by Helen Phifer
‘Is it okay if I finish now? It’s been a long day at the hospital. I’ve got a migraine and I’m no good to anyone.’
‘Of course it is – would you like me to drive you home, Lucy?’
She shook her head; she didn’t want him anywhere near her home. ‘It’s okay, thanks. I just need some painkillers and a couple of hours’ sleep.’
‘It’s been a pretty rough week.’
She nodded; there was no disputing that. Her back was aching from the time she’d spent standing in the mortuary watching the post-mortems, one after the other. She’d forgotten all about the back-breaking pain that struck when you couldn’t move or sit down for hours at a time.
She turned to walk out of the door, telling herself not to do it – but then, completely ignoring her own advice, she asked, ‘Have you got a positive ID of the body from the woods?’
He shook his head. ‘You know as well as I do how long these things can take. The forensic odontologist is currently looking at the dental x-rays to see if they’re a match for the missing girl.’
‘Good. Fingers crossed it won’t take forever and a day.’
She walked out smiling to herself; she’d be checking up on that tomorrow. A quick call to Chris Corkill would tell her everything that she needed to know. If Patrick was bullshitting her, temporary boss or not, she’d have his balls.
Chapter Forty-Two
Parking his van in an empty bay opposite the pier, he sat and watched the world go by for quite some time. He was in no rush. He kept staring at the photograph on the front of the newspaper. He was about to make Lewis Waite an offer he couldn’t refuse. As soon as there was a lull in the traffic, he would squeeze through the gap in the rusted fencing. Someone had moved one of the panels to allow access onto the pier; he should be able to fit through okay, although he was much bigger than Lewis.
He jumped out of the van wearing the overalls he’d purchased. He’d thought about having his fake company’s name printed on them but had changed his mind. There was no point in making it too easy for anyone to identify him. Instead he’d opted for the navy-blue overalls that so many local companies favoured, allowing him to blend in with ease. He tucked a hard hat under his arm as he closed the van door and locked it, then crossed the road, striding purposefully towards the gap in the fence. He sucked his breath in to wriggle through and continued walking along the pier towards the run-down building at the end.
The trick was to make it look as if you were supposed to be doing what you were doing. That way nobody gave you a second glance. If you stood there looking around and fretting, it raised people’s suspicions. When he got close to the building, he saw that the ‘Bingo’ sign outside had fallen down and was now swaying in the breeze. He tried the front door, but it was locked. There was a big wooden board securing it shut, so he walked around the perimeter, looking for a way in.
The waves were crashing against the rusted metal and rotten wood of the pier struts below, and for a moment he wondered if the structure was safe enough to be standing on. Would his weight make any difference to it? He looked up and saw a broken window with no board covering it and a corroded bench underneath. So this was how Waite got in and out. He looked around. The building was right at the end of the pier and this wall faced out onto the open sea. If anyone had good enough eyes they might see him climbing in, but the sky had gone dark grey as the rainclouds threatened to let their heavy droplets fall. Everyone would be rushing to get home before the downpour began; he couldn’t imagine that many people would be interested in what he was doing at the end of the pier.
He put one foot on the bench, pressing his weight onto it to see if it held. It seemed okay, so he stepped onto it. There was a slight groan, but it didn’t let out an earth-splintering crack, as he’d feared. Pulling himself up, he managed to climb through the broken window, pausing for a second to see what was below him. Then he let go and jumped. Landing with a loud thud, he heard a scrabbling noise from outside the small storeroom he was in and paused. Someone was out there, which was good, as long as it was Lewis and not some homeless person. He shouted, ‘Hello, Lewis? Is that you? It’s not the police – I’m here to help you.’
Pushing open the warped door, he stepped into the huge bingo hall and tried not to inhale the damp and the mould spores that contaminated the air. There was no more movement from inside the darkened room, which was a mess of rotten, red-velour seating and overturned tables. He stepped forward and the floor beneath his feet crunched. He was walking on a carpet of broken glass. Standing still, he tried to get his bearings; he pulled a torch out of his pocket and shone it into the darkest corners of the room. He couldn’t see anyone, but he knew that Waite was in here, hiding.
‘You don’t know me, but I’m here to help you. I swear to you I’m not a copper – I know you didn’t kill that girl. I think I know who did, but I need you to help me find him.’
He paused.
‘I promise that between us we will track the killer down and hand him to the police.’
There was a loud shuffling noise from the centre of the room and he turned to see where it was coming from. A grime-stained curtain was pushed to one side and he saw a head pop out from the darkness.
‘Who are you and why would you want to help me? I don’t fucking know you.’
‘Because, my friend, you look like someone who needs my help and I’m in a good mood today.’
Lewis crawled out, his trousers covered in dust, and stood up. His pale face had a sheen of perspiration covering it and his eyes looked wild as they darted from side to side.
‘Mate, you’re a mess. I can help you. I really can.’
‘How the hell are you going to help me?’
