[DC Laura McGanity 05 ]Cold Kill

by Neil White

  He moved across the room, away from the comfort of the wall, lightly stepping on the soft carpet. He was almost behind her now. He could reach out and touch her hair, long dark strands flowing down her back.

  Then she stopped typing and stared at the monitor.

  He stepped back quickly. He had seen someone else on the screen. A woman’s face, the close-up distortion of a webcam. And she had seen him. He had come into view of the webcam. There was a witness. Why hadn’t he thought of that?

  The noises rushed back into his head. They had been waiting for this moment. The fail, the mistake. He clamped his ears. There were laughs and whispers and mocking jeers. Then there was a scream from the room. It was her. She was screaming, her legs up to her chest, her eyes wide with fear. People would hear.

  He turned to run. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. The door flew back as he ran through it, his feet loud on the hardwood flooring in the living room. He was heading for the same way out when he saw the front door. It would be quicker.

  The door had a Yale lock, and he gave it a quick turn. He felt the cool breath of the evening air as soon as he stepped outside, making his sweat turn cold.

  He heard another scream, but the door was open now and it carried into the street. He imagined the curtains moving on the houses opposite, and so he ran for the track, his heart beating quickly. He was angry with himself. He should have thought about the webcam when he heard the clicks on the keyboard. Someone had seen him.

  He tried to shut that thought out as he ran, concentrating only on his escape, his feet thumping against the grass, the jingle of the handcuffs loud in the dark.

  If he could just get to his van before he was spotted, no one would ever know.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Jack drove around the estate, feeling better about his article.

  He glanced towards the playground he had seen earlier. He heard laughter and then the sound of a bottle breaking on the floor, provoking more laughter. Jack looked to the houses opposite, expecting to see the twitch of a curtain to see what was going on, but there was nothing.

  He drove past a building that was in the middle of the estate, and the sign on the front told him that it was the Whitcroft Community Centre. It was like most community centres: a square brick building with aerosol artwork decorating the outside walls, the wheelchair ramp bordered by a rail with paint flaking from it. He didn’t need to go inside to know that it would look like all the others – painted cream, with a wooden floor marked out for a basketball court and filled with flimsy metal chairs that packed away in high stacks.

  It hadn’t escaped the attention of the local kids though. The sign was broken in places, and two of the windows were boarded up.

  Jack drove on, not understanding why someone would want to destroy so much around them. He headed for the road out of the estate, and once the broken lights of Whitcroft were left behind he thought about Don, and the contrast between his own life and the lives of the people who paid for his services.

  Jack turned into the leafy street that took him towards Don’s house. It curved gently, and the only things that obscured the street lights were the branches of the trees that swayed in the breeze. There were no cars on the road. They were all pulled onto driveways, two for each household, mostly new.

  He drove close to the copse where Jane had been found, and so he stopped. He positioned his car so that the headlights illuminated the patch of trees. The light caught a piece of crime scene tape that was left tied to a silver birch, just fluttering. Apart from that, it had returned to what it had been before.

  Jack resolved to visit it in the morning, because the small piece of tape would make for a good photograph if the killer stayed free, some kind of metaphor for how time was moving on and the victims would be forgotten. Except that the memories of Jane’s murder would linger in the minds of those who looked at it every day, and for Don Roberts and Mike Corley, the memory would never go away.

  Jack set off again, and as he got closer to Don’s house he saw cars cluttering the road. It looked like there was a meeting.

  Jack drove past and then turned round so that he could watch. He was curious. What were they planning? Was another suspect going to be driven from their home, or even worse?

  He had only been there for a couple of minutes when the front door opened, throwing light onto the driveway. Someone came rushing out, animated, turning to shout something. Jack leaned forward to get a better view through the windscreen. He recognised the figure. David Hoyle. Then Jack saw his car parked further along. He should have spotted it, a Mercedes with a personalised plate. He had seen it parked outside court many times.

