Broken Dolls (A Jefferson Winter Thriller) (4 page)

I crouched down and moved around, searching for the best vantage point. From here the unsub would have had a great view of the lake, and the path that led up to the Fighting Cocks. The cathedral loomed off to my right, and I could see Johnson and Barnaby, two shadowy shapes in the distance. Hatcher’s barked questions melded with the background noise as I slid into the zone and was transported back in time to that evening. I could picture the scene as clearly as if I’d been there.

*

There’s Graham Johnson being dragged along the lakeside by Barnaby. He’s walking into the rain with his head down, glancing up every now and again to check where he’s going. He notices a movement on the path off to his left and freezes. He relaxes a little when he sees it’s Patricia Maynard, and that she’s alone. What threat could a woman on her own pose?

He doesn’t relax all the way, though. The part of the brain that helped our cave-dwelling ancestors stay alive is whispering warnings and although we stopped listening to that voice generations ago, it still has the power to stop us in our tracks and pull the switches if need be, even if we don’t realise. Graham looks over at Patricia, then glances over to where I’m hiding. He doesn’t see me, but he senses my presence. I’m just one more shadow amongst all the other shadows. Patricia stumbles drunkenly towards the lake and Graham grabs her before she tumbles into the dark, icy water, a single spontaneous act that transforms him into the hero of the hour.

*

I clambered from the bushes, straightened out my jeans and took a drag on my cigarette. The snow was heavier than ever, the flakes fatter and thicker. That cold wind blowing down from the Arctic cut right through me. I pulled the hood of my top up and huddled deeper into my jacket but it didn’t really help. Hatcher had given up bitching at me and was on his cellphone talking to someone from forensics.

‘Okay, here’s a question,’ I said. ‘You’re the unsub. Why risk coming here? Why not just dump your victim and get the hell out?’

Hatcher killed the call and put his cell away. ‘Isn’t that why we’re paying you that large consultation fee? To answer those sorts of questions?’

‘And why dump them in such a public place?’ I added, ignoring him. ‘He did the same with the other victims. All three were dumped in public parks. Why take the risk? Why not dump them somewhere remote?’

I took another drag on my cigarette and thought about the unsub hiding in these bushes on a rainy evening. Watching and waiting. But waiting for what? And then I got it. I smiled and said, ‘He wants them to be found.’

‘Assuming you’re right, then that answers the second question,’ said Hatcher. ‘But what about the first question? Why does he need to be here?’

‘Because he wants to make sure they’re found.’

‘Okay, I’ll buy that. I guess the next question is, why is that so important to him?’

Hatcher was looking at me like he expected an answer, like he expected some momentous insight that was going to crack the case wide open. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the answer he was looking for. Not yet.

It was almost four. Forty-eight hours earlier I’d been in Maine, dressed in Kevlar, watching a SWAT team descend on a snow-covered barn where a child-killer was hiding out. The killer ended up dead, shot by a marksman, which was a result. One less child-killer in the world is always going to qualify as a result.

I had already closed the book on that case. The bad guy was dead, time to move on. For me, the only thing that matters is the case I’m working on. Everything else is history, and I have no time for history. Rehashing past successes never saved anyone’s life, and reliving the failures rarely achieved anything constructive. I’d got out of Maine before the backslapping started, caught the first flight from Logan International to Heathrow, and hadn’t looked back. Three thousand miles and five time zones later and nothing much had changed. Not really. It was still snowing, and I had another monster to hunt down.

‘How about we head over to the Fighting Cocks for a drink?’ I said.

6

There was no argument from Hatcher on that score, not that I expected one. Another thing I remembered from his visit to Quantico was that he was always first to the bar. We made our way up the same narrow path that Patricia Maynard had stumbled down on Monday night. Halfway along, we crossed a small swollen river and the rush of water filled my ears.

The path opened out onto Abbey Mill Lane, a narrow road that had been built for horses and carts. From studying the maps, I knew Abbey Mill Lane was the only road in or out of this part of the city. Off to my left was Abbey Mill End, which finished in a dead end. I took a quick look around and tried to imagine things from the unsub’s perspective. The fact it was so quiet was a plus, but the fact that parking was limited was a big negative.