‘I was in the club; I saw you arguing with her. I offered to buy her a drink, but she wasn’t interested and then some other guy came over and began flirting with her. She wasn’t interested and told him to go away, but he didn’t. They ended up doing shots together at the bar. When the coppers see me on the CCTV they’re going to want to speak to me. Just like they want to speak to you. And I’m not taking the blame for some sick bastard. You know what they’re like – they’re crap and will just pin it on the first person they can. Well, that’s me and you. I can give you a warm place to stay, food and clothes. As long as you help me to try and find this man.’
Lewis walked towards him, scrutinising him. ‘I saw you in there and I saw you that night in the shop – how did you know where to find me?’
‘I followed you. I was too scared to say anything in the supermarket. Then I saw your photo on the front page of the paper today and knew that I’d be next.’
Lewis ran his hand through his hair and began scratching at the stubble on his face.
‘I’m in the paper?’
He nodded. ‘Front page, huge photograph.’
‘You can let me have a shower and some food?’
He nodded again.
Lewis looked around. ‘I’m not sure I can give my luxury pad up so easily.’ Then he began to laugh: what did he have to lose?
Lewis climbed out of the window first, followed by the man in the overalls. He didn’t even know his name, but if he had food and a soft bed he could lie on he didn’t really care. He felt like shit because he’d finished the last of the whisky, he’d had no drugs for almost a hundred hours and he needed something to ease the pain coursing through his body. The decking of the pier vibrated as the stranger jumped down onto it. Rain had begun to splatter against the wood, which was good because everyone in town would be rushing to take cover. The surface was slippery and Lewis nearly fell over twice in his crappy shoes that were too big for him. The man caught his elbow.
‘This place is a death trap; I can’t believe the council haven’t knocked it down.’
‘They’re too tight, that’s why. So where do you live?’
‘In a house nearby; look, my van is parked across the road. I’ll go first and open the rear doors – you come over and jump in. I can’t
risk you sitting in the front; someone might recognise you.’
Lewis nodded.
Five minutes later Lewis was in the back of the very clean, empty van with just a royal-blue picnic blanket to sit on. He squatted on the floor and held onto the side of the van. He couldn’t see where the man was taking him and he didn’t care. The thought of something warm to eat and drink filling his loud, rumbling stomach was all that mattered.
When the van came to a stop and the doors opened, Lewis was surprised to see it was parked on the drive of a big, detached house. The drain-cleaning business must be a gold mine; hell, he’d consider unblocking drains to have this sort of money. He got out of the van. There were no neighbours close by so he didn’t have to worry about being seen. The man led him up the steps to the front door and opened it, allowing him to enter. The house was nice, but it was pretty empty, with very few furnishings. His footsteps echoed as he walked along the tiled floor.
‘The kitchen is straight down and the last door on the right, although I think a hot shower first would be a better idea. I can make us some food whilst you get cleaned up.’
Lewis nodded; he did want a shower. He might be a drug addict, but he’d always tried to take care of himself and his cleanliness was very important to him.
‘Shower first, mate, if that’s okay with you?’
‘I’ll show you to your room – it’s got an en-suite so you can choose for yourself whether you want a bath or a shower. I’ll get you some clean stuff and put it on the bed for you.’
Lewis knew that this was too good to be true – no one was ever this nice to him or that trusting of him. How did this guy not know that he wasn’t going to rob him blind the minute his back was turned? Not that he would; he wasn’t the kind of person to kick a gift horse in the mouth. Really? What about poor Stacey? You certainly kicked her a few times? He felt a crushing wave of grief squeeze the inside of his chest and then it was gone. It was all about self-preservation for now; he had to find her killer and he needed somewhere to hide where the coppers would never in a million years find him. They wouldn’t even know where to start: this was the perfect set-up. The pair of them could work together to find Stacey’s killer and then they’d both be free. For all he knew, if he cleaned up his act the bloke whose name he’d never asked might even give him a job. Fresh start and all that – maybe his luck had finally changed.
Chapter Forty-Three
Toby had spent his entire morning off researching historic killers – just a typical morning for him. He wanted to impress Lucy with his knowledge. She might take a little more notice of him if he could help them out. They were struggling with so many murders; it was quite obvious. He didn’t know how long it would take them to make the relevant connections, but it wouldn’t hurt for him to give them a helping hand. He couldn’t see any obvious links between the different killings, but something about them was bothering him. He knew that Brooklyn Bay was no stranger to murders – there had been a spate of them not that long ago, in which Lucy had been involved. Maybe she was a killer. Now that would be something. Quite the turn-on. He could imagine her straddling her victims as she trussed them up with some rope.
He smacked the side of his head with the palm of his hand. That was his problem; he always got carried away with his imagination. He forced himself to concentrate on the screen in front of him as the page loaded, full of black-and-white photographs of some of Britain’s most infamous serial killers. He knew what Peter Sutcliffe, Harold Shipman, Fred and Rose West, Ian Brady and Myra Hindley all looked like with his eyes closed. From a young age their photographs had been unwittingly seared into his mind.
Melanie Benson had been found hit over the head with a hammer and left on a field, partially clothed, which was reminiscent of the Yorkshire Ripper’s modus operandi. In fact, it was pretty much the same. Stacey Green had been killed in a dark, back alley. She’d been found with her trousers around her knees too – so had some of Sutcliffe’s victims, but that was where the similarity ended. Stacey had been strangled; Sutcliffe’s victims were bludgeoned over the head and stabbed, then mutilated with a screwdriver.
