by M J Lee
To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
It was strange to hear these words delivered in the tones of a girl whose voice was not yet mature, but he felt that for the first time he understood their meaning. English lit. had never been his passion at school. Nothing had been his passion. After his father’s death, his mother had pushed him, always pushed him to do better, not to let his father down.
But he couldn’t remember his father. His face was clouding in the mists of the past: there but unreachable, untouchable. Vague and unformed. He wished he could remember more but he couldn’t, no matter how hard he tried. The memories he did have were of his mother’s words, of her paying for tutors to help him pass maths. God, was he hopeless at maths. And her delight when he got into university.
It was as if all her hopes and dreams for life were vested in him and his sister, with none left over for herself.
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.–Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember’d.
She finished and there was silence. Then the clapping began. Eve was at the front of the stage now, taking a bow, his pink T-shirt bowing with her.
He looked across at his wife; a single tear had dropped onto her cheek. Not a teacher’s tear on seeing a pupil do well, but a mother’s tear of pride.
Now was probably not a good time to tell her he would be away down south tomorrow, visiting a serial killer in a maximum security prison.
Was there ever a good time for that sort of news?
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
At the police station, Sarah set about creating a new information wall in the incident room. She pasted up pictures of the victim, adding the photofit image when it arrived.
For her, the photofit was worse than useless: a picture of a bald man wearing a hoodie. It looked like half the scallies in Manchester and all of them in Salford. If they published it in the papers, they would be getting thousands of phone calls, none of them useful
Back at her desk, she logged on to her computer and checked out Tony Seagram as she had promised Ridpath.
There was nothing recent on the files. He seemed to be squeaky clean, worked for Granada in their special reporting team. Had produced and written a couple of hard-hitting documentaries, one of which was sharply critical of the lack of police action against financial crimes. Not married and with no current girlfriend, he lived in the middle of the Northern Quarter. There were no outstanding warrants, not even a speeding ticket.
The man seemed to be a paragon of virtue.
‘Too good to be true,’ she said aloud.
‘You’re looking at my Facebook profile,’ said Alan from the desk opposite.
‘Not a cat in hell’s chance. Your profile would be too bad to be believed.’
‘You know me too well, Detective Sergeant Castle.’
She returned to computer screen, deciding to go further back.
Bingo.
She called up an arrest sheet for August 2007. Seagram was charged with assaulting a woman, an ex-girlfriend, punching her twice during an argument. She checked the rest of the file. Apparently the case never went to court as the woman dropped all charges. Had Seagram put pressure on her? Or was she so frightened of him she couldn’t face him in court?
Was this significant? She didn’t know, but she was sure Ridpath would love to hear about it.
For the next 15 minutes she checked out Tony Seagram, but the incident in 2007 seemed to be his only arrest. She sent the charge sheet to the printer so she could give it to Ridpath later, even though after that business with the case files, he wasn’t in her good books.
She tidied up her inbox, logged in her hours and her movements, before finally checking her mail for the fourth time to see if there was anything from Charlie Whitworth.
Nothing.
The files from the 2008 investigation were sitting on her computer desktop. Glancing over her shoulder to make sure nobody was watching, she opened the first one and began reading. It was a transcript of an interview with James Dalbey on 10 March. It must have been the first interview after he was arrested and brought back to the station. The time was 6.30. They must have let him stew for five hours to unnerve him.
DCI GORMAN: This is Detective Chief Inspector John Gorman.
DI WHITWORTH: And this is Detective Inspector Charles Whitworth.
It was strange reading Charlie say his proper name, almost as if it was a different person. This was obviously before the police had rewarded their successful conclusion of the Dalbey case with promotion. What was the Peter principle? You get promoted to your level of incompetence – that was it. The lectures from her student days drifted back into her memory.
She carried on reading;
DCI GORMAN. The time is 6.30 and this interview is being conducted in Room 3 at Greater Manchester Police headquarters. I have a Mr James Dalbey sitting opposite me. Please confirm your name and date of birth.
DALBEY: What?
DCI GORMAN: Say your name and date of birth.
DALBEY: James Dalbey. 20 June 1963.
Whoever had transcribed the tapes was writing down everything. They must have been new to the job.
DCI GORMAN: Mr Dalbey, I have to remind you that you do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand? Please answer for the tape.
DALBEY: (mumbling)
DCI GORMAN: Please speak clearly.
DALBEY: (unclear)
DCI GORMAN: For the record, Mr Dalbey has nodded his head.
DCI GORMAN: James Dalbey, you have been charged with assaulting a police officer in the course of his duties. In legal terms, this is deemed aggravated assault and I have to warn you this offence carries a jail sentence of up to one year and a £50,000 fine.
DALBEY: I didn’t mean to do it. He was close to me and I don’t like it when people get too close to me.
