by E C Deacon
Everton, bewildered by the news, stopped in his dewy tracks. “What? I mean… How? Who told you?”
“I met Gina’s brother, Kieron, at the solicitors.”
“She had a brother?”
“Yes. She was evidently trying to find her birth mother. She was using an agency.”
“You mean a tracing agency?”
“Yes. They’re called Lost and Found or something. Anyway, Mrs Lewis categorically denied that Gina was adopted but Gina found her adoption certificate and gave it to the tracer. It said that she was born in 1980 and that her mother’s name was Jennifer Allen. She contacted the local council and adoption agencies but they don’t keep records going back that far. In desperation, Gina placed an ad in the local paper and Kieron, her brother, saw it.”
“And who told you all this? I’m assuming this Kieron. Right?”
“Yes. Why do you say it like that?”
“It’s all a bit fortuitous, don’t you think?”
Laura started off again, quickening her pace, and replied without looking at him, “Hardly. His sister just killed herself.”
Everton mentally kicked himself, knowing that his comment was born more out of jealousy than fact and immediately apologised. “Once a cop… Sorry.”
“He’s not a suspect. Why on earth would he lie?”
“I know. I’m just saying–”
“If you don’t believe him, ask the Lewis’s . They tried to stop them seeing each other. Mrs Lewis even threatened to disown Gina.”
Everton couldn’t stop himself playing devil’s advocate. “I understand what you’re saying, that she wanted to keep the news of the adoption secret, but if she did that she’d risk losing Gina anyway.”
“She did!” Laura snapped. “That’s why Gina committed suicide! She was driven to it.”
“I know you want to believe that, Laura, but that’s not proof.”
“How much more proof do you need? Christ, you said it yourself. You said that if it came out there’d be a risk Mr Lewis’ drink-driving accident and the cover-up would also. It would have ruined Mrs Lewis’ precious career. That’s why they took Gina’s laptop and mobile to get rid of anything that could possibly incriminate them.”
“And how did they get in?”
“Mrs Lewis had a key. She let me in with it, the day she told me Gina had changed her will.”
“Okay. The only problem with that is you said you saw a man on the stairs and Gordon Lewis is wheelchair bound.”
“Well maybe they got someone else to do it for them? Maybe that security guy they have working for them?”
It was a thought that had crossed Everton’s own mind before Don Hart had lied about his alibi for the night and put himself firmly in the frame. “Brian Hoffman’s an ex-cop. He wouldn’t risk burgling a house with a body in it.”
“Maybe he didn’t know? Either way, I’m sorry, as far as I’m concerned, it’s over. I’m done with it.”
“Laura. They’re still threatening to sue you.”
“They’re not going to sue me. Kieron’s right, they won’t want to risk having all their dirty laundry aired in court.”
“Look, I appreciate you’ve had your fill of all this – you wouldn’t be human if it didn’t affect you – but what about the feather we found?”
“I don’t know anything about that and I don’t want to. I just want to get on with my life! I’m sorry, I know that sounds selfish and I know it’s not what you want to hear, but that’s what I want. To be left alone.”
Everton knew she wasn’t just talking about the case, she was talking about him. She couldn’t have been clearer and it was the end of any romantic notions he’d naively harboured. Helen had been right – he’d grown too close to Laura and his stupidity looked likely to have cost him his job. But for now, at least, he was still a cop.
“Okay. But let me give you some advice. You withheld information about Don Hart being investigated for running a betting scam.”
“He said he’d been set up… I didn’t want to get involved.”
“Well, you are. Your misplaced loyalty may have been protecting a serial killer.”
Laura took a step back as if retreating from the shock of what she’d been told.
“Hart’s in the frame for the suspected murder of three women and the abduction of another on the night of Gina’s suicide.” It was said with brutal finality and he didn’t care. He was doing what she wanted: burning the bridges between them and putting an end to their friendship. “Stay away from him. And if he tries to contact you, call DC Lake immediately.”
He turned and walked briskly away down the adjoining gravel path. Laura’s heart was beating faster than his diminishing footsteps as she watched him, fearing that she was in danger of becoming a victim again.
Helen was on her way to Basingstoke to meet Sheila Moriarty, a forensic profiler, and was already regretting her one-night stand with DS Clark, who now seemed to regard her as his private property, stroking her arm as she drove like she was some cherished pet. Since they were passing, she decided to stop off briefly at the forensic lab to get an update from Teddy Baldwin and Dr Noonan on their findings.
She was bent over a laptop examining a series of electron microscopic images that had been blown up using the latest Buena Vista software and transferred on to Teddy’s iMac. “Yeah, well, they’re definitely not the same feathers.”
“Yeah, but these weren’t actually found on the blanket, they were beside it,” cautioned Clarke, crouching down beside her for a closer look and placing his hand dangerously low on her back.
A gesture not missed by Teddy, who remarked cryptically, “Ever seen a chicken nesting by a river?”
Clarke casually moved his hand away and looked up into Teddy’s implacable eyes, waiting for him to explain the non-sequitur. He didn’t. He’d heard that Everton Bowe had been side lined from the case and took a dim view of it, especially since he’d found the dove’s feather and given Helen’s moribund investigation a new lease of life.
