Laughing Boy

by Stuart Pawson

  Everybody came. They always do for the murder of a young woman. YTV and the BBC were recording us for a showing in the evening, the Gazette reporters came mob handed and a few tabloids sent their northern representatives, hoping to hear something to titillate their readers. You could recognise them by their fur hats and boots. They’d be disappointed, because we were presenting Colinette as a wholesome, home-loving girl and stressing that there was no sexual interference. All references to her underwear were lost in the pathologist’s report.

  Les outlined the facts of the case, saying what we’d done and talking about Colinette’s movements on the night of her death and the two nights before. He said that we now needed to know from anybody who had been anywhere near the shop where she worked and her route home on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, and he explained the reasons why. He spoke in a low voice, his hands clasped together with the pipe stem pointing into space, like your headmaster explaining that your behaviour hadn’t been quite what was expected of you.

  Mrs Jones was too distressed to appear but she had provided an album of photographs and a few seconds of video taken at a barbecue in the garden of the ex-boyfriend’s parents. It had been shot by his next-door neighbour and showed Colinette in happier times, wearing shorts and a skimpy top. Les told them that we’d had copies made and they would be distributed at the end of the conference. Meanwhile, if there were any questions, he and good ol’ Inspector Priest would attempt to answer them.

  A young woman with punk hair that I’d met before but forgotten the name of thrust her arm up with all the intent of a rearing cobra. Les invited her to speak with an expansive wave of the pipe.

  “Superintendent Isles,” she began. “Is it true that you are linking this murder with those of Laura Heeley a month ago and Robin Gillespie, over in Lancashire, a fortnight before that.”

  There’d been a leak. Someone had taken the pieces of silver and gone to the press. Les fidgetted with the pipe, hunched his shoulders and looked at me.

  “No,” I said. I don’t know why, but a serial killer on the loose provokes hysteria in the media and that puts pressure on us. They give him a name and hurl it in our faces at every opportunity. It’s as if committing one murder is almost acceptable – we all have one book and a murder in us – but more than that is aberrant. There was a rustle of unease in the room and more hands were thrust upwards. “If I can explain,” I went on. “So far, we have found nothing to link any of these murders. We are in full consultation with West Pennine, who are in charge of poor Robin’s murder, and Mrs Heeley’s was on our territory, but there are very few similarities.”

  “What’s your gut feeling, Charlie?” the editor of the Gazette shouted from the back of the room.

  I sat up and stretched my neck so I could see him. “We don’t have gut feelings,” I replied. “We collect evidence and go along with that.”

  “So what does the evidence say?”

  “Very little, I’m afraid, but that in itself is grounds for suspicion. It’s the only factor that might link the cases.”

  “You mean that the very lack of evidence in each case suggests that they were committed by the same person?”

  “No, but it’s something we have considered.”

  “It sounds as if you’re looking for someone who is extremely clever.”

  I shook my head. “Cunning and devious,” I said. “There’s nothing clever about hitting a young boy on the head with a hammer.”

  “So you do think the cases are linked.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You said you were considering it.”

  “It’s a possibility,” I admitted. I’d blown it, I’d really blown it.

  “Have you called in a profiler?” someone asked.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “It isn’t the time.”

  “Can I ask a question please?” one of the hacks from the Gazette shouted. He was called Arnie Vernon and it was the first time I’d seen him outside a pub after ten o’clock in the morning. Les nodded at him and he said: “What about the ring? You haven’t told us about the ring.”

  “What ring?” I asked.

  “The one you found in the rec.”

  “Oh, that one.” I turned to the rest of them and explained. “We did a fingertip search of the recreation ground adjacent to where we think Colinette was abducted. In the course of that search we found a lady’s ring. In one of those incredible coincidences that sometimes occur in these situations it just happened to be one that Colinette had lost about eighteen months previously. So far we haven’t attached any significance to it.”