  Jack was surprised. What was David Hoyle doing there?

  Hoyle turned back to whoever was in the doorway. He was waving his arms, finger pointing, and then he walked away, heading for his car. Jack started his engine, making David Hoyle look around. Jack set off towards him, and as he drew alongside, he wound down his window.

  ‘Good evening, Mr Hoyle,’ Jack said. ‘Must be a big pow-wow to bring you out here. Why are you rushing off?’

  Hoyle looked surprised and glanced back towards Don’s house. The front door was closed now.

  ‘Mr Hoyle?’

  ‘Leave me alone,’ Hoyle said, his tone more fearful than angry.

  ‘Something has happened, I can tell.’

  He held Jack’s gaze for a few seconds, and Jack thought he was about to say something, Hoyle’s lips twitching and pursing, but instead he opened his car door and started his engine.

  Hoyle pulled away quickly, and as Jack watched the rear lights disappear round the curve ahead, he knew that whatever had made Hoyle bolt out of Don’s house wasn’t good news.

  He’d raced home and concealed his van under tarpaulin at the back of the house. He was back in the small space with his computer, the door closed tightly so that the rest of the house was shut out. But it wasn’t enough, the noises still made their way in. His hands were clamped around his ears. The noise was a clamour. The taps had turned into screeches, like nails down blackboards, and there was laughter, mocking shrieks.

  He felt unsettled, still too aroused. He had skipped through his photographs. Shots of Jane, of Deborah, their faces pale and still. And the others from before he came to Blackley. The pictures took him back through his memories, and he relived the struggles, the fear. He thought of the girl from the night before. He hadn’t taken a picture, he hadn’t had time. There had been just the release and then a short drive to the canal, stones weighing down her pockets. There would be no discovery. Not yet anyway. It wasn’t enough. He wanted a bigger high, his hands around someone else’s neck, the feel of their pulse, a drumbeat against his outstretched palm.

  He wanted to go out again, but he stopped himself. It wouldn’t be right. No more mistakes. Wait for tomorrow.

  There would be no sleep, he knew that. Not now. It was time to plan.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Jack held up the wine bottle to the light. Probably only a glass left in it. It was close to midnight now, and he was alone in the house. He hadn’t heard from Laura for a few hours, and he remembered the incident from the night before, when she was almost run down. He wanted to know she was safe. There was a killer to catch, he knew that, but she didn’t have to sacrifice herself to do it. The screen swam in front of him and his fingers roamed clumsily across the keyboard, the sound of his tapping fingernails echoing loudly in the house.

  He had written the story on Jane, but Jack didn’t expect Don to like it. It had been written as a lead-in to the Whitcroft article, speculating on whether there was a link between the estate and the murders. The quotes from some of the people Jack had spoken to earlier had made it in as unnamed sources, and a connection had started to emerge, but it seemed loose and vague, as if there was still something missing.

  Jack was browsing the internet, looking at the newspapers and sport stories, when there was a ping from the email software. He poured hi
mself another glass of wine, stumbling a little, dropping some onto the table top, and then he opened the email.

  It was from the same source as before, except that this time it had the title Hoyly Moyly. Jack leaned forward to read it, took a long sip, and then he stopped and put his glass down. The email made no sense.

  He read it again.

  Oh Angel, why did you scream?

  It was a perfect plan, an evening dream,

  Deviance and pleasure,

  Something to treasure,

  Bold on a summer night,

  Man was out,

  Looking after wolves,

  Angel was in,

  Watching out for me,

  Your cries fall on devil ears,

  Mine mount to storm fury,

  Oh Angel, why did you scream?

  Jack sat back and ran his hands through his hair as he tried to shake off some of the alcohol fog. As poetry, it was poor, but there was a message there. The taunts, the spitefulness, they were all familiar.

