by Liz Mistry
Looking back at the case files from Jude Cameron’s death, Gus saw the trajectory the investigation took. After death by suicide had been ruled out, the police attention turned to Jimmy who immediately confessed, providing a detailed, largely unprompted statement detailing that he’d found Jude in the marital bed, high as a kite, with some punter from the docks. He said he tossed the punter out and strangled his wife. The punter, a sixteen-year-old lad called Mickey Heggarty confirmed Jimmy’s statement and, as they say, the rest was history. But not to Gus. Smiling, he sent two texts, one to Sadia, asking her to get her colleagues to locate Mickey Heggarty and the second to Compo asking him to obtain as much information about Mickey Heggarty as he could.
While not prepared to commit fully to Jimmy’s innocence, this was one avenue that might prove fruitful. What sixteen-year-old, caught with his pants down would contradict Jimmy Cameron’s statement? However, that sixteen-year-old was, if they could locate him, a grown man now and maybe, just maybe he could shed a little bit of light on what really happened that day in 1996.
Energised by the fact that possibly they might have a lead to follow, Gus opened up the files on Rory’s wife’s death. With the image of the nervous, quiet man that he’d seen that afternoon in his mind, Gus found it difficult to focus. He had real difficulty imagining him able to physically hoist his wife up to a hook on the ceiling. However, Rory was a diagnosed schizophrenic and, Dr Mara had intimated in their meeting earlier in the day, that she thought Rory’s mother would have been diagnosed similarly had she been born in a different decade. The similarity between Rory’s wife’s crime scene and Jude Cameron’s was marked. A hook, a rope, an upturned chair. Yet, there were differences, the main one being the very definite economic gulf between the two situations. While Jimmy’s home had been cheaply decorated and was a bit grubby round the edges, Helen and Rory Robertson had lived a more affluent life. Their home had been tastefully furnished with artworks, some of which appeared to be Rory’s own work, strategically displayed on the walls beneath carefully directed spotlights.
Not for the first time, Gus cursed the fact that the delay in digitising old case files meant that many similar files couldn’t be cross referenced. The similarity between these two scenes and the MO, despite being ten years apart, would have sent up flags all over the place nowadays. As it was, Gus wasn’t sure what to make of it. Rory had fallen to pieces on finding Helen; no doubt haunted by his memories of his mother’s death that had featured so prominently in his artwork. Already medicated for his condition, he could barely function. His confession wasn’t coerced, yet, it was accepted very readily. Would he have done the same? Despite liking to think he wouldn’t, Gus was aware that a confession from a viable suspect was any detective’s dream.
What Gus had to consider now was if the alternate scenario, laid out by Jimmy, blaming Ben for Helen’s death, was viable. There seemed little to go on and after hours poring over the crime scene images and the various statements, there was little to uphold Jimmy’s assertions. It was an absurd accusation for Jimmy to make. It seemed far-fetched to blame Ben for the murder of a woman neither he nor his father had actually met. But, then again, the killing mind was abhorrent and occasionally their thought processes did rely on far-fetched links. Despite his doubts, Gus tried to keep an open mind. Perhaps clarity would come when Fergus got back to him with his thoughts on the post-mortem evidence.
The final file was on John Cameron’s wife, Tracie. This murder had occurred after a long catalogue of instances of Jimmy stalking both of his sons and put him directly in the spotlight for this murder. After all, he’d been convicted of committing a similar one only a few years previously. Jimmy had broken down before Carlton and Gus could ask him about that, but Gus was interested. He suspected Jimmy would insist that Ben had committed this crime too. The fact that they could find neither of Jimmy’s sons was worrying and left various scenarios in play. Had Jimmy killed them too? Rolling his shoulders to release a crick in his neck, Gus exhaled and shut his laptop. Today had been far too long and far too emotionally charged. Slipping off his jeans, he flung himself onto his bed and allowed a troubled sleep to overtake him, with snippets of dreams where Jimmy and Rory worked together to hoist bodies onto a pulley before escaping by crawling through a dark tunnel.
