by Chris Simms
Still walking, Morris spoke over his shoulder. ‘No problem. Keep well away from me, Blake, and we’ve got no problem at all.’
Sean set off after him. ‘Hey.’
Morris turned round, slowly and deliberately.
‘Were you in that back garden?’ Sean demanded.
‘Didn’t need to be.’
Sean halted an arm distance away. ‘You don’t know what happened.’
‘Yeah?’ Morris stepped closer. ‘I know enough.’
Sean glanced down and saw the man had clenched his fists. He lifted his eyebrows in question. ‘Really? You want to try and punch me?’
‘Try?’
Sean lifted his hands and put his weight on his front foot. A fighter’s stance. ‘Go on, then.’
Their eyes stayed locked together. Sean discerned a minute shift in Morris’s pupils. Instantly, he knew the other man wasn’t going to do anything. Not on his own.
Morris breathed out noisily through his nose, as if what Sean had suggested was ridiculous. ‘Yeah, right. Here in the street? Get to fuck, Blake.’
Sean partly lowered his hands. ‘If you ever grow a pair, Morris, come and find me.’
TWENTY-FIVE
He turned into the car park of a DIY superstore and backed his van into a slot on the far side. As the dashboard clock edged closer to nine, he watched the various work vehicles pulling up by the entrance for trade customers. Plumbers, electricians, painters and decorators, landscape gardeners: all collecting materials and supplies whose costs would be marked up by a good thirty per cent for the customer’s bill.
He knew how it worked. Before getting his job at the college, he’d spent years working for himself. The erratic income was a problem, but not a crippling one. He lived at home, with his mum. Tea on the table each evening and a packed lunch if he was out on a job. Overalls washed and ironed every Sunday.
The reason he couldn’t go on had been the customers. Female customers. Most of the time, if a woman needed an electrician, they’d accept his recommendations without question. Often, they were gushingly grateful for the fact he was able to fix the problem. Things went smoothly and without incident.
But, as time went by, he noticed a growing tendency among certain females to challenge. Even disagree. They’d demand explanations, even though they clearly didn’t understand his responses. Or they’d make him justify each bit of the final bill, suspiciously poring over the amounts, as if he was a charlatan or a cheat. He found their attitudes offensive. The outrage built in him and often he’d accept a lesser amount because he knew, if he stayed in their property any longer, he might do something he’d regret.
It was similar to when he went back to the academy. Returning there wasn’t something he was supposed to do, not while suspended. But Harpham wasn’t answering his calls and his work email had been frozen.
He hadn’t even got to see her. While walking to the main entrance, two female students had called him things. After a brief exchange in the foyer, security staff had escorted him back to the gates. Then, while waiting for his bus, Shelley’s mother had pulled up in a car and jumped out. Ignoring her had been almost impossible. The woman had marched up, ranting and screeching. She’d been so close, her words created little puffs of air against his face. Threats to have his legs broken, dares to hit her.
He had to stand there like a statue.
By the time the 419 appeared, her fury had given way to mockery. You pathetic little man: her phrase was a scrap of litter snagged in the branches of his brain. It could not be freed.
As he stepped round her and climbed on board, he heard her spit at him and, as he turned to find a seat, he spotted several phones being hastily lowered.
He took a long breath in and looked at the time: almost quarter past. He restarted the van and continued towards where she lived. Minutes later, he rolled to a stop outside her cottage. The country lane was free of traffic.
Before getting out, he sat with both hands on the wheel, head tipped forward. He completed a mental checklist knowing that, with this visit, there could be no room for error: Katherine Harpham was the first female he’d targeted who knew him.
Several times now, he’d contemplated the prospect of getting caught. He knew that with each attack, the chances of it happening increased. Simple probability dictated that it was only a matter of time. Saturday’s visit had been especially risky. He nodded. One might even have classed it as reckless.
But, he had to admit, the satisfaction of it succeeding was intensely sweet. In fact, he hadn’t experienced emotion like that in … how long? Since racing down a snow-covered hill on a wooden sledge?
