by Sally Rigby
Whitney and Matt drove to Whitworth Street, which was in an older part of the city. They parked outside the small, terraced house where Keane lived, and walked up the path. Whitney rang the bell several times, but there was no answer. She was about to try the Yale key on his set of keys when she heard a sound behind them.
‘What are you doing?’ A tall but stooping, slim, grey-haired woman in her late sixties came up the path, glowering at them.
‘I’m DCI Walker.’ Whitney pulled out her warrant card and showed it. ‘Do you live here?’
‘Yes.’
‘And your name is?’
‘Beryl Murphy.’
If she was connected to the victim, she didn’t want to have a conversation outside. ‘May we come in? We’d like to talk to you about Kelvin Keane.’
‘What’s the little shit done now?’
‘I’d rather we spoke inside,’ Whitney said.
The woman pulled out a set of keys from her coat pocket and opened the door. They followed her inside. The house smelt musty.
‘This way,’ Murphy said.
They followed her into a small lounge. The furniture looked like it came from the seventies. A brown Draylon three-piece suite, centred on the television. There were no photos or pictures on the walls. On the shelf over the electric fire, looking out of place compared with the rest of the room, was a small, antique, gold carriage clock.
Whitney and Matt sat on the sofa and Beryl on one of the chairs.
‘Is Kelvin your son?’
‘Stepson. His father died fifteen years ago. Leaving me nothing, apart from this house and his son to look after.’
Whitney drew in a breath. Usually she mentally prepared herself before delivering news of this nature, but she hadn’t had the time. ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you, we found Kelvin’s body earlier today.’
‘Dead?’ Her green eyes widened as she stared at Whitney.
‘Yes.’
‘What happened?’
‘We’re treating his death as suspicious. We found him by the disused rail track in Cross Street. His body had been mutilated.’
‘Like the other man? Russell Atkins. It was on the telly.’
Should she mention the grooming? It would move things along much quicker if she did.
‘Yes. We suspect the deaths might be linked to online grooming of young girls.’
‘Not again.’ The woman shook her head and slumped in the chair.
‘He’s done something like this before?’ As far as she knew, there was no record of this, or Ellie would’ve highlighted it.
‘Not Kelvin. His father. He was a window cleaner until he got badly beaten up by one of his customers for putting his hand up the skirt of the man’s twelve-year-old daughter. He couldn’t work after that.’
‘Was your husband charged for what he’d done?’
‘Thankfully, no. It was bad enough me knowing what he’d done, without the neighbours finding out.’
‘Please could we take a look at Kelvin’s room?’
‘Upstairs, first room on the left.’
Whitney and Matt left the lounge and headed upstairs. They went into Kelvin’s bedroom. Like the rest of the place, it was dingy. His laptop was open on a small white table under the window. She pulled on some disposable gloves and opened the top drawer of his bedside cabinet. Inside she found creased photos of young, naked girls. ‘Dirty bastard,’ she muttered under her breath.
She dropped them into evidence bags.
After taking everything they thought would be useful, they went back to the lounge where Beryl was sitting, staring into space.
‘We’ve taken some items from his room for our forensic team to analyse. Our scenes of crimes unit will need to go over the house. I’ll arrange for them to come by soon.’
The woman shrugged. ‘Do I have to be here?’
‘To let them in. After that you can leave. We’ll also need you to formally identify Kelvin’s body. I’ll send a car to pick you up while SOCO are here, if you like?’
‘Yes, I’d like to do it then.’
‘I’m sorry for your loss.’
‘Don’t be. I’m not.’
Whitney stared at her. Did she mean it? It certainly appeared so. She might change her mind once it properly hit her.
The clock above the fire chimed. ‘Lovely clock,’ she said.
‘A present from a previous employer.’
‘That was very kind of them.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘One more question. You were married to Kelvin’s father, yet you go by Murphy?’
‘I went back to my maiden name after he died. Didn’t want people to associate me with him.’ She sneered. ‘Have we finished?’
‘Yes. We’ll see ourselves out. I’ll be in touch and let you know when my officer will pick you up.’
They went back to the car. ‘No love lost there,’ Matt said as Whitney pulled out into the road.
‘It doesn’t seem like it. But it could just be her way. Finding out her stepson was the same as his father would be hard to take.’
‘Unless she already knew he was like that. She didn’t seem surprised. Look at those photos he kept in his drawer. They were hardly well hidden. She could’ve found them as easily as we did,’ Matt said.
‘True.’
When they got back to the station, Whitney dropped off the laptop with the digital forensic unit. Once they were in the incident room, she copied the photos and sent the originals off to forensics. She pinned the photos on the board, underneath the second victim.
‘Doug, what have you found out about Keane?’ Whitney asked as she went over to his desk. The detective was staring at his computer screen.
‘He’s single. Aged thirty-five. Works as a campus security officer at the university. He’s been there for three years. No criminal record. Nothing else to tell you.’
‘Go to the university and speak to the head of security. See if there’s anything else you can find out about him.’
‘Ellie, what’s on his phone?’