  Our press officer, standing right at the back, made a cutthroat gesture to me. I said: “Can I thank you for attending, ladies and gentlemen. It’s imperative that we keep this case in the public’s eye in order to find Colinette’s killer. We are grateful for your cooperation.”

  I took Les up to Gilbert’s office and we attacked his coffee and biscuits with vigour. “Want anything in it?” I asked, but he shook his head.

  “Go on then,” I invited. “Tell me I cocked it up.”

  “You cocked it up.”

  “Thanks.”

  He pushed his tobacco pouch towards me, saying: “Want a fill?”

  “No.”

  “Do you good.” He sat back in Gilbert’s big chair and sucked on the empty pipe.

  “Make it something more exotic and I might be tempted.”

  “Somebody’s squeaked,” he stated. “They know that we’re linking the cases, or that bird from UK News does. She’s oiled someone’s palm, or some other part of his anatomy. I bet they’ve already got a name for him.”

  “Yeah, I think you’re right. And how did they know about the ring? That’s never been mentioned.”

  “It had to come out sometime, Charlie, and the longer we’d concealed it the more they’d have been at our throats when it did come out. ‘The public’s right to know,’ and all that.”

  “I was probably thinking that way myself, and when lives are at stake they’ve got a point.”

  “What about a profiler? It might be an idea.”

  “No,” I replied. “I don’t need anybody to draw circles on a map and tell me he lives within two miles of the town hall clock. And I don’t need to know that his mother didn’t love him. It’s fingerprints and semen stains I want, not airy-fairy conjecture that might lead us up the wrong gum tree. I can do that for myself.”

  “They sometimes get good results.”

  “Yeah, in hindsight. When I’ve a specific question, Les, I’ll ask. As a matter of fact, I’ve dropped a note to Adrian Foulkes at the General, asked him to contact me.”

  He grinned. “I should have known better than to push it. You’re a good cop, Charlie. You might have fucked-up the press conference, but the enquiry is in safe hands.”

  “Thanks, Les. And patronising is the lowest form of bullshit. Do you really think a pipe would suit me?”

  The considered opinion of the press was that if we spent less time harassing black people we might catch the murderers who were loose in society. Wilson McIntyre made the headlines, Colinette was pushed on to page five. It was probably a tough editorial decision, but in the absence of anything salacious, and considering the potential selling power of his story among the non-white population, light-fingered Willy just edged it.

  Television was more objective, showing stills and the video of Colinette, and asking for anybody who was in the vicinity at the time of her death to come forward. They forgot to mention Monday and Tuesday, unfortunately, but my hair was tidy, Les looked avuncular and the pipe was a masterstroke.

  Tuesday morning I spent some time with the people who were manning the telephones. We had a steady stream of callers, all concerned and trying to be helpful, all of doubtful value. We took the details, asked them their names and addresses and made it sound as if they’d solved the whole caboodle for us. Fortunately Pennine Radio had latched on to our request about Monda
y and Tuesday so several calls were new information about these evenings. I contacted the radio station and asked them to repeat the plea as often as possible. Community radio at its best.

  One call was specifically for me. It was from Dr Foulkes at the General, saying that he’d be grabbing a sandwich in their canteen at lunchtime and I’d be welcome to join him. I dashed upstairs to knock some sort of a file together and made a list of questions.

  Les Isles rang me just as I was about to leave. “I think I left my pipe and tobacco on your windowsill,” he said.

  I glanced across and saw them there, between the dead cactus and the framed department photograph. “I’ve thrown them away,” I told him. “Thought you’d finished with them.”

  “No you haven’t. Stick ’em in the internal, will you, please. I’ll just have to chew my nails until they arrive.”

  “Will do. I’m on my way to see Adrian Foulkes.”

  “That should be interesting. Let me know what he says.”

  “OK. Ta-ra.”

