by Jane Isaac
‘That could explain the Latin,’ Nick said scooping up another slice of pizza. ‘Didn’t he get parole?’
‘No. He refused to engage with the prison system, apart from education. Wouldn’t entertain the question of parole or coming out on licence and being monitored. He served his full sentences for both the attempted murder, and the actual bodily harm that he committed while inside. When he was finally released, the prison found him the discharge address we’ve been given.’
‘What about his probation officer?’
‘They last saw him at the address we visited three weeks ago. Said he was a good client, seemed to be settling down to life outside prison, searching for work, showed no signs of reoffending.’
‘An address he no longer uses.’ Nick cursed under his breath. ‘Somebody must know where he is. What about Gina Ingram?’
‘Gina’s pretty sure Yates was the guy that visited the house last week under the pretence of examining her electricity meter,’ Beth said. ‘I’ve checked with the electricity company and they haven’t been doing any audits in the area.’
‘So we think he took the keys to the garage and the car when he visited?’
‘Gina left him alone for a short time. The Ingrams were at their solicitor’s on Wednesday. If he was watching their movements, he could have taken his chance to slip in and take the car without them noticing.’
‘I thought forensics had combed the house and the garage?’ Nick said.
‘He’s no fool. He probably wore gloves, took precautions.’
The clouded look on Nick’s face matched the mood of the office. ‘Okay, where does that leave us?’
‘It leaves us with a match,’ Beth said. ‘We believe Dale Yates took the car. He was a resident at Whitefield during the time when Ingram supported them and Moss was there, and was aggrieved after Jess’s death.’ A phone rang in the distance. Nick cast it an annoyed glance. ‘He had means, motive and opportunity,’ she added.
The crash of a phone into its cradle interrupted them. Pete stood, waving a scrap of paper as if it were a winning lottery ticket. ‘One of the intelligence sources has come up trumps. We’ve got an address, 132 St Peter’s House, Castle Way. He’s in the town centre, right under our noses!’
36
St Peter’s House was a flat-topped, three-storey block of flats, a stone’s throw from Northampton town centre. Beth climbed out of the car and looked at the whitewashed frontage, set back from the road behind open gardens laid to lawn. Officers tipped out of a tactical support van parked nearby. Another car had driven to the fire exit at the rear of building, ready to apprehend Yates if he tried to dash out the back.
An elderly woman was dragging a shopping trolley out of the entrance as Beth and Nick walked down the pathway. Her mouth dropped when Beth held up her badge.
Flat number 132 was on the ground floor. As soon as the support team were in place, Nick knocked. ‘Police! Open up or we’ll force the door.’
The shocked face of a woman peered out of a flat, further along the corridor. Nick sent an officer down to placate her and turned back to number 132. Another officer moved forward, swung back the battering ram and plunged it into the wood. The door quaked but stayed in place. He swung it back again. Another thump. The wood around the lock splintered. On the third attempt the door flew open and crashed back on to the wall of a gloomy hallway.
Beth scratched her neck as the support unit dashed in to check the area. Anyone who’d visited the Ingrams’ house or had recent contact with them was required to wear a Tyvek suit to avoid cross-contamination, and the material was itchy against her skin. As soon as the ‘all clear’ call came, she entered.
Four doors led off a narrow hallway. She strode past a bicycle leaning against the wall, glanced into a sitting room on one side, a bedroom and a bathroom on the other, and down into a small kitchen at the end. A coffee-stained mug sat on the drainer. She touched the kettle, the coldness permeating her rubber gloves. Nick searched the kitchen drawers at random, looking for a clue as to where Yates might have gone.
The babble of a television seeped through the walls from the flat next door. They walked into the sitting room, which overlooked the gardens at the front of the block. Beth bent down to view a framed photograph on a small table beside the sofa. The couple in the picture were in their teens. His arm was folded protectively around her shoulder. The colour was faded and there were fold lines running across the photo at angles. A redheaded girl that looked like Jess and a boy with dark features. Dale Yates? The boy was tall and slim with a mop of hair that trailed into his eyes. Very different to the prison release photo she’d seen of Yates, with his cropped hair and stocky build.
