive, my memory was stoked; each woman was killed in the way it said in the bible. I thought it didn’t fit at first, because your references are poetry, but I thought I’d contact you anyway,’ he said.

  ‘Were the notes handwritten?’

  ‘Yes, they were. There was a delay on making the connection because,’ the officer stopped and coughed, as if embarrassed. ‘Each murder was committed, or, shall I say discovered, in a different area: West Yorks, South Yorks, North Yorks, and Humberside. It took a while to make the link, but once we did, the writing matched in all four cases. Before that, we’d put together other similarities, but the handwriting was key, and we knew if we could get a suspect, the court case would be on our side.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘We never did.’

  There was a pause as each officer contemplated a murderer getting away with his crimes.

  ‘Can you send the files to me?’ Kelly asked, quietly crossing her fingers, hoping the case files were still intact.

  ‘Of course, I’ll prepare them. It’s always bothered the department here, they were horrifically brutal murders and we’ve never solved them. It stuck with us. Reading over them again, I think they’re linked. At the time, it was questioned, because we never found a suspect with handwriting that matched, and that’s pretty much all we had. Everything else was circumstantial. See what you think. Call me if you have any questions,’ he said.

  ‘I will. Thank you again. Just one question, was the handwriting evidence questioned or was it obvious that it matched, and you just never had someone to compare it to?’ asked Kelly.

  ‘I was told that handwriting is as particular as fingerprints, and it was indisputable,’ he said.

  They hung up. She stood in the corridor and tapped her phone to her lip. She made a note to send the directive once more, thinking that someone else’s memory might also be jarred. Killers often move counties to avoid detection, it’s the most sensible thing to do, especially before databases were linked. Before HOLMES.

  She re-entered the interview room. Bick looked up. He bit his dirty nails.

  ‘Did you hurt Brandy, Brian?’ He looked at her and wondered if he should tell the truth or not. She could see his mind operating.

  ‘She didn’t say we did,’ was all he said.

  ‘What does that mean? Do you think she was hurt? Jason does, and he’s admitted, on record, to hurting her,’ she said. She watched him.

  ‘I didn’t hurt her, but I think Monk – I mean, Jason – did, he did i
t…you know…he’s a big lad.’ Bick smiled. Kelly’s gut tightened. She hoped that Brandy Carter was so out of it on drugs on her last evening on this earth, that she had very little knowledge of what happened to her before she died.

  ‘You’re going to have to enlighten me, Brian. For the record.’ She waited, not wanting to make it easy for him.’

  Brian swallowed. ‘Monk’s a bit, like, rough. It’s why we call him…’

  ‘Monk,’ she finished for him. ‘Very droll,’ she added. ‘Is this some kind of joke to you, Brian? Your girlfriend is dead and you’re giggling about naughty Monk names.’ The religious reference didn’t go unnoticed but Kelly’s gut told her it was coincidence.

  ‘She’s not my girlfriend,’ he said. He seemed disgusted.

  ‘Just someone you had sex with?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied, as if that made all the difference.

  ‘So, all three of you had sex with her. Jason hurt her, she left, and you never saw her again?’ she asked.

  ‘Yup. Exactly,’ Brian said, pleased with himself.

  Kelly shook her head. ‘So, a murder victim comes back with three different sets of DNA, and they match yours, and your pals, and a jury is going to understand? When you were the last people to see her alive?’ She omitted the shopkeeper, but Bick didn’t need to know that information. What they had so far wouldn’t stand up in court, but it didn’t hurt to scare the shit out of this thug. Ted had already said that any bodily fluids would have been washed away by the river. But there was still hope.

  Bick’s face changed, and panic set in. Of course, it sounded ludicrous. He’d thought that by telling the truth, she’d appreciate his honesty and believe his story, but now he heard it back to himself, he realised that it was a pathetic story, and no-one in their right mind would believe them.

  ‘Did you shut her up, Brian?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Did she have a loose tongue?’

  Brian squirmed and Kelly knew that the drugs were wearing off.

  ‘She can’t tell anyone what happened anymore, can she?’

  ‘I didn’t kill her!’

  ‘Do you always remember what you do when you use?’

  Bingo. He looked alarmed. She’d hit a raw nerve. Of course he didn’t remember everything he did when he was off his tits. She left.

  Phillips was in the corridor.

  ‘He’s admitted to having sex with Brandy, and he’s confirmed his brother did too. The brother is being brought in now. He’s in a mess, I can’t get anything else out of him, he keeps repeating over and over that he didn’t mean to hurt her,’ Phillips said.

  Their stories matched. And that was unusual, as well as highly frustrating. It was rare that suspects corroborated so closely under scrutiny. They usually blabbed on each other, desperate to save their own skins. It meant one thing: they were telling the truth. Kelly decided to go up to her office, three floors up, to read the email sent from Yorkshire Police.

  ‘Let them sweat for a bit. Take a break, Will.’

  Upstairs, she sat down heavily behind her desk. She switched on her computer and read that she’d received fifty-two emails since the arrest of Brian Wick and Jason Copeland. One caught her eye: it was entitled: Optical Microscopy. The grey fibres were both from the same production line of carpets produced between 1984 and 1999. The carpet was bought in bulk by several local government councils across the country and had now been discontinued. Four areas were mentioned on the list that Kelly recognised: The Scaws Estate, where Brian Wick and Colin Tate lived, Fair Hill, Clifton Bridge and Stockham; all in the Penrith area.

  Next, she opened the email with the subject highlighted in bold: Yorkshire Police.

