by Graham Smith
He drove her back to the showroom without further comment. When he pulled into the forecourt, she saw her boss chatting to one of the sales team.
Now was the hard part for her; after all his leers and sly looks, she had to turn her charm on full to see if she could close the deal. With her boss hovering around, she’d have to give her very best sales pitch; otherwise she’d find herself standing like a schoolchild in the headmaster’s office, as he delivered another version of his infamous ‘101 ways to make a sale’ lecture.
The car came to a halt and the man turned off the ignition.
‘So, now you’ve had a chance to drive this wonderful car, what do you think? Could you see yourself driving one every day? Perhaps taking your lady friend for a nice drive?’
She’d picked her words with care. Used ‘wonderful’ instead of a word that could be used to describe looks, hinted that she thought he was attached as a way to remind him that she was.
‘That is a capital idea. However, I do have appointments to test drive an Audi later today and a Mercedes tomorrow. Once I’ve tried them, I’ll drop by and let you know my decision.’
The handshake he gave her went on a beat too long and his eyes met hers then slid down her body.
She bade him farewell and took a step backwards, as much to distance herself as dismiss him. Her plan was that she would watch him leave rather than offer him the chance to ogle her as she walked away.
A quick check of her watch told her she had half an hour to finish typing the email she’d been working on when he’d interrupted her, grab a bite of lunch and fix her make-up before the man she actually wanted to meet was due.
The experience with the older man had almost put her off the idea of letting the dashing younger man know she was interested in him. It was hard for her to feel attractive after being ogled so openly. She turned and strode to her desk. Perhaps seeing the man again would give her seductiveness the kick up the backside it needed.
Forty-Five
Beth slumped back in her chair and nibbled on one of the cookies she’d bought earlier. Across the desk from her, O’Dowd was stuffing one into her mouth as if she hadn’t eaten for a week.
They’d had reports back on some of the locations she’d found. So far none had turned up any more winged victims.
At Beth’s suggestion, O’Dowd had asked Control to get in touch with every police station in Cumbria to see if any older officers knew of any country houses that weren’t mentioned in the book. So far, no reports had come in, but it would depend on each station’s workload and shift pattern, and how quickly the request would get to the people with the right local knowledge.
Beth picked up the notes she’d made on Highstead Castle with one hand, as she used a saliva-dampened finger to collect the crumbs from the paper bag she’d used as a plate when eating her cookie. The most interesting link between the houses, as far as she was concerned, was that they had both been ravaged by fire: Highstead in the fifties and Arthuret Hall some time later she understood, although the details she’d gathered on Arthuret Hall had failed to specify when the fire had taken place. Logic told her that it must have happened many years ago due to the fact there was so much vegetation evident in the house.
Still, she couldn’t help wondering if the fact both buildings had fallen victim to fire was significant to their selection as murder sites for victims whose mouths were scorched like dragons. She explained the connection to O’Dowd who got onto Control and suggested that they amend her request to every station to also mention any country houses that had suffered fire damage.
‘Ma’am, do you think it’s worth getting someone to check the fire-brigade logs too?’
‘Good call.’ A finger pointed at her list. ‘Those houses you’ve got there, how did they become derelict? Was there a fire at any of them?’
Beth was scanning her notes before O’Dowd had finished speaking. ‘Just Brayton Manor House. Back at the end of the First World War. My notes say it’s a caravan site now. Is it worth installing a surveillance team?’
‘No, the link is too tenuous for that.’ O’Dowd reached for her phone. ‘I’ll get someone to check it out on a regular basis instead.’
Beth nodded at O’Dowd and went back to her notes on Highstead Castle. Nothing she’d unearthed so far told her who owned Highstead before Max Cooper. Nor was there information on the farm beside it, or the two houses they’d parked beside yesterday. Perhaps the killer had grown up in one of those houses. The old building would be a magnet for an inquisitive child. Therefore he’d know it as well as anyone alive.
The Land Registry would have the information about Highstead and the farm; however she’d need to get the addresses for the houses to locate them through an online search of the Land Registry database.
She logged onto her computer and looked up the statements the officers had taken yesterday. Armed with the addresses, Beth ran the searches and listed the owners of each property right back to 1940. One of the houses had the same name as the farm, which told her the house came with the job and that she’d have to speak to the farmer to get a list of all those who’d lived there. The one saving grace was that the farm had remained in the same family for the whole of her search period.
She figured that her killer would be no more than sixty years old due to the physical aspect of his kills, but she wanted to make sure her bets were well and truly hedged.
Now there were multiple victims, the investigation had shifted and what had seemed like good ideas when looking into Angus Keane’s death, now looked like a waste of time and resources when set against the bigger picture.
From across the desk she could hear O’Dowd’s tone show gratitude as she got approval for something. The DI’s good mood evaporated when the printer clacked into life as she made her second call. The office printer was nearing the end of its life and made a lot more noise than it should. As it whirred and clacked, O’Dowd pressed her free hand to her ear and scowled at the machine as if she could scare it into silence.
