Shadow of the Beast

by Michael Fowler

  Her stomach emptied. For some strange reason she felt scared and vulnerable and quickly glanced all around. Except for her the car park was empty. ‘Jack why are you ringing me?’

  ‘I just wanted to talk.’

  Taking a deep breath, she answered, ‘Well I don’t. You and I are through. You shouldn’t be ringing me. You’ve already been warned for harassment.’

  ‘I just wanted to tell you I’m sorry.’ He paused and then said, ‘And I wanted to tell you I’ve lost my job.’

  ‘Well you’ve told me. Now I’m going hang up and I don’t want you ringing me again.’

  ‘I want some money from the house.’

  That scared feeling disappeared as soon as he finished his sentence, replaced by one of anger, ‘You are fucking joking! That’s my house.’

  ‘It’s our house! We were married.’

  ‘No Jack, it was my house. My grandmother left me that house in her will. You’re not having one penny from it. Now leave me alone Jack, or I promise, I will make a complaint against you.’

  There was a few seconds quiet and then he said, ‘This is not finished Dawn.’

  Viperously she spat back, ‘Last warning Jack.’

  Another instant of stillness followed and then he said, ‘How’s Michael by the way. You’re to blame for his accident you know Dawn.’ Then the call ended.

  Suddenly a sick sensation engulfed her and she tightened her hand around her mobile as if she was squeezing the life out of it. Reaching for the car door she couldn’t help but look back over her shoulder with an element of fear.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  DAY THIRTEEN

  Dawn sat her desk staring at her scrawl in her journal. She must have looked at it at least a dozen times since she had penned it last night. It had taken her some time to get her head around what her ex-husband, Jack, had said on the phone, but it boiled down to one thing in her mind, he was the bastard who had mown Michael down. As soon as he’d ended the call she knew she had to record what he had said while it was still fresh in her mind, and she’d sat in her car, in the shadowy play of the interior light, writing up the conversation verbatim. As she read it back now, she knew that on its own this was not sufficient evidence to prove that Jack had tried to kill Michael, but if she could find proof then she could send him to damnation. She picked up her mobile and dialled the number of her former Detective Sergeant, John Reid, back in her home town of Stirling – she needed assistance from someone in Scotland and he was as good and reliable as anyone she knew.

  He answered almost immediately. ‘Good Morning Dawn, or should I say Detective Superintendent Leggate?’

  She caught the hint of friendly sarcasm in his husky Scottish brogue, and she could just picture him taking her call with one foot up on the corner of his desk, like he annoyingly always did, running a hand through his dark unruly hair; his appearance reminded her of Barry Newstead, but his skills as a detective reminded her of Hunter and that was why she needed his help.

  ‘Morning John, how are things up there?’

  ‘Not half as good as what’s happening down where you are. I’ve seen you on television the last couple of nights – quite a celebrity you’ve become since you went and joined the Sassenachs.’

  ‘Now, now, jealousy doesn’t become you John Reid.’

  He let out a hearty laugh. ‘I’m guessing this is not a courtesy call boss, are you needing my help to solve things down there?’

  ‘Funny you should say that.’

  There was a pause as if her response had taken him aback. A second later he replied, ‘Are there links with your investigation up here then?’

  ‘Not with the case you’ve seen on the telly but there is something I need some help with.’

  ‘What tells me this is something I’m going to find too tempting to resist.’

  It was her turn to give a short laugh. Then, composing herself she said, ‘What I’m going to ask you to do John is a little sensitive, but it is important and I need it done on the QT for the moment. Are you okay with that?’

  ‘As long as I can quote you if it goes belly up?’

  ‘It’s not that dodgy. It’s just a little enquiry I need doing.’

  ‘Now where have I heard that before?’

  She sniggered, ‘Still the same John Reid – didn’t nickname you Mac the knife for nothing.’

  ‘Go on boss I’m listening.’

  She told him about Michael’s accident, the enquiries which were getting nowhere and then last night’s phone call from her ex.’

