by Chris Simms
Troughton reached out and the view of the psychological profiler returned.
‘All the victims are female, but you won’t find the attacker on any database for sexual offenders. I’m almost certain of that. None had been assaulted in that way, despite there being ample opportunity. They had, however, had their phones forced into their mouths. Really forced: tongues have been severed to achieve this.’
‘Except in the case of the first victim,’ Ransford interjected.
‘And this, in itself, is significant. Initial theories centred on the assumption these crimes were being committed by Ian Cahill, the sometime partner of the first victim, Pamela Flood. We now know he couldn’t have killed the fourth victim, Heather Knight. With that knowledge, the theory that victims are being silenced for something they might have said – or were planning to say – is discredited. What, then, is the motive behind the tongue removal and phone insertion?’
She looked aside for a moment, gathering her thoughts.
‘For the second victim, it appeared unplanned. The removal was clumsy and only necessitated by the size of the phone. That wasn’t the case with three and four; he’s now taken to doing it voluntarily.’
‘Trophies,’ someone stated flatly.
She nodded. ‘He’s making a collection, unfortunately. And he’s now coming to his victims’ houses with the means of doing it efficiently.’
‘What are your thoughts on why he’s doing this?’ Ransford asked.
‘For the moment, I’d prefer to not concentrate on that. I believe what will be most useful in actually stopping him is to consider how he is gaining entry to his victims’ homes.’
Ransford looked cowed as he sat back. ‘Of course. Please, carry on.’
TWENTY-SEVEN
The key trembled in his hand. He couldn’t get it into the van’s ignition. Like a blast wave from a bomb, the implications of what had just happened kept expanding. She’d seen him. Clearly seen his face. She’d heard his voice, too. Would the accent he adopted have worked? Maybe. But what about when they opened the package? Scrunched-up balls of newspaper and a piece of wood. Oh God. Might they think it was a mistake? Some kind of joke?
Don’t be so bloody ridiculous.
He looked at his eyes framed in the rear-view mirror. They shone with panic. The sisters would do what any reasonable adults would do: call the police. An unknown male, making a fake delivery of a dummy package. No return address or barcode or contact details. At the very least, they’d suspect Katherine’s house was being lined up for a burglary.
His eyes widened.
When the police came, they would ask for a description. What if Katherine recognized him from what the sister said? He could hear the woman’s thin reedy voice. That sounds just like a teacher I had to remove from his position. There were a number of incidents. Students made complaints. He actually struck one.
The police would come to his house. He’d be driven to the station and questioned. They’d take his fingerprints, swab his inner cheek for DNA. The instant he went on the database, they’d know. He was the one who’d been in all the murdered women’s houses. He would be stopped before he’d even started. No. No!
The van shook on its chassis as he pounded his palms against the dashboard, the steering wheel and the seat beside him. This wasn’t fair. It couldn’t all be over. It couldn’t.
He looked into the rear-view mirror at the road behind. What had the sister said? Katherine had nipped out. There was still time to rescue this! He could go back and knock on the door. Say the machine was now working. Could he have a signature? It would save so much trouble with his manager. Two seconds just to sign your name …
He didn’t know if it was relief making him shiver. He needed to hurry. Katherine had only nipped out. He might only have minutes, but minutes would be enough. He could finish the sister and be ready for Katherine when she came home. Two tongues, not one. How could he have thought all was lost? It was only just beginning.
He leaned to the side and reached into the passenger footwell. As the fingers of his left hand clamped on the rubber casing, he heard the sound of a vehicle.
It was getting closer.
He kept his head down and listened. The tone of the motor shifted as it changed into a lower gear. The hum of the tyres grew louder as it passed his van.
Once he was certain the vehicle was behind him, he straightened up.
There, in the rear-view mirror, was a pale blue Fiat 500. Its left indicator was flashing as it turned into the cottage’s driveway.
She was home.
And that wasn’t all. She’d have seen his van, as well. A van, but no driver, parked right outside her house …
As he accelerated off down the lane, his lips kept touching against each other in an anguished mumble.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Samantha Greenhalgh consulted her notes for a few seconds. Like everyone else in the room, Sean couldn’t take his eyes off her image on the projector’s screen.
‘OK,’ she said. ‘We know he’s not using force to get into their homes. He’s arriving at their properties in broad daylight – mostly during the morning, it seems.’
Her choice of the word arriving snagged in Sean’s mind. She didn’t say calling or visiting.
‘I would expect our man to be dressed in a way that doesn’t give the victims any cause for concern. That could indicate smart dress, possibly a uniform. These women – who are alone in their homes – are willingly opening their doors. What sort of a person arrives at a private residence during the day, without arousing any suspicion? Come on, let’s throw this open: suggestions, please.’
A voice immediately called. ‘Police officer.’
Nervous laughter.
Ransford sent a fiery look across the room and it went silent once more.
‘It’s possible,’ she said. ‘But before we go down that route, who else?’
‘A tradesman,’ someone else said. ‘Like a window cleaner. Or those types who offer to do your drive.’