Beth collected the sheets of paper from the printer and looked at the names and dates. Working on the theory the killer would be a man aged between twenty and seventy, she used a highlighter to mark all those who fell into that category. The others may well be a possibility, but she thought it best to play the odds first. If O’Dowd disagreed, then so be it. Her thinking was that those whose ages fell within her chosen demographic were those who’d be physically strongest and the most confident of their ability to get away with the murders.
When the DI came off the phone she looked triumphant.
‘I just spoke to the brigade manager for Cumbria. He’s getting someone onto my request for information on fires at stately homes, country houses and any other large rural building that has gone up in flames in the last hundred years.’
‘Excellent.’ Beth went on to tell O’Dowd what she’d done regarding the houses flanking the track to Highstead Castle. She also mentioned that she’d traced George Bellingham to a hospital bed in Manchester Royal Infirmary. He’d been there for a fortnight and was receiving palliative care for leukaemia. His being the killer would have nicely tied up the case in a neat bundle, but there was no way it could have been him.
‘Who’s he again?’
‘The gangster’s son who got evacuated to Arthuret Hall.’
O’Dowd looked at her with assessment decorating her face. ‘I’m bloody glad I retire in a few years. Otherwise I’d have to worry about you getting my job.’
As unexpected as the compliment was, it still brought an impromptu smile to Beth’s lips and a flush to her face.
‘I’ve been thinking, ma’am. Dr Hewson said the crow’s wings that were on Angus Keane’s back had a lot of holes in them, as if the crow had been brought down with a shotgun. Should we be looking at people who own a shotgun?’
‘It’s a good idea, but you’re looking at hundreds of people, possibly thousands in Cumbria alone. Most farmers have a shotgun and there’ll be a lot of s
hooting enthusiasts. And that’s only the people who have a gun license. Someone who’s killed four people might not worry about owning an unlicensed firearm. You’re also working on the assumption that it was the killer who shot the crow. I’ve seen crop fields where the carcasses of crows have been tied to a fence as a warning to other crows not to eat the grain. What if the killer just helped himself to a crow a farmer had shot?’
‘Sorry, ma’am. Just trying to think of everything.’
‘Don’t be sorry.’ O’Dowd gave her an indulgent look that renewed Beth’s blushing. ‘Now then, Beth, while the colour is still in your cheeks, what other ideas are rattling around in that brain of yours?’
‘None for the moment, ma’am. I’m still new to this and just spitting out whatever I can think of.’
‘Keep spitting, you’re doing a good job. Have you considered the wings at all?’
‘I’ve given them a bit of thought, but if I’m honest, I’ve been concentrating on trying to identify the victims and find out if there could be any others in places we haven’t looked. Why, what do you think?’
O’Dowd stuffed the last piece of cookie into her mouth and talked around it. ‘I don’t know what to think, that’s my problem.’ A pause to swallow. ‘In chronological order of kills we’ve got a canary, a parrot, a crow and then what appears to be some kind of bird of prey. What does that tell you?’
‘That the killer is escalating? That he’s going for bigger birds as he tries to make the perfect dragon?’
‘That’s what I’m thinking. Problem is, we need to get an expert opinion on that. We need a specialist.’
‘Where would you get a specialist on so many different birds?’ Beth couldn’t begin to think who’d know about canaries, parrots and birds of prey as well as crows.
‘We may have to use a couple. A pet-shop owner should be able to help with the first two, then perhaps a handler at a bird-of-prey centre would be best for the oth—’
‘A gamekeeper would, ma’am. They’d know about birds of prey. And I bet they’d know how to catch one.’
‘Good call.’
‘There’s something else. Should we check if they can tell the sex of the birds from the wings? I’m not sure if it will be relevant or not, but I feel it’s worth finding out if we can.’
‘You’re right.’ A snap of the fingers. ‘We’ll need to get onto one at once.’
Beth reached for her keyboard. ‘Leave it to me.’
Forty-Six
The name he gave to Sarah Hardy wasn’t the one on his original driving license, but it was a match for the one in his wallet. When you were in his position, setting up a false identity or two was neither hard nor expensive.
On a secular level he could appreciate that Sarah was a very beautiful woman and had the kind of body others torture themselves in the gym to achieve. That didn’t matter to him. His appreciation of her lay in a different direction:
Her beauty will dominate headlines; her picture will be broadcast everywhere and will eclipse the bold move he planned to make before turning her into a dragon.
The copper will garner a lot of attention when she’s found. The damaged damsel with the wings on her back. A hunter who fell prey to a bigger predator. Yet because of the copper’s disfigurement, the newsreels will focus on Sarah.
He brought his attention back to the moment. Sarah was talking to him in a way that was a step over the line of professional flirtation. Her clothes showed off her body and she angled herself in ways that displayed her figure.
When she’d climbed into the passenger seat, she’d made no effort to pull down her skirt. He noticed this only because that’s how he stayed ahead of others, by noticing things. He didn’t feel any attraction to her, but then, he didn’t feel a physical attraction to anyone. He hadn’t for years. To him, sex was little more than an abstract idea, a tool that could be used to manipulate other people. It used to be different for him, but became something he’d managed to eradicate from his thoughts.