  There were pages and pages of the stuff. She scanned it, and her brain picked up words and phrases here and there. She pushed her mouse back and forth, looking for links and found them bountiful, as had the officers at the time, but still they hadn’t been able to charge anyone. Five suspects had been arrested but all ruled out, courtesy of fingerprints, DNA, shoe size, and, of course, handwriting. She trawled through the columns and rows of tables, charting hundreds, if not thousands, of neck-breaking data: names, addresses, maps, employee records and forensic archives, all routine for an investigation of its size. It was just what she was doing now, and her heart sank. The investigation across Yorkshire had lasted five years and no-one had been caught.

  Sexual rage… asphyxiation… note in throat… fractured larynx… petechial haemorrhage… vaginal trauma…

  There were passages from Deuteronomy, Isaiah, Hebrews…none of which made any sense to Kelly, a staunch atheist. She thought of The Reverend Neil Thomas.

  ‘He disciplines and He scourges…’

  ‘And the earth will reveal her bloodshed…’

  ‘Fear Him who is able to destroy…’

  One case stood out. That of fifty-two-year-old Tania Stewart. It was a classic case of overkill, and Tania had been stabbed seventeen times in her abdomen and fifteen times in her breast area. It was the only case that fitted neither the Yorkshire, nor her own, MO. Why knives? Why Tania?

  It was personal.

  She read more about Tania Stewart, who’d been warden at a children’s home in Whitehaven between 1993 and 1996: until it burned down in that year. Tania Stewart had also been under investigation for misconduct, at the Yorkshire care home where she worked, when she was brutally murdered in her home in May 2010.

  By the time Kelly looked at her watch again, she’d spent three hours reading.

  Chapter 33

  They’d agreed to meet in Pooley Bridge.

  The sun had begun its descent and Kelly looked like any other normal person going for a drink on a summer evening. She wore a lemon-coloured sun dress, with small straps over her shoulder, and her hair fell down around her face. She wore a little more makeup than usual, and higher heels. For the first time in weeks, she felt feminine. The case was never very far away from the noise in her head, but at least she could pretend to relax. She enjoyed the feeling of being away from the incident room; it felt illicit.

  The Crown was quiet and Johnny sat at the bar. He turned round to see who had opened the door and smiled at her. He wore shorts and flip flops, and Kelly smiled at his nonchalance. She didn’t expect anything else. He ran his fingers through his hair and stood to greet her. He pulled out a chair.

  ‘Shall we go outside?’ she asked.

  ‘Ok,’ he said. ‘What would you like?’

  ‘I’ll have a glass of bubbles please. I completed on a house today. Will you celebrate with me?’ She reached for the keys inside her bag and dangled them in the air. No-one else had put an offer in on the pretty house with the terrace overlooking the river. She was a cash buyer and ready to go: her offer had been accepted yesterday.

  ‘That’s great, Kelly. Where is it?’

  ‘Here. It overlooks the river.’ She watched him for his reaction, and could tell he was thinking that it could be awkward. Fuck it. It was a free country and they were all grown up.

  ‘Don’t worry, Johnny, I have no intention of stalking you. Do you still live here?’

  ‘Yeah, same place,’ he said. The barman opened a bottle of prosecco and poured Kelly a glass.

  ‘Make that two.’ Johnny started a tab and they walked outside with their drinks. Kelly popped her sunglasses back on and found a table that was still in the sun.

  ‘Cheers, here’s to you having your own place at last.’ They chinked their glasses together and drank.

  ‘Like the dress.’ He was still as direct and abrupt as ever.

  ‘Thanks. Like the flip-flops.’

  ‘They’re new, actually.’

  Kelly raised her eyebrows. She’d only ever seen him wear flip-flops, trainers or walking boots. His casual attire never bothered her, it showed he didn’t feel the need to show off, and it demonstrated his confidence. She liked both characteristics. They sat down.

  ‘How’s things, Kelly? You look well,’ he said.
His eyes took her in and she felt thoroughly gone over, but he always did that.

  ‘I’m good. Work’s busy, but I like that.’

  ‘Have you got anything to do with those bodies turning up?’

  ‘Of course. As always, it’s my case.’

  ‘Oh Jesus. That’s shit. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Not at all. It’s what I do, you know that. I don’t know how you did your job in the army, Johnny, I couldn’t do that, just like you couldn’t chase psychos. And this one is a fucking nut job.’

  ‘I think I probably killed plenty of psychos. Doesn’t it piss you off that you go to all that effort to pin someone down and they get given five years or something? Life should mean life.’

  ‘I agree, but I’m not a judge or a lawyer. I just do my bit then hand them over. The better the evidence, the tighter the case. That’s where my job ends. So what have you been up to?’

  ‘Same. Mountain Rescue. It’s been manic this season so far. I’m running the Keswick to Barrow next month.’

  ‘Running it? I thought it was a walk, isn’t it forty-odd miles?’

  ‘There are a few nutcases who run it, and I’ve been roped in to do it for The Mountain Rescue fund. I know I’m just a stupid bloke going through my mid-life crisis.’

  Kelly smiled at him.

  ‘Have you bought that Porsche yet?’

  ‘No, but I was thinking about a boat. I’ll get the bottle.’ He nodded to their empty glasses. Kelly watched him go and checked her phone: all quiet. The incident room was manned by the night shift: everything was covered, but she couldn’t help herself. Johnny returned with the bottle.

  ‘I’ve heard that the guy you’re after has been dubbed ‘The Teacher’. What’s that all about?’ He filled her glass. It was true. News outlets loved a good tag line and Kelly wasn’t sure what she made of it: it could be a curse or a handy benefit. Clifton House could deal with it: her focus was working the leads.