  He let out a whistle. ‘I can see now why you said the word sensitive.’

  ‘He’s already embarrassed me once with his stalking and he was given a warning for that, so if I make this official, and it’s nothing to do with him, it could blow up in my face and he could accuse me of harassing him. Michael’s accident has been all over the news, and in the papers and on the internet so he could have got hold of the information that way…’

  John Reid interrupted, ‘But you don’t think so?’

  ‘No I don’t. It was the way he said it. My instinct is that he tried to kill Michael because he’s with me.’

  ‘So what do you want me to do?’

  ‘The last address I had for Jack was that bimbo’s who he was shagging from work. But the car he had when we split up was a black Peugeot, which doesn’t fit the description of the car that hit Michael. The car that knocked Michael down was a grey or silver saloon. What I’m asking you to do is to do a drive past his house and see if he owns a grey or silver car.’

  ‘And if he does?’

  ‘Then I’ll reappraise what I need to do.’

  ‘Consider it done.’

  ‘Thank you John.’

  ‘No problem. And it’s good to hear from you again.’

  ‘Good to hear your voice again.’

  ‘Hey, and if you ever need a good DS’

  ‘Got one, thank you. Far better.’

  He burst out laughing, ‘You can still cut a man down Dawn Leggate.’ He paused and ended the call with, ‘I’ll get back to you as soon as I have anything.’

  Her mood lifted, she stared at her phone for a few seconds before setting it down next to her journal. Now it was time to do her day job.

  * * *

  The human remains they had unearthed from Braithwaite’s cellar were in a poor state. Doctor Anna Wilson had determined that the skeleton was that of a young woman aged between eighteen and twenty-five, and was between five foot three and five foot six inches in height. Death was as a result of strangulation. Buried with the body, crumpled, dirt-ridden, and damp, were a short yellow and black tartan skirt, a 1970s round collar, yellow blouse, and a red and black tank top, together with white bra and blue knickers. The fact that these were thrown in beside her meant that she had been buried naked. What was distinctive about the body was that her two upper front teeth were larger than her others, and had a gap between them, meaning they would have been visible when she smiled; this was something they were using as a key factor in the checks against missing persons. What they hadn’t found was her shoes or any personal possessions. The possibility was that these had been taken as trophies.

  That morning at briefing, Dawn Leggate was making it a priority to identify her. What she was also prioritising was the search for Terrence Arthur Braithwaite. The last sighting of him was in York city centre, where they lost him after he took a side road away from the busy outdoor market. The forensic team working at his home, and at the address of his latest victim Eric Wheelhouse, had very little to show for their examination. His neighbour’s bungalow was in such a state that it would be the best part of a week before anything would be known. At Braithwaite’s house, he had scrubbed down every flat surface with bleach and removed any documents with his name on them. There was nothing to indicate he had ever owned a computer or mobile phone and therefore the only way they had of tracing any contact he had with anyone was through his home phone records. They were still ploughing their
way through CCTV evidence from his last sighting in York. By far the most significant thing they had uncovered was the two witness sightings they had of Braithwaite with blonde haired females – one with a young girl on the night he murdered Glynis Young, and the second on the night when he abducted and murdered Lesley Jane Warren. She was working on the assumption that these two females were one and the same person, though the team had no idea who she was.

  Finishing the briefing, she put in a phone call to the Crime Scene Manager overseeing the forensic excavation of Braithwaite’s 1970s home on Chapel Street. Duncan Wroe informed her that they had just unearthed the first signs of another body beneath the cellar, and she ended the call without any further questions, snatched up her coat and car keys and left the office to join him.

  * * *

  Hunter spent the morning at his father’s gym, using the punch bag to get rid of some his frustration and then he did some sparring work with a couple of new protégés that had joined his dad’s boxing stable. By the time he’d finished he was blowing hard and exhausted. Finishing off with sit-ups, he took a shower and then joined his dad in the office for a mug of tea. His dad asked him how things were going and he was about to answer when his mobile rang. It was Dawn Leggate. He signalled to his dad to give him a moment and answered the phone.