‘He’s getting into their homes – it appears he’s being invited in—’
‘Gas meter reading!’ It was Magda who’d called out. Sean looked across at her. One hand straight up, as if in class. ‘These men, sometimes they just work for an agency. They don’t even have a thingy round their necks. The last one to call at my house didn’t. He said it was in his car, so I told him to bugger off and get it.’
Sean found himself smiling at the way she said things. No messing.
‘Good,’ Mrs Greenhalgh was nodding. ‘Who else?’
‘Engineers: internet connection or phone line,’ someone else volunteered.
‘Without a prior appointment? Possible, I suppose.’
‘Council staff? Maybe checking water supply or something similar.’
‘OK.’
‘Door-to-door salesman, possibly?’
‘Keep them coming. This is good.’
‘Pizza delivery.’
‘In the morning?’
‘Not pizza, then. But something like—’
‘What if he’s familiar to the victims?’ Ransford cut in. ‘We’re assuming he’s a stranger. What if he’s already met them in some other scenario, and that’s why they opened the door? He’s a familiar face.’
‘What kind of a scenario?’ Greenhalgh responded.
‘Perhaps he’s been into their respective workplaces. A photocopier repairman, vending machine bloke, the person who drops off the containers for the water cooler.’
She considered this. ‘So, they’re on vaguely friendly terms and he uses this to his advantage?’
Ransford gave a cautious nod.
‘Interesting. That fits with another consideration. He’s moving around during the day. From the geographical spread of attacks, I believe he has his own transport. If we assume he’s in employment, has he got a company vehicle? Is he self-employed? A sole trader?’
Sean half stood. ‘Sir?’
Ransford looked over.
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‘The house-to-house enquiries I carried out in the street near to Heather Knight’s address. There was a mention of a white van parked up around the time of her death. It didn’t stay long.’
‘You logged that?’
‘In the report I just submitted.’
‘Good work.’ He then addressed the room. ‘Anything similar from any other murder scene?’
No one said anything.
‘Colin? Let’s run a check for that.’ He turned back to the laptop. ‘Mrs Greenhalgh, you were saying?’
‘If he’s not using his own vehicle, is a supervisor keeping an eye on what he’s up to? Most company vehicles are now fitted with tracking devices. Telemetrics, I believe is the term they use. I don’t think where he goes is an issue for him; he’s got leeway to do what he wants. Freedom to roam, if you will.’
‘Maybe he still has access to a company car when he’s not on shift?’ someone near the front said.
‘That is worth considering,’ she replied. ‘As is everything that’s just been suggested. Now, the crime scenes themselves tell us a bit more about him. He’s clean and he’s efficient. These aren’t disorganized crime scenes. If anything, they’re amazingly orderly. Have we considered how he’s subduing his victims prior to killing them? I believe there’s no sign of any struggle, so far.’
Ransford nodded. ‘That has been puzzling us. We were thinking that, if it was Cahill, he could have caught them off guard and then suffocated them—’
‘That’s been the cause of death in each case?’
‘Correct. The pathologist thinks they’ve had a bag of some description put over their heads. There are light abrasions on each victim’s throat, like from a drawstring. And there are signs of them being restrained; bruising to the upper arms.’
‘That is interesting. This organization: he clearly takes pride in what he does. I think he’s skilled in a professional sense, whether as some kind of tradesman or engineer or similar, I’m not sure. But I imagine he’ll be the type of person who removes his shoes in the porch before entering a house, certainly if it’s his own. I think he’ll be well-groomed. Short hair, kept neat. No stubble. It’s even possible he has a certain appeal, maybe in a fatherly sort of way. I would be very surprised if he looks at all intimidating; heavily built or shaved head – none of that stuff.’
‘Any thoughts on his age?’ Ransford asked.
‘Over forty, if he fits with the majority of people who kill in this way.’
Sean noted she had still to use the words serial killer.
‘Most likely Caucasian, also.’ She moved a strand of hair away from her face. ‘So, in summary, we’re looking for someone who’s able to move freely around during the day. He’s probably white, middle-aged and of a respectable appearance. Possibly in work clothes or a uniform, certainly with some kind of plausible reason for arriving at the victims’ houses. He isn’t on the sexual offenders database, but he may well have a history of incidents with women, though none so serious he has ever been arrested.’
Ransford nodded. ‘So, for starters, we’ll need to find out if the victims are all customers of a particular company – broadband, gas and so forth.’
‘Yes. Plus shops visited, cinemas, anything like that. I think someone mentioned pizza – do they all order from Domino’s?’
‘Same for their workplaces,’ Ransford added. ‘Who services the photocopier, cleans the toilets, comes round with sandwiches.’
‘Maybe they’ve all had some kind of work recently done on their homes – new windows or whatever. I assume you have access to all their financial records?’
‘We do.’
‘Good. They’ve all crossed paths with this person somehow. Later, I’ll spend some time on what’s fuelling him. Clearly, he has a problem with women. All women? The victims are very diverse: age, appearance, socio-economic group. But something has acted as a trigger.’
