Cold Kill (30 page)

The path started off as tarmac and then turned into gravel as it followed the line of the stream. The small copse turned into woodland, with large sycamores and horse chestnut blotting out the noise from the nearby road, and so all he could hear was the trickle of the stream and the sing song of the birds in the trees, the peace broken only by the steady crunch of his shoes.

He stopped when he thought he heard something behind him, or saw something, just at the edge of his vision, but when he looked around there was no one there. He tried not to think about what had happened near here a few days ago.

As Jack looked ahead, he saw the trees thinning out, and the bright red of new bricks started to appear in the gaps between the trees. He began to walk quicker. His guess had been right.

He jogged the last part, fast crunches on the gravel as he went up a small rise and then onto tarmac again, his feet stopping before a grass verge. He looked along the road and smiled. There it was, the home of Don Roberts, with its pillars and its cars. He looked back along the path. The shadows had taken hold again, the path made dark and quiet by the trees. He turned back to the road. It didn’t deviate too far from the path. Jane had been going out for the night on her own, and Jack knew that she would have taken the road; she wouldn’t have wanted to go into the pub with dog shit and gravel dust on her shoes. Then Jack thought of the first murder. Deborah Corley. Her body had been left hanging out of a pipe that protruded from a grass bank next to a reservoir. He thought about that location. Why had it been chosen? Jack reasoned that Jane Roberts had been left near where she was attacked, because it was near where she had walked, but Deborah Corley was different. She had last been seen walking from her college, along a quiet road that would have taken her straight home. It wasn’t near the reservoir.

He started off down the path again, rushed back to his car and clambered in, breathless. He headed for the ring road, shooting past the car showrooms and electrical superstores that lined the dual carriageway. Once he turned off though, the neon lights and traffic noise soon faded, as the road climbed upwards towards the tall green banks of the reservoir. Overspill pipes jutted out, water dribbling gently into small concrete gulleys that ran towards the river.

It seemed a strange place to leave a body, because it involved effort. The sides of the reservoir were exposed, and as Jack parked and then climbed the concrete steps that took him to the top of the banking, he looked back and saw the stream of traffic on the ring road. It would be so easy to be seen. He looked along the water, lapping gently against the banks. There were some people fishing on the opposite side, reminding Jack that it was anglers who had found the body.

As Jack watched the fishing lines break the surface, the bright floats bobbing in the water, something niggled at him, a memory, something almost within reach. He thought back to the dog walker he had seen before, close to Don’s house. It linked in with that somehow.

Then it came to him. When he had visited Mike Corley, there had been a bait box in the hallway, a fishing rod against the wall.

Jane and Deborah had been left in those places for another reason. He shivered. It meant that their deaths were more than just sex murders. They were acts of revenge. The path through the woods was the obvious place for Don to walk his dog, and so when he did, he was meant to find his decomposing daughter, perhaps sniffed out by his dog. Mike was a fisherman, and had probably fished at the reservoir. Perhaps it was his favourite spot. Jane and Deborah weren’t meant to be found by a bunch of mischievous kids or anglers. They were supposed to be discovered by their fathers.

Now he just had to work out what Don and Mike had done that demanded such vicious revenge. But first, he had to see Laura.

Chapter Fifty

Laura leaned back in her chair and rubbed her eyes. It was only ten in the morning, but the long hours were taking their toll. She had managed to drag every shift manager into the station and had demanded a list of all those officers who’d been on duty when the emails had been sent from the police station. The technical people were trying to narrow it down to an individual terminal or log-in details, but it was slow going. There were countless computers being used at all times in the station, and they all went through one major server.

She was rescued from looking at the list of names when her phone vibrated on the desk next to her. When she looked at the screen, she saw that it was a London number.

‘Sandy?’ she said.

There was a laugh on the other end, and then the familiar rounded vowels of the south hit her ears. ‘Hey, babe, it’s been a long time. How is it up there? I’ve heard they’ve got colour television now.’