  I collected the pipe from the window and looked in my bottom drawer for an envelope, but they were all too small. Never mind; they’d have something suitable at the front desk. I was halfway through the door when my phone started ringing again. I hesitated, decided that I couldn’t afford to miss a call, and started back towards it, but it stopped just before I got there. Next time I made it out of the door.

  Two people, male and female, were talking to the desk sergeant, who was laboriously taking notes. They were in cycling gear, with matching green helmets, black lycra leggings and Day-Glo pink waterproof tops. According to the legend across their backs they were part of the Mongoose team and were propelled along courtesy of Shimano. I nodded a hello and joined them at the desk. As my shadow fell across it the sergeant looked up and grinned with relief. “Ah! The man ’imself,” he exclaimed. “Just tried ringing you. Inspector Priest, this is Mr and Mrs…” – quick glance down at his notes – “…Fletcher. Asked to see you about the appeal. I was explaining that you’re a busy man, but as you’re ’ere…”

  I glanced at my watch. “I’m afraid I’m dashing off to an appointment,” I told them. “What was it you want to see me about?”

  “The appeal,” the man replied. “On Pennine Radio. We were in the recreation ground near the shop on Monday night, about seven o’clock.”

  “Walking the dog,” the girl explained, to dispel any thoughts I might be having that they were frolicking naked in the wet grass. “We can’t take it in the fields, now, because of the foot-and-mouth.”

  “I see.”

  We were having a steady flow of citizens calling in with information about sightings, some useful, most not, some downright bizarre, but usually it went through a very fine filter before it reached me. Today I’d been unfortunate.

  “This vehicle – a pickup – went by,” he continued.

  “She’s called Trudy,” the girl added.

  “Right. Um, this pickup…”

  “One of those big ones,” he went on. “A Dodge or maybe a Toyota, with big wheels and a row of spotlights on the roof. I’ve always fancied one, think we ought to get one, so I noticed it, like.”

  “We don’t want one of those big things,” she told him.

  “Why not? We could put the bikes in the back and go off for the day. Or the week. We could go all over. France even.”

  “It was too noisy,” she stated.

  I felt a cold draught and heard the rumble of traffic as the outer door opened and Peter Goodfellow walked in to join us. “What else did you notice about it?” I asked, before they could have a full-scale major policy debate. “I don’t suppose you got the number, but did you see what colour it was?”

  “White,” they replied in unison.

  I looked at the desk sergeant and winked. “I think we can safely take that as white,” I told him.

  “And it was noisy,” the man added. “We only saw it from the side, above the wall, but you could tell it was one of those big ones.”

  “This could be very important for our enquiry,” I said, wanting to wind things up without antagonising them. “As you see, I’m on my way out, but Sergeant Goodfellow here is on the case and he’ll take a statement from you, if you don’t mind.” Pete shrugged and looked mystified. “Mr and Mrs Fletcher have come in about the appeal,” I told him. “They saw a white pickup. Could you take a statement from them, please, and tag it for the computer?” He nodded an OK and led them off to an interview room.

  The sergeant and I watched them retreat. They were both a little below average height and slightly overweight and she really ought not to be in those leggings. “Make a nice pair of bookends,” I said as they vanished into the interview room.

  “Matching Lycra,” the sergeant observed. “I wonder if I could get my missus interested in that?”

  “Nah,” I said. “She prefers rubber.”

  “Does she?”

  “Mmm.” I placed the pipe and tobacco pouch on the counter. “Have you an envelope for those, please, George?” I asked. “They want sending to Les Isles.”

  “Filthy ’abit,” he said, gathering them up.

  “I agree. Put a rude note in with them, if you want.”

  “Would you trust a man who wears a dickie-bow?” I said, sitting in the empty chair next to Dr Foulkes in the General Hospital’s staff canteen. The room was buzzing, filled with white-coated doctors and nurses, a smattering of suits and a single sports coat and bow tie. I couldn’t sit opposite him because that place was taken by a woman in a white coat, with dark-rimmed spectacles and a folded stethoscope poking out of her breast pocket. He twisted in his chair and shook my hand before introducing me to the woman.