Helen could sense his displeasure in the abrupt tone of his answers but chose to ignore it. She didn’t care about Teddy’s opinion of her – or anyone else’s for that matter. She only cared about his results because they directly impacted her. It was why she’d slept with Clarke, to control him. It was a strategy she’d developed working as a woman in a predominantly male environment, to protect herself and her career. She’d slept with a lot of men but Everton was the closest thing she had to a friend, male or female, and she’d cut him adrift. Whilst some might accuse her of being selfish, she regarded it as a strength.
“I’m assuming these chicken feathers have traces of blanket fibres on them as well, like the dove’s feather?” she said.
“Ergo, they were all on the same the blanket at some point. Give the lady a coconut,” Noonan replied with a smile that barely reached his eyes.
“Anything else?”
“Like what?”
“Like what it might have been doing there?”
Noonan picked up a file from the desk, handed it to Helen and said, “Page three, highlighted yellow.”
She opened it and began to read through the comprehensive findings. Noonan turned back to his desk and began eating his lunch, an M&S chargrilled vegetable salad in a plastic container.
“What’s the difference between a chicken bred for eggs and a meat chicken or breeder chicken, apart from the obvious?” said Helen, as she scanned the document.
“Chickens live up to ten years but factory farm birds, like those, are killed after six weeks. They’re selectively bred overfed and kept in tiny cages so that they grow unnaturally quickly and disproportionately. Their breasts grow huge – Joe Public likes white meat – but their skeletons and organs lag behind, which mean they often suffer things like heart failure,” said Noonan, picking up his lunch and exiting. “I’ll be in my office, Teddy, if you need me.”
“Christ,” said Clarke sceptically. “Did he get all that from a couple of
feathers?”
“And Wikipedia. He reckons these particular feathers came from a breeder bird.”
“And how does he know that?”
“Because he’s a scientist who races pigeons,” said Helen, without a trace of irony. “Go on, Teddy.”
“Parent chickens – breeders – have their diets restricted to keep them from gaining weight. This helps them live longer and breed more chicks that in turn grow rapidly into meat chickens, that in turn…”
“I’m assuming there’s a conclusion to this natural history lesson?”
“Yes. Do you want to hear it or not?”
Helen smiled, said nothing and waited for him to continue.
“The man you’re looking for either works in or has access to a factory farm.”
“They don’t exist. Factory farming’s illegal,” interjected Clark.
“Only if you’re caught,” retorted Teddy. “Which reminds me – where’s Everton? I thought you were working with him?”
Helen ignored the question, knowing full well that Teddy already knew and was simply being inflammatory, but Clarke weighed in with the answer and his two pennies’ worth. “Back in uniform. What can you do? He’s not a bad copper, but he could never really cut it.”
“Jack. Leave it. Okay?”
“It’s the truth. The guy can’t hack it anymore. His body’s given up on him.”
“Really?” said Teddy, pulling his thin lips back in a knowing smile. “Have you told him that to his face, Sergeant?”
“Hey. Come on. I like the guy but everyone knows he’s been self-medicating.”
Teddy gave a derisory snort. “So does half the Met. It’s the only way to make the job bearable. That and screwing around behind your partner’s back. Are you married, Sergeant?”
Clarke hesitated, sensing something was amiss but not quite knowing what, held up his left hand, revealing his platinum wedding ring, and said, “For my sins.”
“How long?”
Helen glanced up from the file, but decided to let Clarke dig himself out of his own hole.
“Six years.”
“A couple more and you’ll be self-medicating like the rest of us, son – if you’re not already.”
“I didn’t know you partook,” Helen said, handing Clarke the file and attempting to move the conversation on. “What’s your vice, Teddy?”
“I was faithful to my wife for twenty years.”
“Was?”
“She died of a brain haemorrhage. Now I’m just faithful to a bottle of bourbon.”
It was said with such devastating honesty that it cut straight through Helen’s suggestive banter and caught her off-balance. “Oh… I didn’t know… I’m sorry.”
“Yes. So am I, every day. Any more questions or are we done?”
“What about Gould’s laptop?” said Clarke, slipping back into professional mode. “Have you got anywhere with that?”
“The hard drive is encrypted. We’re still working on it.”
“How long will it take?”
“Twenty-four hours. It’s not shop-bought software. Whatever is on there, he clearly wants to keep it to himself.”
“Okay,” said Helen.
With a brief smile of thanks, she was gone. Clarke picked up the forensic file and strolled out after her, calling back over his shoulder, “Sooner would be better.”
Teddy grunted to himself and called through his office door, “You can come out now. Your ex-partner and her new buddy just left.”
The door opened and Everton Bowe walked out into the laboratory.
“You were a bit hard on them, Teddy.”
“Screw them. He’s a plank and she stabbed you in the back.”
“You can’t knock her for having ambitions.”
“So has he. He had his hand all over her arse.”
Everton smiled grimly to himself, not entirely surprised, and said, “DC Lake always works on the principle of ‘better the enemy you know’.”
“You should take a leaf out of her book. Are you jacking it in or not?”