He still remembered that Sunday morning. Trudging reluctantly up the slope, gently encouraged by mother. Every child he could think of already there having fun. The creak of snow as the sledge’s metal runners began to edge forward. Then the whisper of cold air turning into a rush.
But his exhilaration had been replaced by revulsion when he realized that it was his mother’s voice he could hear shrieking behind him. Her delight that, for once, he was like all the other children.
As soon as he was able to stop, he’d got off and stared back up the hill at her. She was alongside all the other mothers, still shouting. He’d dropped to his knees and clapped his mittens over his ears.
He wrestled his focus back to the present. Just as he understood the simple probability of his eventual capture, he also was learning how to mitigate its likelihood. For a start, he had no criminal record. His DNA wasn’t present on any database. Leaving behind evidence of a forensic nature was of no consequence.
He also appreciated the threat posed by CCTV. He knew it was time for him to change vehicles. Another type of van with a different colour and registration. He’d probably get a new courier suit, too. Simple preparation and adequate precautions, that’s all it took for long-term success.
Checking no cars were coming, he opened the van’s door. As he climbed out, he wondered if – one day – his collection of jars might stretch from one end of the shelf to the other.
There was a little red Mercedes on her drive. That, if he remembered rightly, was new. Yes, definitely new. She used to drive a pale blue Fiat 500 with a collection of furry toys arranged across the dashboard. Not actual animals: absurd brightly coloured caricatures of cuteness. Massive eyes and miniscule noses. He could see himself faintly reflected in the Mercedes’ glossy surface as he passed it. The trappings of success, something she wouldn’t be enjoying for much longer.
Her rose bushes were doing well. Come the summer, they’d be laden with blooms. The strip of lawn to either side of the path was also well tended. To be fair, the entire property was in a superb state of repair. Well done, Katherine.
Now at her front door, he allowed himself a moment. This was it. This was when the bitch got what she so richly deserved. Clamping the fake package under one arm, he lifted the brass knocker and let it fall back. A solid honest sound.
Within seconds, he heard her approach. After announcing he had a package for her, he’d decided to keep quiet and let her speak. His silence, he felt sure, would further unsettle her. When she finally had the stylus in her hand, those nerves would ensure she was gripping it tightly.
A key turned in the lock and the door swung inwards. The woman who stood there was and wasn’t Katherine Harpham. He knew he was frowning as he examined the woman’s face.
Had Katherine managed to lose a couple of stone? This woman’s face had the same rounded features, but her nose wasn’t so squashed. No glasses. And her hair … it was all tied back. No fringe at all. Katherine clung to that fringe so fiercely, he sometimes suspected she’d let it cover her entire face, if only she could.
‘Is that a package?’
She sounded like Katherine, though less squeaky. ‘Sorry?’
Now starting to smile, the woman looked purposefully at his side. ‘You’re holding a package, so I’m guessing it’s for this address?’
He looked down at t
he brick-sized cardboard box in his hand. The label was in plain view.
Katherine Harpham, Russet Cottage, Oldbrook Fold.
‘Ah, yes,’ she continued. ‘It’s for my sister.’
He looked back at her. ‘Your sister?’
‘Yes.’ She drew out the word, as if he was hard of hearing. Now her hand was moving toward him. ‘I’ll take it; she’s nipped out.’
‘Out?’
Her bauble earrings rocked as she nodded. Katherine never wore earrings. This woman was, he could now tell, slightly older. It showed in the wrinkles of her eyes as her smile widened. ‘Thank you. Do you need me to sign that?’
Before he could stop her, she was sliding the package from his fingers. She placed it inside the door, out of sight and looked back at him expectantly.
He really needed to speak.
‘I can give you a signature.’ She flexed her fingers.
‘Signed for, yes.’ He swallowed. This … he needed to think. This was not good. The package contained nothing but—
‘Is it working?’
He looked at her again.
‘Your little machine there. Is it working?’