  “I’ll be off then,” she said. “Nice to meet you, Charlie. Don’t let him baffle you with gobbledegook. See you tonight, Adrian.”

  I half rose and nodded a farewell to her, then moved round to the chair she’d vacated. It was warm, and I caught a whiff of her perfume.

  “Mmm,” I said, approvingly.

  Dr Foulkes, Head of Psychology, fixed his gaze over my shoulder and watched her walk away. “That’s the woman I intend to marry,” he stated when I finally gained his attention.

  “Congratulations!” I exclaimed with a big smile. “She’s a very attractive lady. When’s the happy event?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t told her, yet.”

  “Oh. But you’re seeing her tonight.”

  “Giving her a lift home. And her husband. Their car is in for a repair and it’s the highlight of my week. Can I get you something to eat?”

  “You know, Adrian,” I began, “I suspect that you have more hang-ups than any of your patients. It wasn’t you who damaged the car, was it?”

  “Got me in one, Charlie. Bang to rights. I believe that’s the expression you use. We do a quite respectable tuna sandwich in a wholemeal baguette and the coffee’s not bad. Can I tempt you?”

  I shook my head. “No thanks. Let’s talk, then I might grab something after you’ve had to dash off, as you no doubt will.” I moved his prospective wife’s coffee cup to one side and spread my papers on the table.

  For ten minutes I outlined the three cases and he listened, with just the occasional question. He was particularly interested in the positions of the bodies and the injuries. I showed him the photographs.

  “Have you drawn any conclusions from where the bodies were found?” he asked.

  “None,” I told him. “M1 and M3 were dumped almost arbitrarily.”

  “And M2 was left where she fell?”

  “Mmm.”

  “The killer could have been disturbed.”

  “That’s right, but nobody’s come forward.”

  He speed-read the rest of the file, the nib of his fountain pen tracing an invisible line down the pages. When he’d finished I said: “So, am I looking for three killers or just one?”

  Adrian had taken a few notes and had my list of similarities in front of him. “I suspect you kn
ow the answer to that,” he replied.

  “I’m a humble bobby,” I told him. “What does the expert say?”

  “Look at all the murders you’ve ever heard about, Charlie,” he began. “List the variables and compare them with your man. He’s organised in all three cases and appears to be forensically aware. They’re all outdoors. The level of violence is similar. No rapes. The locations are similar, neither rural or city.”

  “The MOs are different,” I interjected.

  “Yes, on one level, but the overall result is the same. The victim is dead, with minimum of fuss. He’s improving his technique. All the victims were respectable and they were all following a predictable routine. In fact, that’s probably why they were chosen. You said that a shoe and an umbrella are missing from M3.”

  “Yes.”

  “But nothing from the others?”

  “Not that we know of.”

  “I wonder if he’s starting a collection of memorabilia. The interference with M3’s underwear is interesting.”

  “Tell me about him, Adrian. What are we up against?”

  “It’s as if he’s suddenly discovered sex. You’re looking for someone who is sexually inadequate, probably repressed for some reason, but who has suddenly found that violence gives him release. He’s probably suffered from paraphilia all his life, but it’s recently developed into an incipient psychosis followed by the real McCoy.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Mmm, sorry. Why he’s killing in the first place, I don’t know. Let’s just say he’s a nutter. He’s always had a problem with sex – unable to get an erection when he needed one, unable to get rid of it at other times, and he’s lived in a fantasy world. So he kills a couple of people and hey presto! he has an orgasm. Or, more probably, gets an erection and nearly has one. Violence, he’s discovered, is the key to sexual release, so his fantasies – the paraphilia – are developing into reality.”

  I sat quietly, thinking about what he’d said. The doctor looked in his coffee cup, found it empty and replaced it on the saucer. “I’ll have to go, Charlie,” he said, “but we need to talk again. I’ll give you my home number and you can ring me there, any time.”