Shaping the Ripples

by Paul Wallington

  “Ladies, good to see you as always,” said the waiter as he came towards us. “And you’ve brought a visitor with you. Welcome, sir, to York’s best kept secret.”

  We sat down together and the waiter handed us the menu. It was mostly burgers, but with some interesting sounding chicken, fish and steak meals as well. While we made up our minds he brought two jugs, one of iced water and one of ice cold Budweiser, and half a dozen glasses.

  “I think I’m going to like it here,” I said, pouring out some of the beer. “How did you find it?”

  “Someone at work told me about it,” Rebecca answered. It sounded like our sort of place so we tried it out and we’ve been back once a month ever since.”

  “It gets full later in the evening,” Katie added. “So we usually skate and eat while there are still plenty of tables. All the food I’ve tried is good, but for a first time you really should try their burgers.”

  All three of us ordered the burgers and I have to say that they fully justified the build up they’d had. As always, conversation was very easy with the two of them, and we carefully steered very clear of any difficult subjects, at least until the desserts had arrived.

  Then Katie asked, “How was the funeral yesterday, Jack?”

  “Not great,” I told them. “There was hardly anyone there, and it all felt very depressing. I ended up having to speak about him. I think I did it reasonably OK, but it’s not something I want to have to do again.”

  They both made sympathetic noises, and we changed the subject to what to do tomorrow.

  “You don’t have to let me take up all your weekend, you know,” I said. “I can manage fine by myself tomorrow.”

  “Not a chance,” said Katie. “You don’t get to escape from my clutches that easily.”

  “Besides which,” Rebecca continued. “You’re my only hope of having a relatively intelligent conversation.”

  “Alright then,” I gave in. “But it’s time that I cooked for the two of you.”

  They both looked at each other. “Do you think it’s safe?” Rebecca asked in a tone of concern.

  “Well, I’ve not tried his cooking yet. But he doesn’t seem to have poisoned himself yet,” Katie answered thoughtfully. “I suppose we could give him a try.”

  With that agreed, we left the restaurant. Rebecca sat in the back of the car. Katie suggested I go back to theirs for a bit, but I needed to get some food in for them for tomorrow, so I resisted the temptation. Outside my flat, Katie stopped and leant across to kiss me.

  “Oh, don’t mind about me you two. I’ll just sit here quietly,” came a voice from the back.

  Katie’s lips pulled back from mine. “Shut up Becky” she said, and then continued the kiss. There was a mumbled grumbling from Rebecca, but she didn’t sound as if she meant it.

  After a few minutes, I got out of the car and said goodnight to both of them. I thought of going up to my flat, but decided that it was easier to go shopping straight away. I drove the car out to the big superstore on the outskirts of the city, and spent a while choosing food and drink for the next day. I confess that I played it safe by buying frozen ready-made roast potatoes and Yorkshire pudding, to minimise the risk of disaster.

  It was nearly nine o’clock as I parked the car back in the garage. The flashing red light on the phone told me that I had a message. I pressed play.

  “Jack, it’s Liz. I’ve been out of town for a few days on business so I’ve only just found out about your vicar. What a dreadful thing to happen. Are you alright? I’m really worried about you. Remember you can come and stay here if you need to get away for a while. I’ll try you again a bit later on.”

  I decided I’d wait until she rang back. It was only a few minutes later that the telephone rang.

  “Hello,” I called, trying to sound as cheerful as possible to allay her fears. There was a rather puzzled silence for a few moments.

  “Is that Jack Bailey?” an unfamiliar female voice asked.

  “It is,” I said, trying desperately to work out if it could be one of my clients from the crisis centre. The next sentence gave me the answer.

  “This is the York police. We’ve been notified that the burglar alarm is ringing at the Domestic Crisis Centre. Your name is on our list as one of the key holders. Would it be possible for you to meet one of our officers at the Centre as soon as possible?”

  “I’m on my way now,” I answered, and hung up.

  Although the centre had a burglar alarm, it had certainly never gone off before in my time in York. I couldn’t see why anyone would bother to break into it, as there was almost nothing worth stealing.

  There was already a police car parked outside the Centre when I got there. The blue light on the front of the alarm box was flashing, and a loud siren sounded. After a moment, a police officer emerged from inside and came to greet me.

  “Mr. Bailey,” he said, extending his hand. I recognised him as the officer who had taken my fingerprints on the day I found Jennifer. “PC Brian Taylor. I’ve had a quick look around inside, and whoever it was seems to have scarpered. I could do with you having a look through the building with me, to identify anything that may have been taken.

  I made to go in, but he stopped me, and offered me a pair of plastic gloves. “We wouldn’t want to cover up any prints that may have been left,” he said.

  I pulled on the gloves with some difficulty and then followed him towards the centre. The front door was wide open, and closer inspection revealed that the lock must have been kicked or struck hard, so that the wooden door frame had splintered inwards.

  The reception area was a mess, with the box of toys scattered everywhere. I didn’t know if everything was still there, but it didn’t seem likely that someone had gone to the trouble and risk of breaking in just to steal some toys for their toddler.