Chapter 69
Scotland
The little quartet sat in the hotel breakfast room, each lost in their own thoughts, each sporting bluish bags under their eyes indicating their troubled sleep. Whirling thoughts buzzed in Gus’s mind and although he wanted to offer his mum some support, some comfort, he just couldn’t summon the energy to do so. He’d even sacrificed his usual morning jog because his limbs were so heavy.
Despite being used to operating on limited sleep, this was different. His energy levels were low where they should have been pumping through him, making him alert. In an attempt to manufacture some energy, Gus refilled his coffee cup for the fourth time, ignoring Corrine’s disapproving glance as he did so. Opposite him, Carlton also seemed lost in his own little world, as he methodically munched on honey covered toast, slurping coffee after each swallow.
‘What’s your thoughts, Prof?’ The question was uttered more in hope than expectation, for it seemed to Gus that Carlton was as bemused as he was.
As if surprised to see he wasn’t alone, Carlton blinked at them, pushed his glasses up his nose and, apparently reoriented, placed his cup back on the table before shaking his head. ‘I just have no idea, Gus. If pushed, at present, I’m inclined to think that, although misguided, Jimmy’s story could stand up. Of course it needs more investigation and…’ He placed his hand over Corrine’s and squeezed, as if reluctant to burst the bubble that had brought an I told you so smile to her face. ‘Definitely more concrete evidence and a range of analysis techniques and scrutiny from many experts.’
At the psychologist’s final words, Corrine’s expression had changed from flushed hope to pallid despair and Gus was relieved when his phone vibrated and he could leave the table to take the call.
‘Dad? You OK? Did you get a chance to look at the reports I sent you?’
His dad’s gruff familiar voice made Gus smile despite the desperation of the situation.
‘Aye, Angus Ah did. I won’t bore you wi the usual caveats about my opinion standing up in court and all that, but I’ll give you my impressions. First up, whoever strangled Jude Cameron, I doubt very much it was Jimmy – unless of course he has abnormally small hands for a male?’
Dr McGuire posed his last statement as a question and Gus brought up a mental image of Jimmy Cameron’s fists. They were big. Almost the same size as Gus’s dad’s hands – and strong enough to do ample damage to his own face. ‘Jimmy’s hands are about the same size as yours are, Dad – maybe even bigger.’
‘Hm, well that tells me that he definitely didn’t kill his wife. The measured hand spans documented in the PM report are just too small to be his.’ He paused, making a tut tut tut noise with his tongue as he thought. ‘I reckon that this never came up in court or in Jimmy’s defence because he confessed and was so insistent about his guilt that they closed the file. However, the fact that the hands that strangled Jude Cameron may have been child’s hands makes it difficult to link that murder with the ones of Helen Robertson and Tracie Cameron. Of course, we know poor Rory’s mum’s death was a suicide – poor tormented soul. However, what I can do is tell you that it’s conceivable that whoever strangled Helen and Tracie could be the same person and furthermore, that same person could be responsible for the current spate of strangulations in Bradford assuming the measurements taken from the bruising are consistent. I hope that helps you, laddie, but I’m going to hang up, now. Need to whisper sweet nothings to the woman of my dreams. See you later on today?’
And leaving Gus with a ‘yuck’ TMI feeling, Fergus McGuire hung up. The information he’d given Gus, although inconclusive in many respects, was certainly indicative that perhaps Jimmy was telling the truth … or
maybe only some semblance of it. About to head back to the table, his phone rang again. ‘Compo, have you got something for me?’
‘Yes, was just phoning to tell you I got what you wanted about Rory’s exhibition, I’ve just sent it to your laptop. You’re gonna want to check it out, boss.’
Despite the slight irritation at Compo’s gangster imitation, Gus thanked the younger man and diverted away from the table and back to his hotel room. He was eager to see what Compo had found. He was only halfway there when a text alert made him look at his phone screen. Talk of the devil.
Oops, boss, forgot to tell you, Jules regained consciousness but is still a bit out of it. Keeps waffling on about the killer staring at her from the attic – LOL!
