His insistence gave his voice some of its old character and Charlotte knew that she would get no further information from him unless she went. She also knew there was no way a police car was pulling up outside the house again – there had been several since she reported Marcus missing and she was fed up of the sight of them.
‘No, no, I’ll make my own way,’ she replied firmly.
She had left the house within a minute of putting the phone down.
*
She had the sensation of déjà vu as she sat opposite DC Handley in the same tiny office they had occupied three weeks previously. Two plastic beakers of coffee were sitting on the desk between them, positioned – it seemed to her – in exactly the same places as before. The only noticeable difference was the size of the file Handley had in front of him.
He looked grim and dog-tired with large dark bags below his bloodshot eyes and a distinct stubble on his chin. His suit was rumpled and his shirt was creased. Charlotte sat, hands clasped in her lap, and waited silently for him to begin.
He flipped through the file in front of him for a while then looked up at her, his expression a disconcerting mix of sympathetic half-smile and harsh, hard stare.
‘Mrs Travers,’ he began, ‘I need to show you some items – please tell me if you recognise them.’
Charlotte felt a deep sense of foreboding in her stomach. If the police suspected these items were Marcus’ then they must believe they had found him, and since they were asking her to identify them then he was clearly in no position to identify them himself.
‘Are they Marcus’?’ she asked, knowing it was an obvious question with an obvious answer.
Handley duly supplied the obvious answer: ‘They may be, we don’t know, which is why I need you to see if you recognise them.’
He then took a series of pictures from the file and placed them on the desk, facing Charlotte. At first, she simply glanced over them, apparently not really taking them in and more intent on getting some answers from DC Handley.
‘You think you’ve found him? Is he alive? Where do you think he is?’ she asked. She had a long list of another 15 or so questions queueing up behind these ones.
‘No Mrs Handley, we haven’t found him, so I still can’t say for certain whether he is alive or not.’ Charlotte made to interrupt but Handley forestalled her with a raised hand. ‘We are assuming he is still alive at this time, and I need to inform you that due to certain developments since we last spoke our efforts to find your husband have now taken on a more urgent nature. Since last night it has become imperative that we find him.’
Charlotte remembered the previous night and Agatha’s warning that she felt the police were interested in Marcus for reasons other than simply finding him. She had also picked up on DC Handley’s tone and demeanour. Something very serious was going on, she realised.
She continued looking at Handley, deliberately not looking down at the photographs, and took a moment to compose her thoughts. After a few seconds she spoke: ‘DC Handley, I need you to explain to me exactly what is happening. You say you haven’t found Marcus and yet believe you have some of his belongings. You say it is now imperative that you find him from which I can only infer that you now believe he is involved in something serious.’
She paused, then continued, speaking slowly and quietly but with real authority in her voice: ‘Tell me everything that you think is happening and what you think Marcus’ involvement is or I will refuse to help you.’
Handley held her gaze without flinching but Charlotte didn’t relent and it was he who dropped his eyes first. A small but hollow victory, she thought. But she needed Handley to be open with her, not to feel guarded and under threat. Noticing she had tensed and was sitting forward in her seat, elbows on the table, she made herself relax and then dropped her gaze slightly. As she sat back, she morphed the confrontational aggression on her face into a more bewildered, confused expression. Handley visibly responded – she saw his shoulders relax a little and some tension leave his face. He believed he was in control of the situation again, she thought, smiling inwardly. So easily managed, DC Handley, she thought, and you don’t even know I’m doing it.
Handley rubbed his huge hands over the stubble on his cheeks, looked down at the file on the desk and then up at the junction of wall and ceiling above Charlotte’s head, one hand coming to rest on his chin. He stayed that way for nearly a minute, during which Charlotte neither spoke nor moved.
He eventually appeared to come to some sort of conclusion and turned his gaze back to Charlotte.
‘Ok, Mrs Travers,’ he began, his voice emphasising his obvious exhaustion. ‘I will take you through everything I can, in as much detail as I can. But –’ he stabbed at the photos once with an audible thump as his finger hit the desk – ‘you must first look at these images and tell me if any of the objects in them belong to Marcus.’
‘Yes, they do,’ Charlotte replied without looking down.
Handley looked at her for a second and blinked. ‘Mrs Travers, you haven’t looked at them – please, I need you to be sure.’
‘I don’t need to look at them again, DC Handley. I saw enough earlier. The watch is definitely Marcus’, the small nick in the strap is enough to tell me that. The wallet has a small blob of blue paint in the corner there, you see?’ She pointed to a tiny spot on the wallet in the picture. ‘It’s a splash of paint that Melissa got on it one day when they were painting together. Marcus refused to wash it off. A little reminder of his little monkey, he called it. Surely if you found the wallet you must have found cards or a driver’s licence, DC Handley? You wouldn’t need me to identify it. And, finally, although I couldn’t say for sure it’s his, I think that’s the tie Marcus was wearing the day he disappeared.’
A tear had escaped and rolled down her cheek as she described the small details – and the memories associated with them – that told her that these were her husband’s belongings.