  ‘Afternoon boss.’

  ‘Afternoon Hunter, I’m the bearer of good news.’

  ‘I’m reinstated?’

  ‘Yes. You and Barry. I’ve just had the call from Professional Standards. It’s like I said, I’ve got to give you both suitable words of advice, and you’ve got to go on some refresher training on informant handling, but the main thing is you’re both back at work tomorrow. I want you in bright and early to catch up with where we’re at, and then you and Grace have got some enquiries to do to see if we can find Braithwaite. You okay with that?’

  ‘Sure boss, thanks.’

  ‘You won’t be thanking me when this job’s over and I heap a pile of shite on you as punishment.’

  Hunter punched the air as the call ended. It just felt as if the hod-load of bricks he had been carrying these past few days had been taken off his shoulders.

  * * *

  Dawn scooped up her most urgent paperwork and shoved it into her bag, her idea being that she would visit Michael in the hospital, and then go through it all back at home over a glass of wine and something to eat before going to bed. Zipping up her bag and slinging it over her shoulder, she gave her office the once over, turned off the light, closed the door and headed down the corridor to the MIT office to check all was quiet there. Entering, she was surprised to find Grace hunkered over her desk, a ream of papers scattered in front of her.

  Grace turned her head at the sound of the doors opening, ‘Evening boss.’

  ‘I didn’t expect you to still be here.’

  ‘I’m just finishing off some paperwork. It’s piled up these last few days.’

  It suddenly dawned on her that Grace was picking up Hunter’s workload as well as her own. She said, ‘How’re you coping without that partner of yours.’

  ‘Okay. Bit of a strain though. Any sign that he’ll be back soon?’

  ‘Strange you should say that. I chatted with him earlier and gave him the good news. You’ll be pleased to hear he’ll be back in the morning. Professional standards have deemed that he’s not in any way to blame for death of his informant and, though they are still investigating the allegation of assault against Braithwaite, given that he’s now done a runner that’s been put on the back burner. So, yes he’s back.’

  Grace smiled, ‘That’s good. In fact, now you’ve told me that I’m going to put this lot back in his tray for him to deal with.’ She let out a laugh as she gathered up the loose papers.

  Dawn let her bag slip down her arm and set it on Graces desk. Straight-faced she said, ‘Can I ask you something Grace?’

  Taking on a puzzled look Grace replied, ‘Sure boss.’

  ‘Terrence Braithwaite. Do you think I missed something? I’m not worried about him doing his disappearing act, but just going back to when we started doing his background checks and especially your conversation with Gordon Jennings – when he told you about the symbols and paintings in Braithwaite’s old cellar. With hindsight I should have requested the excavation of his house sooner? At least that way we would have had him in custody and not on the run having murdered another innocent person.’

  Grace seemed to think about the question for a few seconds before responding. ‘To be honest boss we can all say that with hindsight we would have done things differently. You made a call which you thought was right at the time. We’ve got there in the end. And as you’re asking I don’t think detectives back then got it wrong. Think about the circumstances. Back then Braithwaite was seen as a rapist. As far as they were aware Glynis Young was killed after he was disturbed attacking her. And her body was dumped in the woods with no attempt to conceal it. The hallmarks of the rapes, the murder of Glynis Young and these murder victims are different. There was nothing at the time to suggest that he had killed before that incident with Glynis Young, and also, back then, there were no links to prostitutes or missing girls. The bodies we’ve now found in the cellar at his old house are because of our recent knowledge.’ Shaking her head Grace added, ‘You’ve not missed anything boss.’

  Dawn picked her bag back up. ‘Thank you for that Grace. You know, even with my years of experience, you get doubts whether you have got it right or not. I appreciate that.’ Turning to leave she said, ‘Now you dump all that work back on Hunter’s desk and get yourself off to that family of yours.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  DAY FOURTEEN

  ‘We’re still waiting the outcome of DNA to confirm it but it looks like our first victim in the cellar is that of twenty-five-year-old Wendy Lomas from Harehills, in Leeds,’ said Hunter glancing at the top of the print-out on his desk.