‘He rarely texted anyone, and when he did, it was mainly for work. But he does have the SnapMate app on there.’
‘Can you get into it?’
‘No problem,’ Ellie said as she pressed several keys. ‘He left himself logged in.’
Whitney peered over her shoulder at the opened app.
‘Can you download and identify all the young girls he’s had conversations with?’
‘Yes. Leave it with me.’
‘We’re looking for any red flags. Assuming he was lured to meeting someone, we’d expect to see details of it somewhere. Have you looked at his emails yet?’
‘There are very few in his inbox, and nothing remotely incriminating. He doesn’t have any other chat apps on his phone, so I expect all his conversations took place on SnapMate.’
Whitney paced the room. What was she missing? Both victims used the app. Both victims were mutilated. Both victims… She stopped dead in her tracks.
‘Why Lenchester?’ she asked, not to anyone in particular. ‘Both victims come from Lenchester? Doesn’t that strike you as odd?’
‘What do you mean, guv?’ Ellie asked.
‘This is an international site. So teens could be chatting with anyone from any area. So how come our killer managed to find two men from Lenchester?’
Ellie smiled. ‘You haven’t connected with anyone online, I take it.’
Whitney frowned. ‘No. Why?’
‘Because you can put in the preferred location of people you want to get to know. It’s no good trying to find someone to meet up with if they live two hundred miles away.’
Whitney rolled her eyes. How come she hadn’t known? It was obvious after Ellie had pointed it out. Would she ever go online to find someone? She doubted it. She didn’t have time for dating or getting to know someone as a friend. She had enough on her plate with worrying about her mum and Rob and looking after Tiffany. Not to mention work. These days, she barely
had time to sleep. No. It definitely wasn’t for her.
‘So, it would be easy to pick off men from Lenchester. Which means either the killer comes from around here or has some link with the place.’
She went over to the board and wrote “Lenchester”.
While she was staring at the board, her phone rang. She pulled it out of her pocket.
‘Walker.’
‘Hi, it’s Becky, from Radio Lenchester.’
‘Hey. How are you?’
Whitney and Becky Ellis went back a long way. Over ten years, in fact, when Becky first joined the radio station as a researcher and helped Whitney out on a baby abduction case. Well, she didn’t actually help, and talking with Becky had got Whitney into trouble and sent her in the wrong direction on the case she was working on. But they’d crossed paths several times since, and they’d helped each other out when they could.
‘Very well, thanks. I’ve been promoted to head of the newsroom.’
‘Congratulations, I’m really pleased for you. How can I help? I take it you’re not phoning just to tell me about your promotion.’
‘No. An anonymous letter has been sent to me, here at work. You’ll want to see it. It’s allegedly from the murderer of Russell Atkins. Only they mention another victim. Has there been a second victim we don’t know about?’
They’d hardly had time to process the death and already it was out in the public domain. Talk about not making her job easy. She rolled her eyes towards the ceiling.
‘I can’t say anything at the moment.’ She winced at the pathetic fob off she was giving to the woman.
‘You mean there has?’ Becky said.
‘Leave the letter where it is. Don’t handle it any more. I’m coming to see you.’ She deliberately evaded the question. Well, for now.
Chapter Fourteen
Becky met Whitney in the reception area of the radio station, and they took the stairs to the first floor. The building was modern, and the walls were full of posters of presenters, old and new. This was the first time Whitney had been in there, as in the past she’d met Becky outside, in a café. She often listened to Radio Lenchester and especially liked the afternoon presenter, who made her laugh.
‘Where are the studios?’ she asked.
‘Behind reception. I’ll show you on the way out, if you like?’
‘Thanks. I’ve never been in one before.’
‘They’re nothing fancy. A desk with a mic and a computer screen. The letter’s in my office.’ They turned left at the top of the stairs into a large room. ‘This is where the sales team sit.’ She gestured to a block of six desks, all empty apart from one, where a man was talking on the phone.
‘It’s very quiet in here,’ Whitney said.
‘They’re mostly out visiting clients, selling advertising.’
They walked into another open plan office, which was as noisy as the sales office was quiet. There were TV screens on both walls and several people sitting at computers. ‘This is the newsroom. Where it all happens. I’m over there.’
Whitney followed Becky over to a small room and closed the door behind them.
‘The letter?’ Whitney asked.
‘On my desk.’
She pulled on some disposable gloves. ‘Who opened it?’
‘I did, as it was addressed to the head of news.’
‘We’ll need to take your fingerprints so we can eliminate them. The envelope will have gone through the postal system so will have many prints on it, but there’s a good chance the letter will only have yours and the person who sent it.’
‘Unless they wore gloves,’ Becky said.
‘Yes. Which is likely. Then again, sometimes people slip up. Even a fragment of a print can be enough to give us an identification.’
Whitney read it aloud:
Dear Head of News,
I’m writing to you because I want everyone to know justice is being served. I will not tolerate men who prey on young girls for sex.
My mission in life is to ensure all young girls grow up to be happy women without having desperate memories dragging them down and ruining their lives.