  “There really isn’t much worth stealing in here,” I said to PC Taylor as we continued our journey around the centre. The kitchen was in similar disarray, with cupboard doors open and things strewn across the floor, but as far as I could tell everything was still there. The two counselling rooms stood with their doors opened, but nothing seemed to have been touched so we carried on to George’s room.

  The first thing I saw was his computer still sitting safely on the desk. It was about the only thing of value in the whole centre and, as such, I had been almost certain that it would have been taken. To my further surprise, the small key was in the lock of the filing cabinet, and the middle drawer was slightly open.

  “It looks as if someone has been in here,” I observed, moving to open the cabinet.

  “What’s kept in there?” Brian Taylor asked, producing a notebook and pen.

  “They’re the files of the people we help. Each file would have in it the case history and often the new addresses of our clients.”

  “So someone wanting to track a person down might be interested in getting access,” he commented. “Isn’t it usually kept locked?”

  “Always,” I answered. “George, the manager of the centre, usually keeps the key with him. If he’s not going to be in, he leaves the key here so we can have access to the files if we need them. He’d never leave a drawer partly open though.”

  “So we can be fairly sure that our culprit has had a nose in here,” he concluded. “Would you be able to tell if any of the files were missing?”

  I opened one of the desk drawers, and was relieved to see the master list that George kept was still in place. Using that, I worked through all three of the drawers of files, ticking off each one as I went.

  “No, they all seem to be still here.”

  “It’s possible this was just kids taking a chance on finding something valuable, and they had a look to see what was inside the cabinet,” PC Taylor said. “But equally, it could have been someone messing the place up to hide the fact that they were looking for information from these files. If it was, it’s odd they didn’t close it up when they’d finished.”

  “I suppos
e that they could have heard something and run away in a panic,” I suggested.

  He thought for a few moments and then continued. “Can you think of anyone in particular who might want to see inside these files?”

  That wasn’t too hard, given my recent conversation with Katie. “There are two who might be possible,” I said. “The first one’s a Ryan Clarke. He was in the office about a month ago making threats and demanding to know his wife’s new address.”

  “Do you have his address?” he asked.

  “It should be in her file,” I answered and proceeded to fish it out of the cabinet. At the very end of the file was the address Linda had been living at when she first came to the centre. “I think he still lives there,” I said, handing the file to him so that he could copy down the details.

  “And the other person?” PC Taylor asked.

  “His name’s Adam Sutton. I haven’t got an address for him, I’m not even sure if he’s in this area. But he spent some time in prison for what he’d done to his wife and daughter, and might feel he has some scores to settle. He was released a couple of months ago.”

  “We should be able to trace him through the probation service,” he informed me, writing Adam’s name down. “I think the most likely thing is that it was an unsuccessful robbery. You’ll need to get that door secured as soon as possible.

  I was reaching for the telephone directory to search for someone I could call out, when a noise came from reception. Brian Taylor moved quickly and silently to the door, and disappeared into the corridor. A moment later I heard his relieved voice.

  “Oh, it’s you, sir.”

  “Good evening, constable,” came a voice that was becoming far too familiar for my liking. The door to the office opened again and Michael Palmer walked in.

  “Trouble really does seem to follow you around, doesn’t it, Mr. Bailey?” he greeted me. “What’s the story, constable?”

  Brian Taylor began to explain what we had discovered, and the two possible theories for the break in.

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Bailey’s very keen on his file conspiracies,” Michael Palmer mocked. “I suppose we should be grateful you haven’t produced any more dead bodies for us.”

  “I’ve just about finished here, sir,” PC Taylor said, obviously trying not to be drawn in to the fresh tension in the room. “Unless there was anything particular you wanted me to check on?”

  “No,” his superior replied. “When I heard there was a reported incident at the centre here, I had a feeling Mr. Bailey would be involved. I just thought I’d better pop in and find out what’s going on. You seem to have everything under control.”

  “I’m here because your station phoned me and asked me to come down,” I pointed out. My only response was the sight of his back as he stalked out of the centre.

  “Alright if I leave you to it, Mr. Bailey?” Brian Taylor asked.

  “Yes, fine,” I answered. “I’ll try and get the door patched up before I go.”

  After quite a few calls, I managed to find a joiner who didn’t mind coming out on a Saturday night to patch the door up. He was a good as his word, arriving within half an hour and hammering some fresh wood onto the broken door frame.

  “That should hold it for now,” he said finally. “But you really need to replace the whole frame. A thicker, reinforced wood would be more secure. Probably a couple of extra security locks as well."

  “Whatever you think,” I told him.

  “I’ll come back on Monday then and sort it out,” he offered.

  I agreed and paid him for the call out and the work he’d done. It was surprisingly reasonable, which I suspected was to make sure he got the whole job. Whether or not, he had saved me a lot of hassle.

  After he’d gone, I locked up the filing cabinet and put the key in the desk drawer. Then I reset the alarm and pulled the front door to. As I surveyed the building to make sure it was secure, I had a strong sensation of being watched. I span around, but couldn’t see anything.