She had slowed her words, he realized, to the speed you would use for a foreigner. He contemplated the device in his hands. Of course it wasn’t working. The LED screen was backlit, but that was all. It wasn’t touch sensitive. It could not record any information. ‘No,’ he murmured.
‘Sorry?’
He tapped a knuckle against the casing. Gave it a small shake. ‘The battery …’ He stepped back and made his words falter. A comical compression of his vowels. ‘It is not working. It sometimes does this.’
She sighed. ‘Well, can we do without one? Unless you have …’ her eyes shifted to the lane behind him, ‘a spare?’
‘No.’ He began to turn. He needed to get away. She thought he was foreign. ‘You have it now. That is fine, thank you.’
She crossed her arms and watched him with a bemused expression. Her eyes flicked momentarily to his uniform. He felt like the flimsiness of its stitching must be visible from outer space.
‘Very well, then,’ she stated. ‘Thank you.’
TWENTY-SIX
Sean had submitted his report for the house-to-house enquiries by half past nine. The morning briefing had been delayed until ten because the psychological profiler had asked for a bit more time.
He turned to the sheaf of printouts that Katie May had dropped off at his desk an hour earlier. Phone record summaries and call transcripts for all the victims. The smile she’d given him had been tentative and brief – but it had been a smile. He realized his eyes had tracked her as she’d made her way back across the room. There was something about her that he found … intriguing.
The top sheet was marked with Pamela Flood’s name. As the first victim, he wasn’t sure what could be gained from studying her phone’s history. The analyst had already run a cross match for any of the other victims’ numbers: none had shown up.
He placed her summary aside. Next was Francesca Pinto’s. Three times the number of sheets as Pamela Flood. A quick scan confirmed his suspicion: the vast majority had taken place during office hours.
He went to the day Pamela Flood’s body had been discovered. Estimated time of death was in the morning. Between eight and noon, Francesca had made fifteen calls and received eight.
Sean turned to the actual call transcripts. Words like beneficiary, ancillary relief, third party, proviso, litigation and disbursements cropped up repeatedly. Work-related. He checked the location of her phone at the time; it had been triangulated to the same point on Bride Street. She must have been at her desk in Woodhall’s offices.
He drew the fingertips of one hand slowly along his jaw. If this was his mum sitting here, what would she be searching for? He placed Francesca’s paperwork aside to reveal Victoria Walker’s. He checked her phone records at the estimated time of Pamela Flood’s death. No activity. Same as for the time at which Francesca was believed to have been killed. Victoria Walker worked in a call centre: personal use of mobiles was, no doubt, strictly prohibited. Triangulation analysis showed she had been in her office both mornings.
Last report was Heather Knight’s. She also spent the mornings of Pamela’s and Francesca’s deaths in her office. The morning Victoria Walker had died, she’d been driving around. First to Princess Street in the city centre, then to Bengal Street in Ancoats and, finally, the James Brindley Basin, Piccadilly. All locations were where the firm she worked for had apartments for rent. Her appointments diary confirmed that she had been showing prospective tenants around.
Sean flicked forward to the day of her death. Same thing: morning appointments out at Salford Quays, each one tallying with her diary. He turned to the transcripts. The day before her death, she’d had what looked like quite a fiery conversation with a rep at a BMW garage.
Sean scanned her words. Yes, the bloke at the garage her car had been leased from had come in for some stick. Immediately after, another call had come in. The boyfriend, from overseas. It was mandatory to verify the whereabouts of all partners and family members around the time of the victim’s death. The analyst had traced back the call’s origin: Budapest. Alibis didn’t get any better, Sean thought.
Next call, her opinions on their competence had been relayed to a colleague at the estate agent’s. Then she’d phoned the firm’s cab company for a car to get her back to the office. Twenty-two minutes later, she’d received another call from the BMW garage. Clearly well pissed-off by then. Sean winced at some of what she’d said. The cab driver, he guessed, must have enjoyed being party to that conversation.
He went back to Heather Knight’s timeline. She’d swung briefly back into the office, was home by noon and dead shortly after that.
