‘The police. Only the killer, if he did deliberately leave it, and certain police officers knew about the Azrael card thing. If the card was not left by the killer, though, and it was just another piece of detritus, then only a police officer could have seen the opportunity to throw everyone along the lines of thinking about a serial killer.’
‘But why do that?’
‘Taunting? Plus something else seems strange to me.’
‘What?’
‘No DNA at the scenes. No fingerprints. Whoever is doing this knows what they are doing; knows how to leave no trace.’
‘A cop wouldn’t......’
‘Jeffrey Dahmer was a cop Ma’am.’
Susan Dornan knew that only a few seconds had passed but she felt as though she had travelled into some sort of parallel existence.
‘Who have you spoken to about this, Rab?’
‘No-one Ma’am. It took me a long time to even speak to you. Please don’t think I’m suggesting that you are involved in any way. It’s just not something you say lightly. I don’t have any individual in mind, you understand; it’s just......’
‘No, you’re right to bring it up. Leave it with me. Don’t mention this to anyone Rab, not even McFarlane. I’ll accept responsibility for that. I need time to think.’
Dornan watched as Brown returned to his desk and slumped into his seat. She had attended every murder scene and so had Jill French but she knew she herself wasn’t involved and as women serial killers were so rare as to be discounted she also dismissed French from her mind. She searched her memory. She was sure that no two police constables had been the first on the scenes. The SOCO’s may have been, but the cards had already been found at all but the first murder, by the time they arrived. The guys that transported the bodies to the morgue weren’t all the same either. She calmly took a sheet of fresh paper from her printer, lifted a pen and started to write.
Matt Healy, Jack T’Baht, John Frame, Paul Allan.
Dornan picked up her phone and made two calls. The first was to Alec Caldow, the profiler. She requested that he email over all his thoughts on what he felt the killer’s background could possibly be. Her second call was to Personnel requesting four staff files. She then opened a drawer in her desk and took out the staff rota sheets for the last three months.
***
Paul Allan was confused. To a certain extent he was glad that it had now been shown that Colin Banks had not been the killer. He had felt slightly aggrieved originally that his contribution to the Banks aspect of the case had not been fully acknowledged but now he was glad that he had not made any sort of song and dance about it at the time. On the other hand, Max Kermack seemed to be becoming remote, less interested in their relationship. He could accept that he was serious about his writing and his dream was to actually make a living doing it but all their conversations seemed to centre on him getting Max “involved” in cases and despite his protestations that he couldn’t have Max tagging along “willy nilly”, Max could not be appeased. Allan was actually beginning to worry about Max’s health. He seemed drawn, gaunt, obsessed even. Maybe he should just take some of the leave he was due and book that much- talked-about-holiday?
Max Kermack, on the other hand, was not confused. A holiday was never in his thoughts. He looked at the almost blank screen of his laptop. The words Chapter One stared back at him along with the rest of the blank page. He couldn’t even think of anything to write as a cover in case Paul Allan ever asked to see a draft of his work.
Fuck him. If he didn’t start making progress with Allan, he would have to start thinking of another way, another cop. Recognising Allan from the gay club in a news report on the TV of the murders one night, had been a stroke of luck, but not if he couldn’t serve a purpose. That was all he was needed for.
Chapter 20
I entered the police station with my client, and possible friend, ten minutes before our agreed meeting time. I had spoken to Susan the night before but she had seemed preoccupied. Not off hand; more distracted her mind elsewhere, but she had signed off by saying she loved me, so all was well with the world. My world, anyway; I wasn’t sure about Joe Turner’s. He had either been living in a barrel of beer or had consumed a few since the last time I had seen him and I was taken aback by his appearance.
‘Are you feeling OK, Joe? We can cancel this if you want. I’ll go in and say you’re unwell.’
Joe seemed surprised. ‘No, I’m fine. Why are you saying that?’
He was obviously unaware of how he was looking or maybe it was just me; age catches up on us all.