Back in the hallway, the rear mudguard of the bike was caked with dried mud. Brown wheel tracks ran along the carpet. She recalled the webcam of the driver at the Brampton Halt exit of the Brampton Valley Way, and the cyclist he almost collided with on the night of Stuart Ingram’s murder. It had been wet. Brampton Valley Way would have been accessible by bike, but it would have been muddy, dirty.
‘We’ll need to get this seized and forensically tested,’ Nick said, guessing her thoughts.
Inside the bathroom, the white shower curtain was tinged with an orange skirt. Toothpaste spilt out the top of a tube, on the sink; a well-used toothbrush rested beside it. The next room was the bedroom. A navy duvet was pulled messily across a single bed shoved up against the far wall. A chest of drawers beside it doubled up as a bedside table. The same beige carpet, darkened with years of grime, ran throughout the flat.
Beth eyed a copy of Papillon pressed open on top of the chest of drawers. Yates’s last prison governor said he’d taken a degree in classics and had shown a keen interest in music and literature.
The top drawer rattled on its runners as Beth pulled it back and nudged the clothes aside. She could hear Nick’s voice in the hallway, barking orders. She moved down to the next drawer and the next, checking each systematically. Apart from the photo in the sitting room and Yates’s meagre clothing selection, there was nothing in the flat that was personal. No pictures or mirrors on the walls. No ornaments or clocks. Was that because he hadn’t been there long enough, or because it was only temporary accommodation?
She knelt down and inspected the empty space beneath the bed and turned to see a pair of boots at the doorway.
‘How’s it going?’ Nick said.
‘There’s something wrong.’
‘I’ve just spoken to Freeman. He’s getting a public appeal out this afternoon with the prison photo. His clothes are still here. There’s milk in the fridge. I doubt he’ll have gone far.’
Beth sat back on her heels, barely listening to his words. ‘It’s too clean. If our theories are correct, Yates has killed three people. These were well-planned, organised murders. The killer knew his victims’ whereabouts, their habits. They all lived in different areas of the county. There are no maps, no indications of research, no photos to suggest he’s been watching them.’
‘Perhaps he used a phone to record his research and kept it on him. Or maybe there’s a laptop or tablet he’s storing elsewhere.’
‘How was he supposed to get over to Moss’s house on that bike in the hallway? It’s got to be at least twenty-five miles away.’
‘He could have another means of transport.’
‘That’s a lot of expensive equipment for someone out of work.’
‘We don’t know what his connections are. The flat is tenanted by a Ben Morgan, somebody he did time with at Bedford. We’re still trying to trace him, but Yates wouldn’t be the first to pick up cheap gear.’
A cackle of laughter sounded from next door. Beth tilted her head. ‘Somebody doesn’t seem too bothered by our presence.’
They both moved out into the corridor. Beth knocked twice at the neighbouring flat. A muffled voice from inside called, ‘Come in!’ She tried the handle. It was unlocked.
The layout mirrored that of Yates’s flat. Beth called out h
ello. The doors down the hallway were closed, making it dark and dingy, apart from a slice of light from what she guessed was the sitting room. The chatter of a TV game show filtered out.
‘In here.’
Beth pushed the door open. The television instantly grew louder. In the corner of the room, facing the TV, an elderly man sat in an armchair. His face was sallow, eyes bloodshot. An oxygen mask covered his nose and mouth.
They held up their cards and introduced themselves.
The man adjusted the blanket covering his legs and pointed at a remote control on the floor. ‘Could you turn the television down?’ There was a rasp to his voice.
Nick bent down, picked up the remote and pressed a button. The sound sunk to a whisper.
‘Thank you. It slipped off the edge of the chair. I couldn’t reach it.’ The man pulled down his oxygen mask. ‘What’s going on?’
‘We’re looking for your neighbour,’ Beth said. ‘He doesn’t appear to be home.’
‘Why?’ He gasped a breath and leaned back against the headrest. The oxygen mask snapped back into place.