To his mind, in this moment, Sarah is displaying herself like a wanton hussy. It’s obvious she fancies him and that’s just what he planned on. He’d picked up on the signs on Sunday when he’d entered the showroom looking for a new car. Spotted her appreciative glance at his watch. He’d dressed to impress her today, and he’d seen the way she’d run her eyes over him. There had been a mixture of lust and greed. He supposed she thought of him as a meal ticket, his obvious wealth a way for her to clamber up the social ladder and better herself.
Her spiel about the car was delivered in a soft, almost seductive tone. How much of her flirting was a professional desire to make the sale and how much was aimed at snaring a rich husband didn’t matter. He liked the car and would have bought it even if the salesman was a fat bald man in his fifties, complete with halitosis and BO. That he’d found a delicious addition to his project was nothing more than an unexpected bonus.
He made a little joke about another driver and her laugh carried on that beat too long. She was trying hard to impress him. He could sense it in her every gesture and mannerism. When she leaned over and pointed out the controls for something or other, she brushed her palm across the knuckles of the hand he’d rested on the gearstick, her fingers trailing across the back of his hand in a way that was suggestive.
He flicked the indicator on and joined the M6. The car was a powerful one and he wanted to get it up to speed, see how it handled. See how Sarah coped. Would she get an adrenaline rush as the speedometer crept to twice the speed limit, or would she pin herself in the seat, terrified they’d crash?
Either way, the high-speed drive would leave her flushed and with heightened emotions.
Once he’d got past a couple of wagons, he planted his right foot to the floor. ‘Let’s see what this bad boy’s made of.’
‘Sure.’
He tossed a look at her. She was relaxed, calm. The speed didn’t yet worry her.
The powerful car forged past a hundred. Still there was no concern or censure in her movements. When the speedo reached 130 she laughed and clapped her hands together.
‘Remember, it’s limited to 155 miles per hour.’
‘Will it do it?’
‘There’s only one way to find out.’
From the corner of his eye he could see her shuffling her legs, pressing one thigh against the other.
Ahead of them a car pulled into the fast lane. They were closing on it at pace, so the man eased off the throttle and feathered the brake.
‘We got to 153.’ He smiled at her as he indicated to come off at the next junction. ‘That’s good enough for me. If I order one today, how soon will I get it?’
‘Depending on the spec you want, it’s eight to ten weeks.’
‘I’ll have the full spec thanks. If I’m buying the fur coat, I want it to come with a pair of knickers.’
His little joke had her both laughing and blushing just as he’d hoped it would. The reference to underwear was a deliberate one, designed to add to the sexual charge of the high-speed drive.
He noticed that she took the front of her blouse between her fingers and flapped it back and forth to cool herself down. He also paid attention to the fact that her fingers landed on a closed button and alighted from an open one. It was a subterfuge of hers. She’d made the professional sale, now her focus was on making the personal one. He didn’t have to do anything beyond allowing her to ensnare him.
As they travelled back to the showroom her chatter ranged back and forth from details about the car to the forthcoming weekend. The opportunity to ask her out was being presented time and again, but he kept playing dumb as he enjoyed watching her try ever harder to get him to suggest a date.
It was when they pulled up in the forecourt outside the showroom that she made her boldest move yet. He was putting the handbrake on when she leaned across him, her blouse gaping open to give him a look at her cleavage. He didn’t like how obvious she was, but he had brought it on himself with his playing hard to
get. Still, he didn’t bite. Teasing her was enjoyable.
An hour later he used his phone to transfer payment and signed the last of the paperwork for his new car.
She’d never admitted defeat and had manoeuvred herself around in ways that let him either see a lot of leg or the gap between the buttons of her too-tight blouse that showed off her patterned bra.
The way her eyes had widened when he’d transferred the money from one of his shell companies and paid for the car outright told him she’d underestimated his wealth.
‘I know this may be a strange request, but are you free for dinner on Friday? I’d like to mark my new purchase with a celebratory dinner in the company of a gorgeous woman. And who better than the beautiful saleswoman who sold me the car?’
She gave a self-deprecating smile at his compliments. ‘I’d love to. Thank you very much.’
He made the necessary arrangements about where and when to collect her and suggested they dine at Sharrow Bay. The luxury hotel had an excellent reputation for its food and was sure to wow her. It was important to him that she was relaxed in his company. It would make snatching her so much simpler.
Forty-Seven
The man who greeted Beth and Unthank at the Lakeland Bird of Prey Centre looked every inch the expert they needed. From the olive green corduroys to the Barbour shirt and the tweed waistcoat he wore, the man exuded the air of one who was most at home out on the fells and the high moors. The only thing that looked odd about him was the combover flapping in the breeze.
The centre was just five miles south of Penrith and to Beth’s mind it was the ideal place to start looking into the wings attached to the bodies.
‘I’m DC Young, this is DC Unthank. Is there somewhere we can pick your brains about a case we’re working on, Mr…?’
‘Call me Eric.’ An easy smile crossed Eric’s lined and weathered face as he pointed at a door. ‘We can talk through there if you like.’