“If I was jacking the job in, would I be here?”
“Good man. How long have you got?”
“A week at most, before they pull the plug on me.”
“In that case, take a look at this.” Teddy opened his desk drawer, pulled out a USB stick and plugged it into the dock on his laptop. The screen glowed, revealing row upon row of thumbnails of photographs, each one with a digital date in the bottom right-hand corner.
“Where did you get these?”
“They were downloaded from the encrypted hard drive on Gould’s laptop.”
“I thought you told them you hadn’t been able to access it?”
“I lied. I wanted to give you the heads-up first. I’ll send them over to them this evening.”
Everton scrolled through the thumbnails, which all appeared to have been taken on a long lens without the subject’s knowledge. “Christ. He’s taken hundreds. He’s got them all. Gina Lewis, Iris Costa, Laura – whoa! What the hell is this?” He double-clicked on a thumbnail and brought up an enlarged image of Megan Howell and her naked Brazilian girlfriend standing at the window of Megan’s apartment. “What is he, a peeping Tom?”
“No. He’s more dangerous than that. The older woman is called Megan Howell. She was part of Gina Lewis’ close circle of friends. It appears he didn’t get along with her.”
“So why is he taking photographs of her?”
“Open the next one.”
Everton double-clicked again and brought up a closer image of Megan’s poisoned dog. “Shit. Do you think he did this?”
“It looks that way. Megan Howell disappeared the next day. No one’s seen her or heard from her since.”
“You think he could have killed her? That he’s our man?”
“Possibly. But there are some shots here taken on November first, the day that Tessa Hayes was abducted, but none of them are of her, which is odd if it is him.”
“Show me.”
Teddy scrolled through the thumbnails, looking for the appropriate date, and brought up a number of images of Don Hart sitting in a car with a heavy-set man wearing a fedora.
“Who’s the guy with Hart?”
“No idea. Even after enhancing them I still can’t get a clean image of his face. The hat is casting a shadow.”
“What about the vehicle’s number plate?”
“It’s not visible in any of the shots. But it’s not Hart’s car; he drives a Passat.”
“Hold on. Go back to that last photograph.”
Teddy moved the cursor back and double-clicked.
“There! The guy in the hat. In his right hand – is that what I think it is?”
“Shit. I must be getting old. I never saw it.”
The man sitting beside Don Hart was holding a blue stun gun.
Bramshill House was a Victorian mansion surrounded by woodland on the outskirts of Basingstoke. It was the home of the National Policing Improvement Agency and employed a number of behavioural investigative advisers – profiler being a dirty word after Paul Britton’s disastrous involvement in the 1992 Iris Nickell murder investigation.
The head of the department, Sheila Moriarty, a pocket battleship of a woman, stood with Helen and Clarke in front of the leaded windows of a large room. In front of them, fourteen researchers sat, heads bowed, poring over VDU screens.
“Pretty grim viewing,” said Helen.
Each researcher’s desk supported two screens, one replaying harrowing video testimonies of rape victims, the second displaying matching CCTV footage of the actual attacks.
“But necessary,” replied Sheila. “Every bit of knowledge, however tiny, is fed back into our database, allowing us to cross-reference and minutely compare the information.”
“Excuse me. But what has all that got to do with our guy?” interrupted Clarke, who had no genuine belief in the merit of profiling.
“If you let me finish, I’ll explain,” replied S
heila with a steely smile. “Profiling used to be based on pseudoscience, now it’s based on statistics. For instance, the database contains a file we call the Unusual Activities Box, a reference to any irregularity or inconsistency – an uncommon element of an attack or rape that occurs in less than five per cent of our documented cases.”
“Such as shaving the body hair of a victim?” suggested Helen.
“Exactly. There was a case in Glasgow where four adolescent boys disappeared. A convicted paedophile finally admitted to their abduction and murder. When the bodies were found, they’d been shaved of all their body hair. He wanted to make them appear more childlike and innocent, therefore adding to his pleasure when he abused them.”
“Our guy’s not gay and he’s targeting women.” Clarke smiled, stating the obvious.
“There are still similarities in the attacks. I’d suggest that you’re looking for someone who is unmarried, who was abused either sexually or physically by a woman, most probably his mother. He lives alone. He’s intelligent, artistic. Probably has a white-collar job. He’s meticulous. Particular in his tastes and dislikes. There’s also an outside chance he could be bisexual or impotent. Shaving the body hair can be a way of making the victim look more innocent but also a way of desexualising the victim. Objectifying them.”
“What about the feather?”
“That’s more difficult. We don’t have sufficient data to cross-reference it with. However, the dove is often seen as a symbol of purity, which would fit with his need to recreate a more innocent or pure image of women.”
Clarke shot Helen a cautionary look and said, “It doesn’t explain why he let her go.”
“I suspect he didn’t. She either escaped, which seems unlikely considering she was drugged, or something major happened to panic him and made him change his plan and release her.”
“Like Gina Lewis’ suicide?”
“It’s a possibility.”
The car park of St. Mary’s University was rammed. Everton cruised around it once and dumped his Vauxhall Corsa in the disabled bay and trotted inside the reception.