‘The wallet was empty,’ Handley said after clearing his throat, demonstrating his inability to deal with her emotions. ‘That was quite a remarkable piece of observation, Mrs Travers.’
Charlotte wiped the tear from her cheek, nodded her response and then looked directly into Handley’s eyes. ‘Now,’ she said, the earlier steel back in her voice. ‘For the second time of asking, what the fuck is going on, DC Handley?’
To Charlotte’s satisfaction, Handley visibly caved; there would be no need to ‘manage’ the information out of him now. She would get the full story.
‘This is not going to be easy to hear, Mrs Travers, and I can think of no way to put this that would soften the blow. Your husband is now our prime suspect for the murder of Julia Metcalfe, and we would like to talk to him regarding up to 15 other murders dating back over 10 years now – some in the UK, others in Belgium.’
A profound silence and stillness pervaded the small room where they sat. Charlotte felt as though she had suddenly become totally deaf. The silence seemed to spill out of the room and encompass the larger open-plan office outside. She found she could no longer hear the sounds of phones ringing and people talking – all of which had been very obvious, but ignored, before and were now gone as if a switch had been thrown and turned the world to mute. She stared at DC Handley, mouth agape, head shaking slightly, brow creased, finding she couldn’t form a single word never mind a coherent sentence.
‘This must be a huge shock, Mrs Travers. I realise it’s not something you ever expected to hear but I am afraid it is the fact of the matter at this time.’
To Charlotte it sounded as though Handley were under water or speaking through thick glass. Eventually his words sunk in and she formed an appropriate response.
‘Julia Metcalfe?’ she asked, her voice flat and emotionless. ‘I take it that is the Julia from the notes?’
‘Yes,’ Handley said. ‘I found her last night at a property in Essex. She had been dead for some time, certainly a number of weeks. She was murdered and the only other per
son we can find evidence of at the property where she was found is your husband.’
‘What – his watch and wallet?’ Charlotte asked, a little more life now entering her voice with her incredulity. ‘You once suspected they had run off together. That could still be the case. Maybe they were robbed or attacked or whatever. He could be somewhere nearby, hurt or…or...’ She couldn’t finish the sentence.
‘No, Mrs Travers, we don’t believe so.’ Handley was deliberately keeping his voice low and quiet. ‘There is no evidence that your husband was attacked at the property, only Julia Metcalfe. What we did find were the items in front of you and fingerprints all over the property that match those of your husband that we took the other day. We are still waiting on results from some other samples taken from there, but we are confident they will also match your husband’s.’
‘So, what do you think happened?’ Charlotte asked, still clearly not taking in the enormity of Handley’s accusations.
‘Again, we don’t really know exactly,’ Handley replied. ‘It would seem that there was a fight, as such, and Ms Metcalfe was stabbed – we presume, by your husband. Beyond that … only he can tell us. Which is why it is extremely important that we find him. Mrs Travers, is there anywhere you can think of that your husband would have headed for? Anywhere he might feel safe or able to hide?’
‘God no, if I did you would’ve known by now. Detective Handley, I can’t quite take all this in. You think Marcus killed Julia?’ Handley nodded and Charlotte continued, ‘But why? And… and… you mentioned, what, 15 other murders? This is just insane. Where on Earth has that come from? It’s like you’ve just conjured the most insane nightmare and landed it on my door. You can’t seriously believe any of this is true, can you? I mean, Marcus? You’re trying to tell me he’s some sort of serial killer? This is… is… it’s just…’
Disbelief and terror combined to raise Charlotte’s voice to almost hysterical levels. She drew deep, wracking, breaths as she gripped the table. Nothing made sense and she had nothing else she could say to Handley. Instead she tried to calm her breathing and wait for him to respond. Maybe if she could calm herself, she thought, she could make sense of all of this.
Handley realised that unless he got through the rest of it they were going to go nowhere. He needed to tell her as much as he could without her interrupting; she needed the story and the evidence as they saw it for her to be of any use to them. And most importantly, she needed to be calm.
Requesting that she not interrupt him, he outlined the developments in The Charmer case, the Belgian connection and the fact that Marcus was potentially connected to these crimes.
When he had finished, Charlotte looked even more incredulous.
Giving a short bark of a laugh, she said, ‘This is ridiculous. As before, Detective Handley, where is your evidence? I’m no lawyer but I’m pretty sure you can’t arrest somebody for being near a crime scene, whilst they are at work!’
‘Look, Mrs Travers,’ Handley said firmly. ‘I needed you in here to identify the possessions we found at the scene of a murder. You’ve confirmed that they belong to your husband. Whilst that does not necessarily mean he is the murderer, it does mean that unless we find evidence that someone else was at that property, he is most definitely a suspect for the murder of Julia Metcalfe. As to the other murders, well, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. But it is now vital that we find him. I have told you all of this out of courtesy, you understand? I am forewarning you of what is to come.’
Charlotte’s earlier indignation subsided – it did sound likely that Marcus was involved in a murder in some way, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to believe it of the man. She needed time to let this sink in, needed to give herself the opportunity to decide what it all actually meant – and more to the point, whether she could believe that Marcus was indeed a killer.