On the other side of the lane was the Fighting Cocks. The place was old.
Really
old. It looked like something dreamed up by a Hollywood set designer, all strange angles and shapes, and black Tudor beams. We headed inside, past the framed news articles proclaiming it to be the oldest pub in Britain, and made our way through the maze of rooms to the main bar.

An old couple sitting at the table nearest the fire were the only customers. The miniature artificial Christmas tree on the bar had silver branches and a couple of pathetic red baubles and a crooked star on top. Christmas cards hung from a piece of string behind the bar. That was as far as the decorating went, and it was depressing rather than merry. Christmas as something to be forgotten rather than celebrated.

The guy behind the bar was skinny and bald with a large, easy smile. His hands were placed proprietorially on the surface of the bar and, from the way he stood there like he owned the place, it was a safe bet he did. His clothes were designer and there was a Rolex Submariner on his wrist. Hatcher ordered a pint of London Pride and I ordered a whisky. The drinks arrived and I drained mine to the halfway point, letting the alcohol burn away some of the snow that had seeped into my bones.

I put the glass on the bar. ‘You’re Joe Slattery, right? The guy who owns this place.’

‘Depends who’s asking. If you’re after money, or you’ve been sent by my ex-wife, then I’ve never heard of Joe Slattery.’ The accent was Irish, the laugh infectious.

‘You called the police on Monday night.’

Slattery met my eye and his face turned serious. ‘Are you journalists? If you are then I’ll ask you politely to drink up and leave. I’ve had enough of journalists.’

Hatcher stepped in and flashed his ID. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Mark Hatcher and this is my colleague Jefferson Winter.’

‘Why didn’t you say so?’ Slattery’s smile returned so suddenly it was like it had never been away. ‘You might even have got your drinks on the house.’

I doubted that. Slattery’s smile was big but it didn’t reach his pockets. Here was someone who kept a sharp eye on the bottom line and a tight grip on the profits. That’s why he could afford the Rolex. ‘According to your statement you didn’t notice anything unusual.’

‘It was just a normal Monday night,’ Slattery agreed. ‘Until Graham came in with the girl, that is. Then it became anything but normal. Police, paramedics, journalists, it was a regular three-ring circus, I tell you. And what he did to that poor girl.’ Slattery shook his head and whispered a ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph’ under his breath. ‘They say he gave her a lobotomy. That’s just sick.’

‘I’m interested in the parking around here,’ I said.

Slattery shook his head in disbelief. ‘This bastard cuts into people’s brains and all you’re interested in is the parking.’

‘Humour me.’

Slattery looked at me, eyes narrowed. He was staring like he was trying to decide if I was being serious. I stared back, holding his gaze until he worked out that I was.

‘The parking’s a bloody nightmare,’ said Slattery. ‘Particularly in the summer. I’m always getting tourists filling up my car park. Then they use the lane. Like I said, it’s a bloody nightmare.’

‘And that’s why you had a security camera fitted in the car park.’

‘There are some other reasons, but that’s the main one,’ Slattery agreed. ‘But, as you already know, that was broken on Sunday night. Originally I thought it was broken by some local kids, but obviously I know better now.’

The police’s theory was that the unsub had broken the camera. The way they saw it, he’d come down some time on Sunday night and broken it so he would be able to use the pub’s parking lot when he dumped Patricia Maynard. I thanked Slattery for his time, finished my whisky in one, told Hatcher to drink up. We wound back through the tight low-ceilinged corridors and headed out into the cold.

‘I agree with the police that the unsub broke the camera,’ I said. ‘But there’s no way he parked here on Monday night. It’s too easy. Too obvious. This guy does subtle. He doesn’t do obvious.’

‘So what are you thinking?’ Hatcher asked.

I stood and looked along Abbey Mill Lane. Full dark had descended and the lane glowed orange in the streetlamps. The snow was falling harder, the icy wind blowing it into swirls. It was already starting to lie, covering the road and the sidewalk.

‘There’s no way in hell he drove down here on Monday night,’ I said. ‘It’s too risky. This is the only way in and out.’

‘So how did he get the girl here? Teleportation?’