Gus reread the text. Something niggled at the back of his mind. It was just out of reach and it annoyed him, then he remembered. His dream, the previous night had been his subconscious way of telling him this. Jules wasn’t raving – she was trying to give them a clue. Hitting speed dial, Gus breathed heavily and before Alice had even finished her breezy greeting, he said, ‘Jules is right. The bastard watches them, watches us, he sees every damn thing we’re doing. He loves it. He stays up in that attic space for hours, do you get it, Al?’
For a few seconds all he could hear was the sound of Alice’s breathing, then, ‘So, you’re suggesting that he … what? Hides in the attic after killing them? But that won’t work, Gus, how could he get out when we leave a uniformed officer there at the scene after we leave? And there’s no way he could have got past us before we searched the attic for forensics after Jules’s accident.’
Impatient that Alice couldn’t see what he could visualise so clearly, Gus ran his fingers through his dreads. ‘Fuck, Al. Keep up. He’s a ghost, isn’t he? The bastard has sussed that all those terraced houses have through running attics. Few terraces have full walls erected dividing off the attic space – this smart fucker accesses an attic further up or down the street and uses it to gain access and egress.’
Alice started to yell instructions to the team and Gus inhaled sharply. They had something to go on. Something more concrete than before. They were on his tail now and Gus was damned if the fucker would escape. No more deaths on my watch.
‘Gus, you still there?’ Without waiting for his reply, she continued, ‘I’ve sent teams to each of the three ritual crime scenes to check for likely access points. Good catch, Gus. We needed that. I’ll keep you updated.’
Wishing he was there with Alice to follow up on things, Gus marched to his room and downloaded the attachments Compo had sent. The first was a close up of Rory Robertson’s signature on the bottom of one of his paintings. As well as an ornate R with loops and curls, Rory had drawn a sprig of lavender under his name. Gus, heart pounding, was even more sure that things were coming together now, and he quickly opened the next attachment. It was an image of a group of paintings and Gus immediately realised they were the ones described by Jimmy the previous day. A long slender rectangular sketch was central to the grouping, immediately drawing the eyes to it. It was of a naked woman, her face and privates blurred in charcoal as if offering some degree of privacy. She hung from a rope, her hands gripping the rope and like Jimmy had described, it seemed that the image was in perpetual motion.
Around this was a series of often smaller more detailed close-up images of parts of the original drawing: her feet, toe nails painted red, a crumbly biscuit with a single bite taken from it and discarded just outside a pool of murky liquid, her hands grappling for the rope, the rope round her neck, bruises and welts present. In each of the drawings was a sprig of lavender and as Jimmy had said, the series was called The Torment of the Mind.
Sadness engulfed Gus as he studied the images. Rory at that point had had his entire life ahead of him. He had a girlfriend whom he would marry, and he very nearly had his own little family. Gus couldn’t work out if this study was an indication of Rory’s tormented mind or Rory’s mum’s. Was it a cry for help or a cathartic release? Selecting the final attachment, Gus settled down to read. This was a paragraph written by Rory in his catalogue of artworks submitted for his final degree show.
Torment of the Mind was the hardest and yet the most satisfying of all my degree work to complete. For many years, I smothered the memory, not only of my mother’s suicide, but of my mother. Thanks to my beautiful sister, Coco, I’ve been able to revisit this memory in all its pain and horror and confusion and, through these drawings I’ve paid tribute to the anguish that my beautiful mother suffered through. While Torment of the Mind signifies one way in which our mind can influence our actions, I’d ask you to look also at my other series: Joy of the Heart which pays tribute to the mother whose heart was pure and filled with love and beauty.
Gus opened the final attachment which showed a similar grouping to Torment of the Mind, however while the former was dark with few splashes of colour, this series was filled with bright colours reflecting their title. The elongated rectangle showed Grace Robertson standing looking directly at the artist, the sun in the distance casting shadows. Her smile was bright and warm, and her eyes were full of love. Gus couldn’t help but smile. The smaller surrounding images were vitally alive. Rory had drawn himself in a few and Gus recognised his own mum in three of them too. Family picnics, outside the church, in their garden, with, who Gus assumed were, Grace’s older two stepsons and her husband. Looking at these images, you would never be prepared for them to be replaced by the images that would dominate the young artist’s mind a mere month or so later.