A uniform sergeant showed us into an interview room and a few minutes later the lovely Susan came in accompanied by Matt Healy who sometimes gave me the impression it was me he was accusing and not my client; staring at me like some sort of Nemesis figure.
‘Joe, you will be aware that we originally thought that Peter Harris was guilty of your wife’s killing. We were then led to believe that a homeless man, Colin Banks, had committed the crime; as he made a death bed confession...of sorts. That has subsequently proved to be untrue.’ Susan had started the session in the manner she wished to go on; factual and to the point.
‘Who else could it have been, then?’
‘You’ said Matt Healy.
‘Not this again. Look if you don’t have any further evidence concerning this then we’re leaving. I think you’re forgetting that my client’s wife has been murdered. He’s exiled from his family in Spain and he cannot attend to serious outstanding business problems there. Do you have anything new to say, officers?’ I asked.
‘His cheating wife has been murdered you mean; and stabbing people is not out of character for him, as we well know.’
Before I could reply, Joe Turner was off his seat and lunging at Healy. I fleetingly hoped he landed a couple of blows before he was pulled off. Order was quickly restored but I could tell Joe was on the edge.
‘Where were you two nights ago, Turner?’
‘Shagging your wife. Why, she asking for more?’
‘I don’t have a wife, actually.’
‘There’s a surprise.’
‘You get riled easily, Joe?’
‘Just by retards like you, Healy.’
‘Not just by women, then? Once again, where were you two nights ago?’
‘Out.’
‘Out where?’
‘Out out. I don’t know. Blitzed, wasn’t I.’
‘Anybody vouch for that?’
‘Yes, as it happens, Sherlock. I was on a date. Some of us can still get one, you know.’
‘What was the name of the fortunate lady?’
‘Can’t remember. Sally, Susan something like that. Look, we went out, we got pissed, bit of rumpy, I went home.’
‘Where did the rumpy take place?’
‘Her place I think. Could have been her mate’s. I think she might have been married. Who cares?’
‘We do. Where did she live?’
‘Who knows? Taxi there, taxi back. She paid as well. Touch of class she was.’
‘Easy to see the attraction in you, then. Slumming it, was she?’ I was surprised at the venom in Susan’s eyes; her tone.
‘Jealous, are you?’ replied Joe.
‘Enough.’ I realised I was beginning to feel resentment towards my own client. Healy smirked at me.
‘What’s that mark on your hand, Joe?’ asked Susan.
‘Dunno. A burn?’
‘How you get it?’
‘Making a late night snack, I think.’
‘You think?’
‘Like I said, totally pissed I was.’
It was obvious that nothing of any value was going to come of the interview and I was also scared Joe was going to lose his temper again. I called a halt after a couple of further brick bats between Healy and Joe. I tried to catch a private moment with Susan out in the station foyer but the look on her face signalled to me to leave it till later.
Outside I spoke to Joe. ‘Are you s
erious about not remembering things, Joe?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Don’t you see that as a problem? Health-wise; if nothing else.’
‘Maybe I don’t want to remember, Ray.’
My head slumped. ‘Fair enough. I know it must be hellish for you, Joe, but I have to tell you the police are obviously looking at you for these other murders and eventually “Can’t remember” is just not going to wash with them.’
‘If they had anything, Ray, they would go for it. That Healy seems to hate me.’
‘I know what you mean’ I said sheepishly.
I declined Joe’s offer to go for a drink and went to shake hands. I noticed a book in Joe’s jacket pocket.
‘Didn’t have you down as a reader, Joe,’ I said pointing at his pocket.
Joe pulled the book out. I was even more surprised. It was a Bible.
‘Yeah, I sometimes read the good book in times of strain, Ray. Throwback to my mother’s influence, I think.’ He laughed and walked off.
***
Other than a couple of swear words, Healy hadn’t said anything on the way back to the office from the interview room, and went straight to his own desk. Dornan took the opportunity to call Jill French into her room.