She laughed. ‘How’s life in the clogged up, smoggy streets?’

‘It’s all sushi and soft shoes now.’

‘So, what have you got for me?’ Laura asked.

‘What you wanted,’ he said. ‘Your boy, Shane Grix, was found in an alleyway near King’s Cross. Typical young drifter stuff. Down to the bright lights, except that it just got him into drink and drugs, and so he paid his way with sexual favours. Do you know how hard it is to investigate these things?’

‘I haven’t been away that long,’ she said lightly. And Laura did remember the problems – any witness who could provide background information seemed to be in a new place each night. Some of the street sleepers found their own slot amongst the cardboard, and would defend it aggressively, but as soon as the authorities came looking, they shuffled off somewhere else. And getting them as far as a courtroom was almost impossible.

‘It’s even worse now,’ Sandy said, interrupting her thoughts. ‘Eastern Europeans hog the soup queues, even if they are not homeless, and they get pretty violent if anyone objects.’

‘So you didn’t get much joy?’

Laura could almost hear the shake of the head. ‘Maybe things would be different now,’ he said, ‘but it was the Thatcher years. We celebrated the winners. What did some minister say back then, that the homeless were just the people you trip over on the way to the opera? Shane ended up in a fight with someone just like him. Strangled to death and then set on fire.’

‘Forensic cover-up?’

‘That was the guess at the time,’ he said.

‘And what about since?’ Laura heard the sigh, and she guessed the answer. ‘There hasn’t been a
since
, has there?’ she said. ‘No forensics, no eye witnesses, and a family who don’t make trouble. Just another young homeless death.’

‘It’s called priorities, Laura, you know how it works. The file’s still open, but short of a confession, we’re never going to solve it. It was years ago.’

‘How sure are you that the body was identified correctly? It was all based on clothes, wasn’t it?’

‘We’re not,’ he said. ‘We tried dental records, but life on the streets had taken their toll. He’d lost three at the front, a couple at the back, and when we asked Shane’s mother she said that he’d stopped going to the dentist after he was told to wear braces when he was thirteen.’

‘Was there anything unusual about the body?’

There was a pause as Sandy thought back on what he’d found out so far. ‘Not really. Apart from the gag.’

The hairs rose on Laura’s arms.

‘Gag?’

‘A cloth, jammed into his mouth. I suppose it muffled the screams, and because it soaked up plenty of petrol, the fire burned pretty badly around the face.’

Laura rubbed her eyes. Her mind was still moving slowly, but she could work out the significance of what she had been told.

‘Laura, what is it?’ she heard Sandy say, but she still left it a few more seconds.

‘It might be that you have to prioritise again,’ Laura said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I don’t think your corpse is Shane Grix,’ she said. ‘I think Shane Grix may be the person who killed him.’

Sandy whistled. ‘At least we’ve got a name now.’

‘You always had the name, except the wrong way round,’ she said. ‘And once you discover who was actually killed, you might have a family who’ll make more problems for you than Shane’s did.’

The drive to the police station took Jack through the centre of Blackley, and as he passed the courthouse, he spotted David Hoyle’s car.

Jack didn’t often go to court on Saturdays, as Saturday cases were overnighters only, and were either so serious that the end of the case was a long way off, or else so trivial, like late-night drunkenness, that they didn’t really deserve any ink in the first place. He decided to make an exception, so he could corner Hoyle again.

He pulled into the space next to Hoyle’s car and jammed the meter with whatever small change he had left, and then walked quickly up the court steps.

The corridor was quiet; it always was on Saturdays. The lawyers wanted to be in and out as quickly as possible, and so the only people who ever hung around were relatives of the prisoners. Except that it wasn’t as quiet as normal, because David Hoyle was sitting at the end of the corridor, leaning forward, staring at the floor.

He didn’t look up as Jack approached, although he must have realised who it was, because as Jack sat down next to him, he said, ‘If you want a quote, you won’t get one.’ His voice was quiet and forlorn.