  I was just on the point of turning and heading home, when I was sure I caught some movement in the corner of my eye. Turning to face the place where I thought it had come from, I called out.

  “Who’s there?”

  There was no answer. I walked forwards to investigate further. The movement had appeared to come from a dark place, untouched by the dim lights that illuminated the waterfront. On closer inspection, it was the entrance to a narrow alley, which ran along the side of an old warehouse. There was no-one there.

  Suddenly, the silence was broken by the clatter of a can rolling further down the alley. I immediately set off towards the source of the noise. The can was there, still moving slowly, but there wasn’t a trace of a person or animal who might have made it move. I still had that sense of being watched, and was starting to feel quite spooked.

  At the end of the alley were two large yellow dustbins. Figuring that if the cause of the movement was a cat, under the dustbins was the most likely hiding place, I carried on. The street lights didn’t manage to reach this far down the alley, so I moved slowly and carefully.

  Passing some stone steps to my left, which presumably led down to a cellar doorway, I reached the bins. I crouched down to look into the space underneath, but there was nothing but rubbish there.

  By this stage, my curiosity was gradually being overtaken by caution. I’ve seen the series of “Scream” movies, with helpful advice on how to behave when it seems as if you’ve wandered into a horror movie. One that sticks in the mind is never say “I’ll be right back”, because you won’t. I don’t remember the one that says if there’s a killer at large, don’t wander around, unarmed, in the dark trying to find them, but I’m sure it’s in there somewhere.

  I had just made my mind up to go home, when I heard the unmistakable sound of a footstep right behind me. I began to turn to face the noise, but already knew it was too late. Simultaneously I felt a thud to the back of my head, and my eyes saw a flash of red in front of them. After that, I didn’t see anything.

  Chapter Twenty Four

  When I came round, I was lying face down on the concrete, between the two bins. My head felt as if it was being pressed in a vice. I reached back gingerly, and found a very painful egg-sized bruise just behind my right ear.

  Very carefully, I go to my feet. I was feeling dizzy and nauseous. Slowly my brain began to stir back into life, and I remembered the events leading up to my loss of consciousness. I still had my watch and a quick glance revealed that it was two o’clock. I had been on the floor for a few hours.

  As I was still in one piece, it seemed unlikely that my assailant had been the killer. More likely a mugger, I thought. This theory soon collapsed as I felt into my inside pocket to find my credit cards still there. My wallet was still in the back pocket of my jeans, with the money still inside. A sudden thought struck me, and I reached into my coat pocket to check if my house and car keys had gone. They were still there as well.

  Feeling completely bemused, I decided to head home. There didn’t seem to be much point contacting the police to say that someone who I hadn’t seen at all had hit me over the head, and then not stolen anything.

  To my surprise, there were a crowd of people walking across the bridge away from town. Judging by their clothes they were heading home after a night clubbing. I was starting to shiver, either from the cold or the shock of what had happened. I shoved my hands deep into my pockets to try and conceal the shaking. As I did, my right hand closed on a folded piece of paper. As a distraction as much as anything, I lifted it out and unfolded it. The shivering increased as I read it.

  Very Careless.

  If you’re going to have any chance of stopping me, perhaps you need to find out more about serial killers.

  Why not try the internet? Sunday night at eight might be productive.

  See you again very soon.

  I stood on the bridge in indecision. I could just imagine Michael Palmer’s reaction if I took this to him. Perhaps it was better
to check it out myself first.

  By the time I got home, I had decided that I wasn’t going to tell anyone what had happened. I still didn’t have anything concrete to give to the police, and telling Katie would only make her even more anxious. Fortunately, sleep came quickly.

  By the time I woke up, the throbbing in my head had settled into a dull ache. I popped a couple of aspirin and started cooking dinner. Katie and Rebecca arrived just after twelve. I told them about the break in but not about the events afterwards.

  “Do you think it’s connected with the murders?” Katie asked.

  “I wouldn’t have thought so,” I lied. “The police seemed pretty sure it was just kids looking for something they could sell.”

  The dinner seemed to go down well and as it was a cold and bright day, we set off for a walk afterwards. It was good just to enjoy the fresh air and their company. We finished off in a pub, sitting in front of a roaring fire and reading the Sunday papers.

  “Do you fancy going to a film this evening?” Katie suggested.

  “I can’t,” I answered. “Liz has arranged to phone tonight.”

  As Katie’s lips pursed slightly, I wished I’d thought of a better excuse. “She seems to be very keen to speak to you all of a sudden,” she observed.

  “It’s just that George has got her worried, telling her about the murders and so on. Being so far away, I think she feels she has to phone to show she’s concerned.”

  I felt awful lying to Katie, but I knew that if I’d told her about the latest note she’d insist on staying with me that evening. I didn’t have a clue what I was going to find out, but I could be fairly certain that it wasn’t going to be anything pleasant. The last thing I wanted was for Katie to be in the middle of all this, especially after last night’s demonstration of how easily he could get to me.

  We had a snack at the pub, and then the two of them set off for the cinema. I made my way home, arriving just after half past six. I was already tense, as if getting ready for some sort of gladiatorial contest.