We have our priorities all wrong in this country. We care more about crimes against property than we do about crimes against the person. We hear time and time again about rape victims not reporting their attacks because of the ordeal they are put through by the police.
Men like Russell Atkins get away with what they do to young girls because their victims are afraid to say anything. Well, they don’t need to say anything, because I will make sure they don’t do it again. The wheel is come full circle: I am here.
Atkins was my first. There has also been a second.
Beware all men in Lenchester who believe it’s okay to prey on young girls.
I’m coming for you.
Whitney pulled out an evidence bag and placed the letter and envelope into it.
‘It looks like we have a serial killer,’ Becky said.
‘Strictly speaking, no. To be classed as a serial killer we require three bodies, not murdered at the same time.’
‘But if this letter is correct, you have two so far, and the murderer indicates there will be more.’
‘True. Have you copied this letter?’
‘I took a photograph of it on my phone.’ Becky averted her gaze.
‘I know it’s tempting, but I don’t want you to publicise it.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because we’d be playing into the murderer’s hands. We don’t want the public to take their side. She…’
‘You think it’s a she?’
Whitney could’ve kicked herself. She hadn’t meant to tell her. She’d grown to trust Becky over the years, but this letter made such a good news story, it would put their ratings through the roof, especially as they’d be the first to carry it. It would certainly attract national interest, which wasn’t something Whitney wanted.
‘We don’t know yet. We’ve been putting together a profile, and it certainly points that way. But if we want the public’s help in catching them, releasing this letter won’t assist us, as they’d have zero sympathy for the victims.’
‘What about if we sit on it for a few days and then reassess?’
Whitney couldn’t prevent her from releasing it, so it was probably the best she could hope for.
‘Okay. But please don’t do anything without first speaking to me. I don’t want the investigation jeopardised.’
‘It’s a deal,’ Becky said, smiling. ‘Now, how about we go to the studios? You can watch a programme being broadcast.’
She was sure spending an extra ten minutes there wouldn’t make any difference, so she agreed and followed Becky downstairs and through the double door behind reception to where the studios were. There were three doors, each with a light above it, two of which showed red.
‘The red lights mean someone is in there. Either broadcasting live or recording a programme or news items.’
Whitney’s phone rang. She glanced at the screen. It was her mum. ‘Sorry, I need to get this. Hello, Mum. I’m a bit busy at the moment. Is it urgent?’
‘I can’t find my handbag,’ the panicked voice replied.
‘Why do you need it? Are you going out?’
‘I want to go to the shops. I think it’s been stolen.’
Whitney sighed. She couldn’t leave her mum on her own, trying to find the bag which was bound to be somewhere she wouldn’t think of, like the fridge. The other week, her mum was convinced her keys had been stolen, and Whitney found them in the biscuit barrel. It was only by chance she’d even checked there.
‘Give me twenty minutes. I’m sure you’ve just put it somewhere. We’ll find it. Don’t worry.’
‘Okay. When will you be here?’
‘In twenty minutes. I’ve got to go. See you soon.’
‘Problem?’ Becky asked.
‘My mum’s not doing so well. Early onset dementia. It seems to be getting worse.’ She bit down on her bot
tom lip, determined to stop the tears which threatened to spill.
‘I totally understand. My nan lived with us from when I was young. She got Alzheimer’s. It was so upsetting to watch her when she became really bad.’
‘It’s not easy. It looks like I’ll have to give visiting the studios a miss.’
‘Next time you’re here, we’ll take a look.’
‘Thanks.’
Whitney left the station and drove to her mum’s house.
What was she going to do?
The social worker’s words came flooding back to her. It seemed the decision was being made for her. If her mum couldn’t look after herself, then no way could she look after Rob. Tears spilled down her cheeks. How the hell was she going to explain to them both they could no longer live there? It would be worse for Rob because he needed to feel safe. He hated any change or upheaval.
She expected her mum would soon get used to living in a care facility. She’d probably enjoy being with other people. Plus, if the dementia got worse, it wouldn’t matter where she was because it wouldn’t mean anything.
She gave a loud sniff and brushed away the tears with the back of her hand. One step at a time. It was how she’d always done things. How she’d raised a daughter on her own. She’d survived that and would survive this, too. She’d find the missing handbag and then get back to work.
It took less time than she’d anticipated to reach her mum’s because the traffic wasn’t as heavy as usual. She parked on the road and hurried up the path and knocked.
Her mum used to have a rule about not letting yourself in, even though she had a key. Whitney was never sure why. Was her mum going to be engaged in some activity she didn’t want her to see? It had been the rule for years. But nowadays, Whitney was flexible over when she stuck to it.
There was no answer, so she knocked again, then let herself in, rationalising she was in a hurry and there was no guarantee her mum had heard.
‘Mum, it’s me,’ she called out as she closed the front door behind her.
She grimaced at the dust on the hall table and promised herself she’d come around and do some cleaning soon. Perhaps Tiffany would help. The place was in dire need of a going over. Although it had only been a few days since she was last there, somehow it seemed even dirtier than before.