Why did Stacey Green’s murder feel familiar to him? Where had he seen something like it before? Who did it remind him of? Because it did remind him of something. Then there was the Martin family last night, all three of them shot dead at close range. He wondered how Lucy was holding up at the post-mortems. He’d attended Stacey Green’s with Amanda and he’d been impressed at how Lucy hadn’t flinched throughout, unlike him. He’d felt his knees buckle at the point when the doctor had peeled down Stacey Green’s face. When she’d clicked the button that set the vibrating saw into action ready to cut off the top of her skull, that had almost been it for him. He’d managed to stay upright, though. After that he’d tried not to watch too closely what the doctor was doing for fear of passing out on the mortuary floor. He’d never get over the shame of it; they’d make fun of him at the police station for the rest of his life.
Tired because of how late he’d worked last night at the scene and fed up, he printed out some pages from a site about Scottish serial killers. He hadn’t recognised any of the grainy photographs that had loaded onto his computer screen, so he would do some more research when he had the time. The names were familiar, even if the killers’ faces weren’t. Bible John and The Beast of Birkenshaw were two that he’d heard of. But right now he had someone he needed to meet quite urgently.
Toby had to speak to Lucy; the more he’d thought about it, the more he was convinced that the killings, despite their differences in MO, were all connected. He wanted her to think of him as more than just the new boy. He thought about going into work to speak to her, then changed his mind. It was his day off; he’d look like a weirdo if he walked in demanding to talk to her. He decided to wait outside her house for her; the only problem was that he didn’t know where she lived. He wondered if Amanda would tell him or whether she would think he was being creepy as well.
The best thing he could do was to wait on the road outside the police station and follow her when she left, only he didn’t know when she’d leave. He could be there for hours. But he didn’t care. He just wanted to know where her house was; he liked her and you could tell a lot about a person by their home. He imagined she would like his secluded house with the large bay windows looking out onto the leafy garden. She’d never imagine that he would live in anything so grand; it would be a nice surprise for her, something to impress her with.
He sat slurping on his McDonald’s chocolate milkshake, wondering how long he was going to be here. He should just go into the station; he knew she was still in there because he’d seen her a couple of times. That was the beauty of a building that had such vast windows. Someone really should tell them that anyone could be watching.
About to give up and go home, he heard the heavy grind of the mechanical exit gates rolling back. He looked into his rear-view mirror and was rewarded with the sight of Lucy’s mint-green Fiat 500 driving towards him. He kept still, not wanting her to see him waiting like some stalker. Technically he was acting like one and he knew it. It was all for a higher purpose, though. Or so he kept telling himself. Starting to pull out on her tail, he heard the loud beep of a horn and snapped his head up to see a huge pick-up truck inches away from him. His heart skipped a beat and he lifted his hand to apologise. The black truck swerved around him and drove off, leaving him clutching at his chest.
He took a deep breath and began to drive again. He couldn’t afford to lose sight of her car, not now. He’d waited so long for her that his backside was numb. Seeing her car in the distance as it rounded a bend, he pressed his foot down on the accelerator to catch up. The pick-up went one way and Lucy the other; he followed at a safe distance. It would be pretty difficult to lose a car of that colour. She turned onto one of the nicest private housing estates in town and stopped outside a large detached house. He felt deflated; maybe she wouldn’t be so impressed with his house if she lived here. There wer
e already two cars on the drive, yet as far as he gathered she wasn’t in a relationship with anyone. Unless she house-shared; that was a possibility. He parked behind a BMW on the opposite side of the street and watched as the door to the house opened and a teenage girl came running out. This must be her daughter, whom Amanda had mentioned. He watched as Lucy got out of her car and the girl flung her arms around her neck. Lucy had a big brown envelope in her hands, but she still managed to wrap them around the girl and hug her back. She followed the girl up the front path to where a man was standing watching them. He looked so much older than Lucy and Toby wondered if he was her dad.
Lucy stepped towards George, passing him the envelope. He took it from her.
‘How are you?’
‘I’m fine, you?’
He nodded. ‘Do you want to come in and have a coffee, spend some time with Ellie before she goes?’
‘Is Rosie in?’
‘Yes, but she won’t mind. She’ll understand.’
‘It’s okay. I’d like to, I really would, but I’m tired – it’s been such a long week and I don’t know if I can be as excited as Ellie is right now about this trip.’
‘Ellie, come and say goodbye to your mum.’
Ellie came running back out, planted a kiss on her cheek and hugged her tight. Lucy pulled a wad of euros out of her pocket. ‘Have a fabulous time. I want postcards and phone calls. Don’t drink too much and try not to fall overboard.’
Ellie took the money, squeezing her once more. ‘Thanks, Mum. I will, I’ll try not to and I definitely won’t.’
Then her daughter was gone and Lucy couldn’t help but smile. She was nervous at the thought of Ellie going off on her own, but she knew that they were going to have to let her go at some point.