‘What are you working on, Jill?’
‘Same as everyone else, Ma’am. Trying to find out as much as possible about Sandra Graham; trace her last movements etc.’
‘Find anything of note?’
‘Not really but I did speak to a friend who Sandra called about lunch time on the day she was killed. We got onto her from Sandra’s mobile records, and she told me Sandra had told her she was on her way into Buchanan Galleries to do some shopping so I’m going there now with a photo.’
‘OK, good. Jill, close the door.’
French rose apprehensively and closed the door. Thoughts of what she may have done wrong circulating in her mind.
‘I want you and I to work on an aspect of this case that requires secrecy and tact. Rab Brown will be the only other officer involved or to even know about it. Would you be OK with that or would you rather not?’
‘Well, I......what is it?’
‘Once I tell you then you are “In” so I need your answer first, Jill.’
French didn’t ponder for long. She trusted Dornan’s judgement. ‘OK, I’m in.’
‘There’s a chance, a small chance which I don’t believe for a minute, but a chance nevertheless, that our killer may be a police officer.’
‘What! Are you serious?’ French caught herself. ‘Sorry, Ma’am, it’s just that......well you know.’
‘Yes, I know. It’s OK but I need to investigate the possibility.’
‘Who are we talking about?’
‘Well, and I’m stressing this, Jill, I don’t actually suspect anyone but I’ve narrowed the immediate possibilities, very remote possibilities that is, down to Matt Healy, John Frame, Paul Allan and Jack T’Baht. While you’re absorbing that, I’m going to call Rab in.’
Brown entered the room with his usual hang dog look, carefully closing the door behind him.
‘Rab, you’ll appreciate that the investigation that I’m going to conduct into your suspicions has to be done quietly and with a certain degree of secrecy. I’ve decided to include Jill in the team as I feel she doesn’t fall into the category of “even possible suspects.” But that is the whole team; you, me and Jill. I will be getting Jill to look into the officers in question’s backgrounds; use her background in psychology, trying to see any links to the profiler’s views on the killer’s characteristics. I want you to look at their shift patterns, expenses claims, anything on record that would show opportunity at the times of the killings. I’ll authorise leave “for family reasons” if you would feel more comfortable not having anything on your desks. You only report back to me; and don’t say anything even to wives, boyfriends, parents. Nobody. Any questions?’
Both French and Brown shook their heads, glanced at each other, rose slowly and left. They walked past the desks of Healy, Frame, Allan and T’Baht but did not look over at any of them. Healy rose quickly and strode over to Dornan’s office.
‘Can I have a word?’
‘Sure, come in.’
‘What was all that about?’
Susan Dornan just looked at Healy and raised an eyebrow.
‘OK, nothing to do with me. Seems to be a lot I don’t know about these days.’
‘Matt .....’
‘Doesn’t matter. Look, I want to go to Spain.’
‘What? What for?’
‘Susan, I just know it’s Turner. Remember what the profiler said. Serial killers just don’t start up suddenly, kill someone they know, then go on a spree. There’s a build-up, a pattern. I bet Turner’s been killing people over there. I want to go over there, see if there’s a pattern, some unsolved murders. He’s been there 30 years. Don’t forget he was already handy with a knife before he went.’
‘I don’t know, Matt.’
‘Susan, I’ll take annual leave if I have to but that would just make things more awkward for me. I need to be “official” to get much co-operation from the cops over there. And don’t forget what else the profiler said; these guys just don’t stop. They either die or get caught. Well, Turner looks healthy enough to me so I want to nail the bastard as soon as possible.’
‘I’ll have to say to McFarlane; he’ll have to OK it.’
‘He will. He’s up shit creek; he’ll grasp at anything that looks like he’s on the ball. What phrase would he use? “Being pro- active” or some shite like that.’
‘OK, leave it with me. Matt , are things OK with us now? I’d like to remain friends. I didn’t intend to hurt you.’