Chapter 70
Bellbrax Psychiatric Facility, Scotland
Jimmy Cameron looked better today. His pinched face was less gaunt, his eyes a little clearer as if the revelations of the previous day had agreed with him – perhaps even calmed him. Gus had asked that they meet in a private room and Dr Mara had agreed and expressed the desire to be present for the second interview after listening to the recording from the previous day. Bernie sat next to Jimmy, who was in the loose restraints again today and Gus was pleased to note that the bruises on the older man’s face were fading. Sebastian and Gus sat side by side on the opposite side of the table and Dr Mara had taken a seat in the corner of the room to observe the proceedings.
Like the previous day, Gus set his phone to record and then introduced those present, in the same way he would if this were a formal interview. He and Carlton had discussed the best way to move forward with Jimmy and Carlton had agreed that time was of the essence. They were aware that at least two other pregnant women had a target on their backs and possibly, even some other targets linked to their investigation. Gus wanted to get as much information as possible before they hotfooted it home. They could always come back and re-interview at their leisure later on.
Gus opened his laptop, pulled up the image he wanted and turned it to Jimmy. Eyes raking over the image, a sad smile on his lips, Jimmy tried to touch the screen, but his restraints restricted his movement. ‘He’s so talented, isn’t he?’
‘You recognise these sketches, Jimmy?’
‘Course I do. They’re some of the ones from his degree show. The one I told you about yesterday. ‘Torture of the Mind’ it was called.’
‘Yesterday you said that you staged your wife’s death like that in order to cover-up for your son, Ben. Later on, you told us you suspected Ben killed Rory’s wife – how could that even be possible? If you weren’t born when Grace Robertson killed herself, then Ben certainly wasn’t born then even though, according to you, he may have seen a woman hung in that fashion, none of this pans out.’ Gus tapped the screen. ‘You’ll have to forgive me for doubting your word. What possible link could Ben have to Rory and more to the point, what motive would he have for targeting her? It’s all a bit too convenient if you ask me, Jimmy.’
Jimmy’s eyes moved from the laptop to Gus. ‘Did you tell Coco I’m asking for her?’
A flash of anger flicked through Gus, but he schooled his face to remain impassive. This was regular crimina
l diversion strategy, to put the investigator off guard. However, Gus was too experienced to be thrown by such a simple ploy. The fact that Jimmy had used it though, made Gus doubt him again. Before he could respond Jimmy averted his gaze and answered Gus’s initial question.
‘I gave Ben the catalogue. The one from Rory’s exhibition. I’d kept it all those years and then, well he wanted it. So I gave him it.’
‘You gave a boy not even in his teens a catalogue with that image in it?’ Gus deliberately injected a sneer into his tone. ‘What sort of father does that? The same sort that blames his son for a murder he committed.’
Jimmy sighed and yanked at the restraints, finally settling for placing his fisted hands on the table before him. His obvious discomfort was belied by his calm response. ‘That was only one of many images in that catalogue. I showed it to the boys often. There were sketches of Coco, of Rory, of Rory’s mum in happier times. I showed them those too. I wanted to show them something good from my past and the only damn thing that was good was Coco.’
Jimmy was right. The catalogue was filled with other sketches, the one he’d shown Jimmy was the only disturbing set in the entire pamphlet. Still, he wasn’t prepared to let Jimmy off the hook so easily.
‘You might have explained how Ben knew about those sketches, but I need a motive, Jimmy. This is your last chance to convince me.’
Seemingly unaware of his fists bouncing on the tabletop Jimmy flinched when Bernie placed a hand over his fists. ‘You need a break, Jimmy?’
Shaking his head, Jimmy moved his fists from the table and sat on them as if perhaps that would prevent him from moving them. ‘I’m grand, Bernie.’