DCI GORMAN: Sergeant Mungovan says you punched him, forcing him to fall backwards after he had stopped your van for a broken rear light. Sergeant Mungovan is now receiving treatment in hospital for a broken collarbone.
DALBEY: I didn’t mean to push him.
The interview carried on like this for another page, getting the details of the traffic stop. He had admitted pushing the police sergeant so he was screwed. She jumped ahead; Charlie Whitworth had started speaking for the first time.
DI WHITWORTH: Now, James. I can call you James, can I? Would you like some tea? Something else to drink? No? OK, well, I have something else to ask you. Take your time when you answer, but it is extremely important to tell us the truth. You know what the truth is, don’t you?
DALBEY: It’s telling it how it is.
Sarah smiled. They were double-teaming Dalbey. Gorman, the plain-speaking copper and Whitworth the friend who just wants to know the truth. Charlie Whitworth was playing the good cop; he must have hated that job.
DI WHITWORTH: Telling it how it is. Exactly. Now, James, can you tell us what you were doing between 4 and 8 p.m. on the night of 4 March?
DALBEY: I…I’m not sure.
DI WHITWORTH: Come on, James, you can remember. It was the night a girl was kidnapped.
DALBEY: I remember that night. It was sad. I loved Alice.
DI WHITWORTH: You knew her?
DALBEY: Yes, from church. She was in my Sunday school class.
DI WHITWORTH: So you’re telling us you knew Alice Seagram?
DCI GORMAN: Tell us what you were doing, D
albey. Did you murder Alice?
DALBEY: No…no…no…no…no… (tapping noises on the table)
DCI GORMAN: You killed Alice, didn’t you?
DALBEY: No…no…no…not me.
DCI GORMAN: You had the keys to the lock-up, where we found the other girl alive, Freda Scott.
DALBEY: He told me to go there, I didn’t know.
DCI GORMAN: You kidnapped Freda too, didn’t you? Admit it. We found you in the lock-up.
DALBEY: No…no…no…not me.
DI WHITWORTH: Tell us the truth, James. Did you take Alice to the lock-up too?
DALBEY: I can’t remember…can’t remember (tapping noises louder now).
DCI GORMAN: And the evening of 7 March, where were you between the hours of 4 and 8 p.m.?
DALBEY: (Tapping noises cease) At her house, where I went for my tea. We had sausage and chips and beans…my favourite.
DCI GORMAN: You were in her house that evening?
DALBEY: Yes. It’s a Friday. I always go to their house on Fridays for my tea.
(END OF INTERVIEW)
Whitworth and Gorman had closed the interview pretty quickly after this piece of information. They must have gone to check with the family. Suddenly their prime suspect was not a prime suspect any more. He had an alibi.
Sarah read this part of the interview again. It was something Dalbey had said. ‘He told me to go there.’ What did that mean? Who had told Dalbey to go there?
She glanced around the office. A few of the support staff were working but most of the detectives were down at the riverside with Whitworth. Nobody was looking at her. She inserted a thumb drive and copied the files. She would finish the rest of her reading at home.
Something wasn’t right about this case; there were too many inconsistencies and too many mistakes.
And then it struck her with the force of baseball bat. If James Dalbey was innocent, it would mean the real killer was still out there on the streets of Manchester.
He had been free for the last ten years.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
‘You made a mistake, Lesley.’
She was kneeling down in front of him, head bowed. He had drawn himself up to his full height, making himself tall, looming over her.
‘Errors are costly. They have consequences.’
‘I understand.’ She could feel the girls’ blood sticking to her knees. Black dank blood that seemed to flow up from the carpet, clinging to her legs.
They were in the workshop. She had received an urgent message from him telling her to come. But she already knew why.
The blanket.
He knew everything about the police investigation.
Everything.
Nothing escaped him. She couldn’t escape him now.
‘You should have told me.’
‘Yes.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I was frightened.’
‘Because you made a mistake?’
She nodded.
She felt his hand gently touch her forehead.
‘We all make mistakes, Lesley,’ he said softly. ‘It’s what makes us human.’
‘I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.’
‘I know it won’t happen again.’
He moved to one side to pick up the soldering iron from the top of the wooden table. ‘Mistakes will not be tolerated, Lesley, you know my rules.’
‘No.’
‘You don’t know my rules?’
‘No…I mean, yes…’ she stammered. ‘I mean, I know mistakes will not be tolerated.’
She saw the red-hot end of the soldering iron approach her face and hover in front of her nose, before moving slowly towards her eyes. She could see the bright red tip, a thrill of smoke drifting lazily off it.
She closed her eyes.
She could feel the heat from the end of the iron. She could smell the arid aroma of molten metal. She could hear the tingle of electricity through the wires.’
‘Would you like me to take your right eye out, Lesley? Would that be the correct punishment?’
She could feel the heat through her eyelids.
Must say the right thing. Must say the right thing.