‘Everyone!’ Ransford’s voice rang out. ‘Let’s get this done.’
Sean raised his head. The projector screen had been lowered from the ceiling at the far end of the room. People were on their feet, pushing chairs in its direction. Following suit, Sean found himself a gap towards the rear. Notepad and pen ready on his lap, he sat back to observe proceedings.
Among the gaggle of detectives to his left were Detective Constables Morris and Moor. His eyes touched with those of Morris and the other man immediately looked away, mumbling something as he did. Moor began to turn his head but Sean directed his gaze to the front. No way, he thought, I’m getting into pathetic death-stare games.
Ransford was seated at a side table with an open laptop before him. Someone from IT was fiddling about with his keyboard. The DCI looked uncomfortable, but was trying his best not to show it. ‘Are we nearly there?’ he asked quietly.
Behind them, the projector lit up. The view was of Ransford’s laptop screen. A variety of icons were spread across it and Sean just had time to glimpse a folder labelled DC Blake before a new window began to open. It finished loading and a woman stared out at them with a patient expression. Her face was framed by long strands of light brown hair and her eyes looked like she spent a lot of time laughing.
‘Guv?’ someone said. ‘I can see her.’
Ransford twisted his neck to look up at the screen. ‘Oh.’ He leaned towards his laptop. ‘Mrs Greenhalgh, can you hear me?’
Her voice emerged from the ceiling speakers. ‘Perfectly.’
The IT bloke stepped back. ‘If you need to bring any other stuff up, that icon will get you back to the webcam.’
‘Great, thanks.’ Ransford positioned himself directly before the laptop. ‘Mrs Greenhalgh? We have you linked up to our AV system here so everyone can hear your thoughts.’
‘So I gathered.’ Her eyes moved from the screen to, Sean guessed, the materials she’d prepared. ‘How large is my audience down there?’
Ransford fluttered a hand. ‘Twenty, or thereabouts.’
It was the first time Sean had seen his senior officer acting in a deferential manner. It was odd. After all, she wasn’t of a senior rank. She wasn’t even
in the police. Clearly, he had pinned a lot on whatever she came up with.
‘I’ve explained your time has been very limited on this,’ Ransford continued. ‘And we’re very grateful you agreed to get involved. Any impressions you’ve been able to form will be … all the team will be interested to hear them.’
He definitely sees her as a life ring, Sean thought. The man was floundering.
Mrs Greenhalgh’s face had grown more serious. ‘As you pointed out, I haven’t had much time. These are just preliminary impressions. I will continue on this later today, at which point I can hopefully qualify some of what I’m about to say.’
‘Absolutely.’ Ransford’s head bobbed up and down.
She reached for something. The side of the screen hazed white as she examined a sheet of paper. ‘OK. So far, we have four victims. At least, four of which we’re aware.’
Sean looked down from the screen. Ransford’s face had changed to match the pale wall behind him.
‘The first thing is to consider the killer’s geographical domain. With cases like this, a good place to start is with the circle hypothesis, which I’m sure some of you will be familiar with. Taking the two attacks furthest from each other, a circle is drawn with these two points on its perimeter. Statistically, it’s likely the killer lives inside – or very close to – this circle. DCI Ransford? I emailed that map?’
‘Yes, one moment.’ He sent a beseeching look at Sergeant Troughton. ‘That attachment, Colin. The one you …’
The office manager scooted across. A moment later, he was edging the pointer towards a .png file on Ransford’s desktop. On the row below it, Blake could see the yellow folder bearing his name. He cringed, wondering how many others in the room had spotted it.
A view of Manchester marred by a heavy black circle appeared. It encompassed the entire city centre and, at times, curved beyond the meandering blue line that marked the M60 motorway that ringed the city.
Mrs Greenhalgh’s disembodied voice emanated from the ceiling. ‘Despite the killings being in a relatively tight cluster, it’s an area that contains a very large number of people. Somewhere in the region of 2.8 million. How, then, do we focus the search? Hopefully, in several ways.’