Beth ignored the question.
‘How long have you lived here, Mr…?’
‘Tunstall. Kevin Tunstall. Over twenty years. My wife—’ he glanced across at a photograph of an elderly woman on the mantel ‘—Nellie, she passed away, two years ago.’
‘How well do you know your neighbour?’ Nick asked.
‘Dale? He’s been here about three months. Nice lad. Pops in every now and again for a chat. Does my shopping occasionally.’
‘What about the other man, the one who was there before?’ Nick said, referring to the tenant.
‘Never saw them. Dale’s the first one that’s bothered with me.’
‘Do you know where Dale is today?’
‘I’m his neighbour not his mother. He comes and goes as he pleases.’
‘Do you have a mobile number for him?’
‘No.’
Beth rubbed the back of her neck. A mobile number would enable them to site the phone when it was switched on and trace Yates’s location. ‘Can you tell us when you last saw him?’ she asked.
‘Yesterday. Around ten in the morning. The carers had finished their visit. He was off out, asked me if I wanted anything.’
‘And did you?’
‘A packet of ciggies. You can’t see them, can you?’
Beth met Nick’s eyes for a second. The last thing he needed was a cigarette.
‘Bloody carers. I bet they’ve hidden them again.’
‘I’m not sure you should be smoking with that mask,’ Nick said.
Kevin huffed. ‘The cancer’s already eating up my lungs. Can’t see it’ll make any difference.’
‘Any idea where Dale might have gone?’ Beth asked, trying to steer the conversation back on track.
Kevin didn’t look up. He moved things about on his side table, lifting magazines, a box of tissues, cups, in search of his cigarettes.
‘Has he talked about friends nearby, places that he visits?’
‘Dale never talks about himself,’ Kevin said. ‘He watches the TV. He’s always recommending those crime dramas. I’m not keen. I like my game shows. Got to keep the brain active.’ He continued to scrabble around on the side table, moving aside a newspaper, some envelopes, a wallet. It was astonishing how much stuff could be stored in the small area.
‘How often do your carers come in?’ Beth asked.
‘Four times a day. They never stay long.’
‘Don’t they do your shopping for you?’
‘Yes, but they go to Sainsbury’s in town. I prefer Tesco coffee. And Dale gets me my ciggies.’
Beth frowned. ‘That’s quite a trek. The nearest Tesco must be fifteen minutes away by bike.’
‘I let him use my car.’
‘You have a car?’
‘An old Nissan Primera. Bought it over twenty years ago and it’s still going strong.’ The nostalgic smile on his face fell. ‘Haven’t used it in six months now, not since the lungs got bad. Can’t bring myself to sell it though. Too many memories. If it does him a turn, all well and good. No point in it sitting in the garage, seizing up.’
Beth flicked open her notebook. ‘What’s the registration number, Mr Tunstall?’
He reeled it off. ‘I rent one of the garages on Wilton Street.’ He looked from one detective to another. ‘Has something happened? I’d hate for it to be damaged.’
‘Not that we’re aware of,’ Beth said. ‘But we would like to check on it. Do you have a key for the garage?’
‘Dale has it. It’s with the car key.’ He wheezed and coughed. ‘Should be a spare on the rack in the kitchen.’
37
It only took a minute or so to pass through the traffic and reach the bank of garages on Wilton Street. Nick still had his phone glued to his ear, passing on the registration number of the Nissan Primera, requesting an urgent county-wide trace, as Beth parked up. He gave their location and cut the call.
Officers piled out of a van nearby. Half of the tactical support team had joined them from St Peter’s House. Nick wasn’t taking any chances. If the killer was there, he might be armed.
Boots clattered the paving. Wilton Street garages were tucked away from the main road, two lines of blue doors facing each other. The back of the music studio on Evelyn Street blocked one end; there was only one way in, one way out.
Number twelve was situated at the end of the row, beside the wall. Paint flaked off the front, revealing hints of the different colours it had been decorated over the years. Graffiti covered the surrounding brickwork, letters mishmashed together in a bubble that didn’t mean much to the untrained eye. All was quiet. It was 2 p.m. on a Tuesday afternoon, most of the nearby residents at work. Nick slotted the key into the lock and turned the handle.