‘We all have to do what we have to do, Susan.’
‘So.......?’
Healy turned and left the office. Dornan watched him go. She thought back to a previous conversation with him. Teasing him about never marrying. “The job, my mother” taking on a different hue to her now.
***
Joe Turner knew he had been “off” not getting in touch with Martha Reid so when he saw her name coming up on his mobile screen, he winced.
‘Hello, Martha. Listen, I’m sorry I’ve not been in touch but I’m a bit all over the place.’
‘Oh that’s OK, Joe. I can imagine. I’ve been a bit like that myself but I’ve pulled myself together now, hopefully. I just thought I’d phone and see if you’d like to come round for your tea one evening.’
‘Yeah, that would be nice, Martha. When were you thinking of?’
‘Well, how about tonight? You never know what’s around the corner, do you. We should be well aware of that.’
‘Suppose so. Tonight it is, then. How about six o’clock?’
‘Perfect. See you then, Joe.’
Joe hung up. Christ, better go to the pub about three, then. Build up my resistance.
At seven thirty, and with no sign of Joe, Martha cleared away the well laid out table. She scrapped the uneaten shepherd’s pie into the kitchen bin then sat at her bay window and watched the people who still had purpose in their life go about their routines.
***
The following morning Jill French was sitting in Susan Dornan’s office. French was explaining some possible progress she had made the previous day in Buchanan Galleries.
‘I went round all the shops and restaurants and, finally, one guy said he did think he recognised the photo of Sandra Graham. He said he was pretty sure she was alone when she came in but seemed to meet up with someone. Not much to go on, I know, but as I was leaving I asked about the background music they played; you know for the Tunstall, music angle. He explained that they just played the same stuff on a loop system and he had the playlist; gave me a copy. It’s not much to go on but there was a track by a guy called Dobie Gray. Never heard of him myself but so what.’
‘Dobie Gray, DG.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Good work, Jill, but........well, does it help
us? The victim’s initials were SG.’
‘Yes, but with DG branded on her. I know it’s hard to say at the moment but once we catch this prick it’s another tick in my world famous “Initials Theory”’. Dornan and French both laughed.
‘Seriously, though. I was thinking of taking photos of Turner, Healy, T’Baht, Allan and Frame in, see if the barman recognises anyone.’
‘Do it, Jill’ Dornan said, inwardly praying that the barman couldn’t.
***
Peter Harris had never considered himself as either a hard or violent man. He lay on the top bunk of his cell contemplating what lay ahead in his life. Neither his wife nor any of his kids had been in touch. His birthday had passed without a single card. His one true love was dead. His eldest daughter was dead and his eldest son still refused to even acknowledge his existence. His lawyer had told him that he remained confident that he would be found innocent of the killing of his first wife, Anne, “confession under duress.” He admitted that the rape charge would be more problematic but was not a “certain conviction” especially when Kate Turner’s tangled love life was highlighted. Harris hadn’t liked his true love spoken of that way but had had to accept his lawyer’s stance in the meantime. He stared at the ceiling. “All screws are cunts”: the words of wisdom imparted by a previous guest, stared back. Harris wondered if the police were on to the full truth of what he had done yet. He felt the hardness between his legs and wondered if he would miss women if he was found guilty.
Chapter 21
Matt Healy had been right. McFarlane had been only too willing to appear to be pushing the investigation on and an “International” manhunt hint to the investigation would go down very well with the local press. He had cleared for Healy to fly over to the Costa Brava and had arranged for him to be met at Gerona Airport by Inspector A. Dorado of the Mossos D’Esquadra who McFarlane had been assured were the people to deal with rather than the Policia Local. Healy had gotten some teasing in the squad room the day before about taking a summer holiday in the middle of an investigation, all expenses paid as well, and the other detectives had taken guesses as to what the A in the Spanish policeman’s name would stand for; their lack of imagination resulting in “Athletico” being chosen as the likely answer.
The Initial Blow Page 21