  He felt the effect of the wine subside as he thought about the message. He knew his mind needed to be clear to work it all out. He clicked reply, and when the dialogue box came up, he typed:

  So how are they all connected? Don is into security. Mike Corley is a local copper. Where’s the link? Who is Emma? And who is the Angel from your email? You want your story told. Talk to me.

  Jack went to the window and noticed again how dark the hills were. He felt like he couldn’t do anything until he got a reply. It didn’t take long to arrive. He went to the computer nervously, and sat down when he saw the contents.

  There is always a connection. I’m going faster than before and sometimes it feels like it is too fast. But I have spotted a female. You know her, ha ha. Just need to work out the details.

  So now you know I’m real, what next. Do I deserve a name, a title? The papers always like that. What do you think? Can you think of a name?

  And then Jack remembered the scene from earlier in the evening, the fear etched onto David Hoyle’s face. Hoyly Moyly.

  Jack took the wine bottle to the kitchen and poured the contents of his glass down the sink. He went to the doors and windows, checked that everything was locked. He had an early start the next day, and a very long night ahead.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  The morning had been a long time coming.

  He had been awake all night, his mind filled by memories of the night before. They ran through his mind as fast flickers. The woman in her bedroom, talking into the webcam, in her panties, one leg pulled up to her chest. Her frightened look when she saw him. He waited for the tremble of arousal, but it didn’t come. He felt unfulfilled. He tried to recall the other two women. Deborah. Jane. Young. Perfect skin. Blonde streaks in Deborah’s brunette hair. Arms folded. Angry. Self-contained. The look of surprise. Dragging her into the van. Then that knowledge, the awareness that she was going under. She surrendered.

  He still didn’t feel finished. He thought back to the other woman from earlier in the week, the one he had dragged into the alley. He didn’t know her name. He tried to use that, but the memory was no good. It hadn’t been right. Too spontaneous. Just another woman. He thought he was past that.

  He stared up at the Artex ceiling. Daylight had spread across it now. He could see a spider in the corner, winding its silver tracks. He thought he could hear it, soft shuffles across the paintwork, but then as he concentrated, he realised it was something else. Faint murmurs. The whispers that came to him when he was unfulfilled.

  He looked down. His hands were gripping the sheets, his knuckles white. He wasn’t going into work today. It wouldn’t matter any more after today. He knew who he wanted. He was missing one last piece. The need that screamed to him when everything else was quiet.

  His thoughts flashed back to the night before. Not even the fear in her eyes was enough to satisfy him. That was just a taster, and it had been a mistake. He hadn’t thought it through.

  He threw back the covers. He needed more. He wouldn’t be distracted.

  As the thought of his target for the day came to him, he smiled and felt himself grow hard. But no, not yet. Don’t dampen the fire.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Jack woke up filled with determination, the emails fresh in his mind. Once again, Laura had come home after he’d gone to bed, and left before he’d woken up.

  He showered, dressed and headed into Blackley. He drove straight to where Jane Roberts had been found. The drive helped to clear his head, the roof down on the Stag, the wind ruffling his hair, almost like a gentle massage.

  When he got there, he saw that the crime scene tape was limp, the light breeze from the night before gone, so that the loose end trailed into the shrubs and weeds. The sound of his car door seemed to echo in the trees as he climbed out and wandered towards the patch of ground where Jane had been found. It had been trampled by the boots of the police, the greenery moved to one side, all the bark and branches from around her body collected and taken away. The area around was uneven and thick with leaves, large twigs and ivy trails that snagged at his feet as he walked. Jane’s killer had chosen a difficult place to leave the body, a place where the chances of falling and hurting himself were high. It would only take a small piece of DNA, like a splash of blood on a leaf, to make any case easier to prove against him. The ground was hard, so it would have been very difficult to bury the body. And of course the killer didn’t even try to do that.

  He looked around. The location was just so ordinary, and in such public view. Jane’s killer would have been spotted if someone had looked out. So why here?