‘It won’t happen again, I promise,’ she blurted out.
‘But you haven’t answered the question. Is losing an eye the correct punishment?’
The burning end of the soldering iron moved closer. For a second, she opened her eyes, seeing the red-hot tip burning brightly. ‘It’s the correct punishment. I made a mistake, I deserve to be punished.’
She closed her eyes tightly.
The heat of the soldering iron was moving closer, closer. She could feel it burning through her eyelids, searing into her eye.
‘I still have use for you. I still have use for your eyes.’
The heat moved away.
She opened her eyes. She could still see. He had spared her. A bright wave of emotion rushed through her body. A combination of fear, exaltation and sheer relief.
‘Roll up your sleeve and hold out your arm.’
She did as she was told.
Instantly, he stabbed the red-hot soldering iron into the soft crook of her elbow. The happiness of a second ago was replaced with a searing jolt of pain like 1,000 volts of electricity coursing through her body.
Then it stopped, to be replaced by nothing.
A vast emptiness.
Then the pain kicked in again. Burning, caustic pain. She could smell her skin frying, sizzling under the heat of the soldering iron.
‘There will be no more mistakes, Lesley. Is that clear?’
The pain eased and she cradled her right arm in her left.
‘No more mistakes.’
There would be no more errors. She would follow his instructions to the last letter, whatever the consequences.
He was the master and she the slave.
No more mistakes.
‘It’s time to go further, Lesley.’
‘I understand.’ She knew this was the right response. ‘When?’
‘When I tell you. But this time we must choose somebody who matters. These women …’ – she could hear the sneer in his voice – ‘these fallen women are beneath us, beneath our talents. We must find somebody more…difficult.’
‘Whatever you say, sir.’
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Sarah parked her car outside her house. She lived in Sale, a quiet suburb in Trafford, only 15 minutes’ drive from the station at that time of night. In the rush hour though it was a different story, taking more than 45 minutes on a good day.
The front garden was small, a postage stamp, but at least it had a few roses brought from home by her mum. Sarah occasionally watered them, but by and large they looked after themselves.
A bit like herself really.
She opened the front door and listened to the house.
All quiet.
It was a time she enjoyed – coming back to an empty house. Most people would have hated it, but for her it was a magic time. A time when, after she closed the door, she was in her own world, answering to nobody.
Her last girlfriend, Tina, she had kicked out a year ago. One of those women who had been doted on throughout their lives and expected exactly the same treatment from their girlfriends. Sod that for a game of soldiers. The request for breakfast in bed was met with a cold saucepan of baked beans being poured over her head. ‘Your breakfast is served, madam.’
Tina moved out half an hour later. Sarah had seen her at Sainsbury’s once since then, grocery shopping with a new girlfriend. There were no regrets; she hoped the new woman enjoyed her dual role as lover/maid.
She switched on the light. The kitchen was spotless, as it always was. An empty draining board. Clean breakfast table. Sparkling chrome fixtures.
Wine or cocoa?
She chose the latter, placing a saucepan of milk on the stove and getting the tin of Bournville out of the cupboard. She fetched her laptop from the living room as the milk
warmed up, booting it up as she walked back.
Three spoonsful of cocoa in the milk, she then whisked it until a froth began to form and the milk to foam. A big mug from the rack and she was set.
The laptop had finally booted up and she inserted the thumb drive in the port, moving the files onto her desktop.
Where should she start?
She opened up the report of the post-mortem on Alice Seagram.
The usual pro forma appeared on her screen.
One blow to the back of the head from a round, blunt instrument. She remembered later tests had matched the impact of the blow to the ball-peen hammer found in Dalbey’s van. That and a DNA match with Alice’s blood had clinched the case.
The rest of the autopsy was unsettling reading. Bruising to the legs and thighs. Sexual molestation with a blunt object, possibly the shaft of the hammer. Fingers broken on left hand. Swabs taken of fingernails. No evidence of strangulation. Eyeballs without any petechiae. Multiple stab wounds and the throat slit with a sharp knife. Finally, the body had been doused in sulphuric acid.
‘Why douse the body in acid?’ she asked herself. ‘To remove all DNA traces on the skin,’ she answered herself out loud. ‘But then, why leave a hammer with DNA on it?’
Sarah went back to the line ‘fingers broken’. What had the pathologist said at today’s crime scene? She tried to remember his exact words. ‘The index and middle finger of the left hand have been broken at the knuckle.’
Was that the link?
She opened up the medical report on Freda Scott, and quickly scanned it. The woman found alive in the lock-up had her left index finger broken too.
Why had nobody mentioned anything? Why hadn’t it been flagged up as part of the MO?
Strange.
She looked at the clock on the wall: 2.30. Somehow the cocoa had become cold. She thought about reheating it in the saucepan and carrying on with her reading of the files, but decided not to. Tomorrow was going to be a long day; she’d better get some sleep.