‘I don’t know what to say, Detective Handley, this is one hell of a shock,’ she said, her voice expressing her confusion and concern.
‘I realise that, Mrs Travers, and sincerely you have my sympathy. I would not want to have that news delivered to me about a loved one. All I would ask is that you continue to think and try and remember any further details, no matter how small, that might allow us to locate your husband.’
‘I will, DC Handley,’ Charlotte said quietly, ‘although I’ve told you all I can already, I’m afraid.’
She rose to leave. There was nothing more to say and feeling numb, dazed and confused she allowed DC Handley to escort her back down the now familiar route to the exit.
Handley paused for a moment, watching her retreating back through the main door of the police station.
‘Poor cow,’ he muttered, as he turned and headed back to his desk.
‘07
It was over. The Charmer case files would be boxed and stored in the archive warehouse. The case would be reviewed periodically but as of that afternoon it would be listed as ‘unsolved’.
DCI Fran Pearson had felt sick when he received the news from his Super, news couched in a number of platitudes and praise for his work and dedication.
‘Look Fran,’ his boss had said. ‘You’ve done all you can on this. No one’s doubting your effort or your methods – they’ve both been sound as ever – but there is only so much resource and money that can be spared. The case will be reviewed again, I promise. But until then, it’s off your books, ok?’
Pearson had accepted it with a mute nod and immediately left the station, heading straight for the nearest bar. This was London and so within less than 10 minutes he was sitting with a pint and a whisky chaser, staring down at the table and trying, unsuccessfully, not to grind his teeth. He had smoked a cigarette on the way there but already wanted another one. Downing the whisky, he headed outside.
As he dragged viciously on his cigarette, he tried to decide what he felt – anger, certainly, with regret, hopelessness and sorrow all shuffling around vying for attention and space in his mind. He was angry at his superiors for pulling the case but couldn’t blame them really. He was furious with himself for not making any progress. He knew he was being brutal with himself, though. He had made some progress, just nowhere near enough. He felt hopeless faced with the lack of clear evidence or even any idea as to a motive for the killings. He had engaged one of the top criminal psychologists in the country and although he had been helpful his findings amounted to the lump sum of zero in terms of the investigation. And then there was the sorrow he felt for the victims and their families. There would still be no justice for them. And, finally, the regrets were too numerous to mention with the one obvious one being his inability to catch the killer.
Stubbing out his cigarette, he rejoined his drink inside, ordering another whisky before taking his seat. Looking into the dark surface of the beer he tried to run every last detail of the investigation through his mind, trying to spot the one piece of information that would unlock the whole case. But it had been three years and while every major detail remained etched in his mind, many of the small and so often significant details were lost to him now. Three years, he thought, Christ I should have got him!
He knew, deep down, that with what they had there was little chance they would catch the killer. For the last year they had been relying on luck rather than judgement. As every line of enquiry had proved to be a dead end and the list of potential leads had continued to grow rather than shrink, it was clear that what they needed was for the killer to slip up and get himself arrested for something else. They needed, in other words, a lucky break … but it hadn’t come. Still he pushed on, arguing his case at every review meeting and pushing for more men and more resources, while continuing to assert that they were close and if only…
If only what? If only they had a crystal ball? If only the killer had seen the film Seven and decided to walk into the station and announce himself? The thoughts ground bitterly round the inside of his skull. If only they had any clue as to the identity of this man or where to start looki
ng or who to concentrate on. But they didn’t, they had nothing. He had failed and he now had no arguments left, nothing more to give his superiors to make them change their mind.
He ordered another round and as he drank, he felt his mood shift from anger and disappointment into a maudlin depression. The faces of the victims – all 15 of them – ran across his vision. He now knew many of them so well that it felt like he had known them when they were alive – rather than merely reading about their doings and business, and ultimately their fates, in file reports. All of them were young women with much to live for. It was the loss of their futures he felt the most: their potential to go far or the children they would never have and see grow – all of that lost on the crazy whim of a sick bastard with a grudge.
There was nothing more to be done, he thought sadly, but that didn’t mean he would do nothing. He would not forget this case – he would hold it in his head every day he was at work and if anything ever seemed relevant or looked remotely like it might be connected he would demand the case be reviewed and re-opened. He would not forget those women or their families. He would bring them the head of the man responsible for the wrecking of their lives.
He left the bar then with a new-found resolve. This was one baton he wouldn’t be passing on. If anyone was going to catch this bastard it would be him. It might take the rest of his career, but he would be the officer that put the Charmer in a cell.
‘One day,’ he said quietly as he left the bar behind.
Chapter Seventeen
The following morning, Handley knocked nervously on DCS Pearson’s office door. He had never been in the Super’s office, had never been to these heady heights of the station. He felt like a cat, secure in his own back garden domain, suddenly being thrown into a tiger’s enclosure.
Stop being stupid, he thought, you’ve got all the information you need to be able to hold your own – just get on with it. Pearson called for him to enter and with that final thought in his head he swiftly turned the handle and entered the office.
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