‘That’s been incredibly useful. Thank you.’ Ransford started getting to his feet. ‘All detective inspectors? My office. We need to decide on next steps.’
‘That’s weird, Linds: I was thinking of ringing you.’
‘How’s it going. You all right?’
‘Yeah, I’m all right. You?’
‘Yeah. Listen, Danny, where are you?’
‘Up near Newcastle.’
‘That shop fitting?’
‘Yeah.’
‘When’s it finish?’
‘We’re done. I’m heading back tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Have you spoken to Julie?’
‘Nope. Left her a couple of messages. Why I nearly rang you. You spoken to her?’
‘No. Same thing. She’s not rung me back.’
Neither said anything for a few seconds.
‘When did you last speak to her, Linds?’
‘Thursday.’
‘Thursday?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I thought you two were going out over the weekend?’
‘She never rang me back. I called round earlier. She’s not there.’
‘You knocked on?’
‘Yeah.’
‘No answer?’
‘Yeah.’
‘When was that?’
‘Elevenish.’
‘Probably at work.’
‘Yeah, probably.’
‘Have you got her work number?’
‘No. You?’
‘No.’
‘I know the bloke in charge is called Steve. Right knob head, though.’
‘Yeah, she said.’
‘I don’t want to ring in. Might drop her in the shit.’
‘Yeah. I’ll be back by the afternoon. Work out what she’s up to then, the dozy bitch.’
‘I know. Bet she got larruped. Still asleep, probably.’
‘That’s our Julie.’
‘Get her to call me, yeah?’
‘Will do. Cheers, Lindsay.’
‘Yeah. Bye, then.’
TWENTY-NINE
The top of his cul-de-sac appeared from nowhere. He searched his mind for any detail of the previous thirty minutes. Nothing. Not a shred. The entire drive had been done on autopilot, his mind entirely focused on what had just occurred.
There was only one way to describe it: catastrophic.
He was out of his van and hurrying towards his front door before he realized he was still wearing his courier uniform. Stupid, stupid, stupid! Knowing he would be visible from Edith’s house, he hesitated. Turn back and get changed in the garage? No, too late. He wanted to punch himself in the face.
Once inside the house, he kicked his shoes off but didn’t place them on the rack. Instead, he took the stairs two at a time and, at the top, headed straight for the closed door on his right.
Mother’s room.
The door swung open and he strode across the pale pink carpet in his socks. He passed a wardrobe that was still full of her dresses and, as he knelt before the bedside table, he let out a little whimper.
In the top drawer, a wooden handled hairbrush lay beside a white enamel jar and a leather spectacles case. He’d carefully stripped the brush of every single strand many years ago: the clump was safely stored elsewhere. His fingers reached for the small jar. It had a metallic pink lid and small green leaves formed a circle round the letters at its centre.
Yardley of London. Hand cream. Smooths and softens to help keep skin young and lovely.
He was still twisting with trembling fingers as the pot neared his face. At the last moment, he got the lid off and thrust his nose towards the cracked and yellowed remains inside. It took all of his self control not to snatch the air into his lungs with one violent sniff. Gradually, he let his nostrils fill, eking out every particle of faint scent inside. He half rose and let himself sink onto the eiderdown. His head toppled towards the pillow, the pot still clutched to his face. One more breath. Just one.
Reluctantly, he allowed it: exposing the contents of th
e jar to the outside air was damaging. His sense of anguish still wouldn’t subside. He had to have more of the smell. He needed it on his skin so it could seep into his system.
He moved the jar away from his face to bring it into focus. The surface of the meagre contents bore shallow gouges. Impressions left by her fingers. Actual places where she’d touched it. Meticulously avoiding them, he scratched at the base and transferred a miniscule amount of cream to beneath his nail.
He closed his eyes and, careful not to use that finger, screwed the lid back on. He could feel how its rotation was impeded by the rime that crusted the thread of the jar’s neck. Once the lid was tightly in place, he rubbed his oily fingertip back and forth across the skin beneath his nose.
Memories of her floated across the canopy of his mind. The way her hair would softly frame her face when she looked down at him. The soothing feel of her fingers on his cheek, then the delicate waft of her hand when she waved him off to school. Walking along subdued streets. Seconds of long silence between each passing car. A sense of calm began to take hold. He traced his finger across his lips and recalled the tickle of a drinking straw in his classroom. The milk in the stubby bottles was so creamy. He remembered entering the playground one snowy morning to see the red crates stacked beside the front doors. The contents of all the bottles had frozen. From the necks, white columns had forced their way up, each topped by a silver foil cap. He brought his knees to his chest and smiled.
Everything had been so much quieter. Silence that was respected, not scorned. The wonderful lack of noise: queuing in shops, sitting on buses, even lounging at the beach. Trips to Lytham and the taste of freshly dipped toffee apples carrying on the breeze, strong as smoke. Waiting at the kitchen table for homemade bread-and-butter pudding.
At her funeral, he remembered two things that the vicar said. She’d graced us with her presence. She was a woman of dignity and poise. An elderly stranger had approached him and used a particular word to describe her. Fragrant.