  He looked along the path that disappeared into the trees. There was a woman further along, a small terrier trotting in front of her. She was bending down, a plastic bag over her hand, picking up the dog’s mess.

  As Jack looked along the path, he saw that it pulled to the right just as it disappeared into the shroud of trees. It suddenly struck him that Don Roberts’ house was only a few hundred yards to the right and there was a fair chance that the path may end up near there.

  But it wasn’t just that. It was the woman with the dog, who was now walking past quickly, her head down. Don Roberts had a dog. He remembered its snarl from Don’s visit. Did Don use this path?

  Jack scrambled back up to the path and started to walk along it. The sunlight disappeared as the shade of the trees took over and it became slightly cooler. The floating pollen was suddenly replaced by the buzz and flicks of midges and flies.

  The path started off as tarmac and then turned into gravel as it followed the line of the stream. The small copse turned into woodland, with large sycamores and horse chestnut blotting out the noise from the nearby road, and so all he could hear was the trickle of the stream and the sing song of the birds in the trees, the peace broken only by the steady crunch of his shoes.

  He stopped when he thought he heard something behind him, or saw something, just at the edge of his vision, but when he looked around there was no one there. He tried not to think about what had happened near here a few days ago.

  As Jack looked ahead, he saw the trees thinning out, and the bright red of new bricks started to appear in the gaps between the trees. He began to walk quicker. His guess had been right.

  He jogged the last part, fast crunches on the gravel as he went up a small rise and then onto tarmac again, his feet stopping before a grass verge. He looked along the road and smiled. There it was, the home of Don Roberts, with its pillars and its cars. He looked back along the path. The shadows had taken hold again, the path made dark and quiet by the trees. He turned back to the road. It didn’t deviate too far from the path. Jane had been going out for the night on her own, and Jack knew that she would have taken the road; she wouldn’t have wanted to go into the pub with dog shit and gravel dust on her shoes. Then Jack thought of the first murder. Deborah Corley. Her body had been left hanging out of a pipe that protruded from a grass bank next to a reservoir. He thought about that loca
tion. Why had it been chosen? Jack reasoned that Jane Roberts had been left near where she was attacked, because it was near where she had walked, but Deborah Corley was different. She had last been seen walking from her college, along a quiet road that would have taken her straight home. It wasn’t near the reservoir.

  He started off down the path again, rushed back to his car and clambered in, breathless. He headed for the ring road, shooting past the car showrooms and electrical superstores that lined the dual carriageway. Once he turned off though, the neon lights and traffic noise soon faded, as the road climbed upwards towards the tall green banks of the reservoir. Overspill pipes jutted out, water dribbling gently into small concrete gulleys that ran towards the river.

  It seemed a strange place to leave a body, because it involved effort. The sides of the reservoir were exposed, and as Jack parked and then climbed the concrete steps that took him to the top of the banking, he looked back and saw the stream of traffic on the ring road. It would be so easy to be seen. He looked along the water, lapping gently against the banks. There were some people fishing on the opposite side, reminding Jack that it was anglers who had found the body.

  As Jack watched the fishing lines break the surface, the bright floats bobbing in the water, something niggled at him, a memory, something almost within reach. He thought back to the dog walker he had seen before, close to Don’s house. It linked in with that somehow.

  Then it came to him. When he had visited Mike Corley, there had been a bait box in the hallway, a fishing rod against the wall.

  Jane and Deborah had been left in those places for another reason. He shivered. It meant that their deaths were more than just sex murders. They were acts of revenge. The path through the woods was the obvious place for Don to walk his dog, and so when he did, he was meant to find his decomposing daughter, perhaps sniffed out by his dog. Mike was a fisherman, and had probably fished at the reservoir. Perhaps it was his favourite spot. Jane and Deborah weren’t meant to be found by a bunch of mischievous kids or anglers. They were supposed to be discovered by their fathers.