  ‘You’ve got up to speed pretty quick,’ interjected Dawn Leggate.

  Hunter gave a half smile. ‘I got in early boss.’ He had been in since 7a.m. and the office where the HOLMES team were based had been his first port of call before he’d even put the kettle on. The digital facsimile of Wendy Lomas’s Missing from Home report was displayed on the screen of one of the operators and Hunter had instantly asked for a copy to be printed off. In the quiet of the MIT room, before the team had started to drift in and congratulate him on his return, he had read the document carefully, and by the time he had finished he was in no doubt this was the woman forensics had found two days ago in Braithwaite’s cellar. He continued, ‘It’s the HOLMES team we have to thank. They’ve done the work. The description of the clothing, though, and the victim’s teeth made the identification easier.’

  Dawn Leggate looked back at the incident board where photographs of the recent remains dug up from the cellar of 16 Chapel Street were affixed alongside those of Ann Marie Banks and Lesley Jane Warren as well as latest victim Eric Wheelhouse. ‘So what do we know about her Hunter?’

  ‘Wendy Lomas was reported missing on the twenty-eighth of October, nineteen-seventy, by her partner Thomas Whitehead. She had a son, Peter, who was then aged six and she was working as a prostitute.’ He watched some of the team raise their eyebrows at his announcement. ‘She hadn’t been working the streets long – six months. Apparently her partner had got a badly broken leg playing Sunday morning football in the January of that year, which he wasn’t insured for, and he was self-employed, so they went behind with their mortgage and were threatened with eviction. It seems that she told him she’d got a job working in a bar but in fact she went on the streets. Her partner had no idea. Thomas actually reported her missing in the early hours after she’d failed to come home, but because of the policy at that time and the fact that she was a prostitute, nothing was done to find her until he reported her missing a second time in the afternoon of the following day.’

  ‘And by that time it was too late.’ She spoke with an edge of
frustration.

  ‘To be fair boss she was probably dead by the time he reported her the first time.’

  ‘Nevertheless, if things had been different back then – if we hadn’t been so hung up about prostitutes – treating them like low-life – we might have prevented a lot of them being killed…’ She stopped herself ‘…Sorry Hunter I’m digressing. Whinge over. Carry on.’

  ‘According to the report Wendy used her car – a Ford Escort mk1to pick up her punters. She used to park up near Leeds railway station and ply her trade around there, and in a couple of pubs nearby – mainly picking up businessmen, and then she’d drive to a cheap hotel on the edge of Leeds, do the business and then drop them back off. Police did check the hotel where she was a regular, and where she was also well known to the night porter, but she never used the hotel on the evening she disappeared, though her car was found abandoned in a side road near the railway station.’

  ‘So what are we thinking? That Braithwaite and his mysterious female accomplice lured and abducted Wendy in Leeds or that for some reason she jumped on a train to Barnwell where she met Braithwaite and then ended up in his cellar – dead?’

  ‘Well, we know that there’s a direct train from Leeds to Barnwell, and we know from Gordon Jennings that during the Ripper era prostitutes came to Barnwell to do business here, but this is a decade before Peter Sutcliffe’s reign. If you ask me I think what happened to Wendy was very similar to what happened to Ann Marie and Lesley – that more than likely she was picked up and lured back here, or abducted and killed somewhere and then her body was brought back here. My guess is that somewhere along the line, Braithwaite has a link to Leeds.’

  Dawn eyed her team, ‘Though it’s not really relevant, I want to see if that is the case, okay?’ She saw a few of her detectives nodding.

  ‘Anything else Hunter?’

  He shook his head. ‘No. The rest of the report focuses on the extended search for her, and a media appeal, and of course her partner was interviewed a couple of times as a suspect – his alibi was that he was babysitting their son and he’d recently had a second op on his leg so his mobility wasn’t good. I have tried to see if there is a contact number or an address, so I can speak with him, because he apparently moved a couple of years after her disappearance.’