The door clattered and folded back to reveal a dingy open space. No sign of Yates, or the car. Nick reported their find to the office, repeating the priority of the county-wide search. Kevin had said nobody else had access to the garage. If they could trace the car, Yates might be nearby.
Beth peered inside. The three walls of the garage were covered in photos, news clippings and maps.
To her left, the edges of the breeze-blocked wall were barely visible, plastered with photos of Stuart Ingram, taken from a variety of different angles. Stuart standing on a stage, pointing at the camera, making a speech, Gina in a red trouser suit at his side. Stuart in his car, outside his house; another of him walking into work at the estate agents. She moved along to find press reports of the sexual harassment and possession of indecent images charges printed out from the Internet. A still of someone climbing out of a car, a blanket covering his head. Later photos, taken from a distance, recorded Stuart’s deterioration over the past twelve months: thinning hair, gaunt face, weight loss from his once wide girth. A map with a piece of string zigzagged between points, marking Stuart’s home, the bowls club and the takeaway at Rothwell.
Here was the planning that was missing from the flat.
The far wall concentrated on Richard Moss. Photos of Moss outside a post office, waiting in a bus queue, at the pub – all recording Moss’s sorry life. She ran her eyes over another map with yet more string. Below were bloody pictures of Moss’s crumpled and battered body in his front room at Scotter Walk.
The final wall was more graphic and less ordered. Pictures of a blood-splattered Harry Underwood overlapped with earlier photos of him walking up the road to his mother’s house, standing in the window of his home, visiting the supermarket.
‘Whoa!’ Nick spun around.
‘Some of these were taken over a year ago,’ Beth said, pointing at the photo of Stuart Ingram making a speech. ‘He’s organised. Systematic. Focused. And he’s clearly been planning this for a long time.’
Nick crouched down in the corner. ‘Beth, you need to see this.’ She followed his eyeline and gasped. Scattered among the curled photos and notes were pictures of her: bidding g
oodbye to Gina on the Ingrams’ doorstep in Hay Close, standing on the steps outside Olive Underwood’s house with Karen Taylor. Another of her crossing the station car park with Nick by her side.
‘I don’t like this,’ Nick said.
An icy chill skittered down her spine. ‘He’s following the investigation. Watching our movements, gauging where we are in the inquiry. Keeping one step ahead.’
38
It was inordinately hot in Gina Ingram’s front room, in spite of the cruel wind whistling down the side of the house. Beth suspected Isla had turned the heating up to maximum. Not surprising, considering Gina’s bloodshot eyes and waif-like frame; she looked as though she’d dropped a stone this past week, a stone she could ill afford to lose.
Tension tightened between Beth’s shoulder blades. They had a prime suspect. They knew his name, his age, his history. They even knew his vital statistics, his eye colour. The only thing they didn’t know was the most crucial piece of information: where he was right now.
Back at the office, colleagues were busy preparing yet another public appeal. This time they were using a name. Would that make a difference? She hoped so, although Yates might be using a false identity. Patrol cars were scouring the area, looking for him, the cameras on hyper-alert for sightings of the car. All the usual checks were fruitless: he hadn’t attended recent benefit meetings, hadn’t used his bank account in weeks. They were going through prison records, locating everyone he’d shared cells with or formed an alliance with on the inside, but so far nobody was talking and they’d been unable to trace Ben Morgan, the tenant of the flat at St Peter’s House. Yates had linked the victims, knowing that sooner or later detectives would follow the trail and make the connection to Whitefield’s, and he’d already devised his backup plan, intent on finishing what he’d started.
The photos on Yates’s murder wall bothered her, especially as Gina featured in some of the pictures with her husband. Yates knew where Gina lived; he’d been inside her house. Stuart was clearly in his sights. But Gina had been connected to Whitefield’s too, albeit for a short time, which made her a potential target, and his presence, out there somewhere, left Beth with serious concerns for Gina’s safety.