I ignored the question, and the sarcasm, and did an about-turn and headed along Abbey Mill End. I stopped at the end of the narrow lane and tried to imagine the unsub walking along here, guiding Patricia Maynard, one hand on her shoulder, gently coaxing her along. That felt right. More right than the idea of him driving down here and parking at the Fighting Cocks.

There was a small path straight ahead and I walked towards it. Hatcher was a few steps behind, complaining about the snow and the cold and the fact that we should be going the other way, back to the car, because he didn’t want to end up stranded in St Albans. I tuned him out and carried on walking.

The path led to Pondwicks Close, another cul-de-sac. There was a school on my left, one for the younger kids judging by the brightly coloured play equipment. Pondwicks Close opened up onto Grove Road. Just one street away was the A5183, one of the main arteries that led in and out of the city. It was close enough to hear the rumble of traffic. I stood for a moment in the middle of Grove Road, snow settling on my head and shoulders. It pricked against my face and stuck to my eyelids, but I was oblivious. I nodded to myself then turned to Hatcher.

‘This is where he parked,’ I said.

7

Rachel felt as excited as she had done on her very first date.
Almost
as excited. She wasn’t a teenager any more, so her excitement was tempered by a touch of trepidation. She knew all about disappointment, knew that reality rarely lived up to the dream and that hopes always outweighed expectations. She knew the agony of having your heart fed into a shredder. The red dress clung to her in all the right places and that made her feel good. She kept getting hit with little wafts of her favourite perfume and that made her feel good, too.

She stepped out of the Tube station into the cold night. The snow had slowed to a light flurry and the flakes drifted lazily, dancing and turning, blown on the breeze. Rachel had loved snow as a little girl, and had never really fallen out of love with it. Snow turned the world into a place of magic and romance. By tomorrow it would all be slush, but for now things were perfect. She pulled her coat tighter and picked up the pace, her bag banging against her side in time with her hurried footsteps.

The bar they’d arranged to meet in was large and anonymous. Tall wooden stools along the bar, wooden chairs and tables in the middle of the room, comfy leather sofas and coffee tables around the outside. Rachel scanned the customers. It didn’t take long. There were only a couple of dozen people in a space that could easily fit a couple of hundred. They were spread throughout the room, mostly in groups of threes and fours. There were only a couple of solo drinkers. Rachel’s eyes moved quickly from person to person. Tesla was in his mid-thirties and had short brown hair. He said he’d be wearing a long black woollen trench coat. The only person who came close was a man on one of the tall stools at the bar. He had the right sort of coat, but was too old by at least twenty years.

Rachel ordered a lemonade. Her plan was to stick to soft drinks until after they’d got through the preliminaries, then alternate her drinks, one lemonade for every glass of wine. She wanted to make a good impression, and to do that she needed a clear head. If tonight went well then Tesla might want to see her again. She really wanted to believe this was the start of something. A new beginning, a new chapter.

She took a sip of her drink and checked her watch. Ten minutes early. Rachel found a table with a good view of the door and sat down on the leather sofa to wait. The table was tucked away at the back, cosy and intimate.

Eight o’clock came and went. Twenty past eight. By half past her nerves were in tatters. She went to the bar and ordered a glass of red wine. Nine o’clock came and went. One wine became two. Rachel glanced over at the old guy in the black trench coat. Could it be him? Had Tesla lied about his age? The old guy paid no attention to her. He hadn’t even noticed she existed. All he was worried about was the glass on the bar in front of him.

She checked her watch again, checked her mobile. Maybe Tesla was stuck at work, or maybe he’d been held up by the snow, or maybe he’d been involved in an accident and was in intensive care hooked up to a life-support machine.

By quarter past nine the excuses weren’t working and Rachel was feeling foolish and angry. Her first date since for ever and she’d been stood up. She picked up her phone and checked again for messages. No texts, no missed calls. Not that she expected any. She’d thought Tesla was different, but he wasn’t. He’d got cold feet and hadn’t even bothered to contact her.

Rachel considered getting another wine, she considered getting a whole bottle, but that wouldn’t solve anything. If anything, it would just make a bad situation worse. She’d wake up tomorrow with a hangover and nothing would have changed. Her life would still be a pathetic mess, and Jamie would still be the biggest mistake she’d ever made.