Jack remembered the email from the night before.
Hoyly Moyly
. It was time for some guesswork, because the poem had to mean something.
Oh Angel, why did you scream?

‘How’s Angel?’ Jack said. ‘Is she okay?’

Hoyle looked up, surprised. ‘What do you mean?’ He had none of the arrogance of their usual meetings.

‘I heard that she had a close call last night.’

Hoyle said nothing at first, and so Jack wasn’t sure if his bluff had worked, but then Hoyle looked down again and said, ‘How did you know?’

‘It’s a small town, Mr Hoyle. Rumours spread quickly.’

‘Well, nothing happened, okay. There’s nothing to say, nothing to report, and if you write otherwise, I’ll sue you.’

‘Is Angel your girlfriend?’

Hoyle sat up and leaned back in his seat. He folded his arms.

Jack nodded his understanding. ‘Okay, thank you, Mr Hoyle. But tell me this: why are you here, and not with her, telling the police all about it?’

Hoyle ground his teeth and didn’t respond.

‘Are you so far gone that you look to serve Don before you protect your girlfriend?’ Jack said, shaking his head. ‘You’ve lost your way, Mr Hoyle.’

‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Don’t I? What, that women are dying, and if your girlfriend saw something, she might help the police catch him? But you would rather look after your client than help prevent another murder. So what don’t I know, Mr Hoyle? You tell me.’

Hoyle let out a heavy sigh and rubbed his eyes. He looked tired. ‘Where did you hear about Angel?’ he said.

‘Just something I heard, and I saw the look on your face last night, like you had been dragged too close to something that was out of your comfort zone.’

Hoyle clenched his jaw. ‘What the fuck does that mean?’

‘You’re a courtroom player. You can control what happens in there, because you know the rules, the tricks. That’s how you deal with Don, because when he has to come here, or his men get charged, they are visiting your world, and you’re in charge.’

Jack waited for the smart response, but as he looked into Hoyle’s eyes, Jack just saw fatigue and worry, the fear that the evil of the world had come to him.

Hoyle looked down again.

‘Talk to the police, David,’ Jack said. ‘Don’s got no loyalty towards you. If he didn’t use you, he’d use someone else.’

There was a pause, and then Hoyle said, ‘But I want him to do it, to catch the killer, and that’s what I hate about it. I care about the rules. Do you know that?’ Jack didn’t respond, and so he carried on, his voice rising a notch. ‘I know you think people like me just try to weasel our way out of the rules, but it is still about the rules. It gives everything order.’

‘Except that you are not sure whether you want this person to have that chance,’ Jack said.

Hoyle looked him straight in the eye. ‘I know what he did to Don’s daughter,’ he said. ‘Any gaps that Don left out were filled in by you in your article, and I can’t stand the thought that he could have done that to Angel.’

‘So why are you here?’ Jack said.

He looked around and shrugged. ‘Because it’s what I know, this place,’ he said.

‘But who is looking after Angel now?’

‘She’s at home, alone,’ Hoyle said. ‘She insisted on it. Angel isn’t weak.’

‘If the police call, will she speak to them?’ Jack said.

Hoyle didn’t answer at first. Instead, he just chewed on his lip. Eventually, he said, ‘I don’t know.’

Jack spotted something in Hoyle’s voice, it sounded like fear, and then it dawned on him. ‘That’s really why you’re here, isn’t it?’ Jack said. ‘You haven’t told her who the intruder was, that it might be the same person who killed Jane Roberts, and you don’t know how to deal with it.’

Jack knew he’d hit home, because Hoyle looked up at the ceiling and clenched his jaw. After a few moments of silence, he shook his head and then got to his feet. ‘I’m going back into court,’ he said and wearily made his way along the corridor.

Chapter Fifty-One

Jack paced up and down outside the entrance to the police station, the print-out of the emails from the night before in his hand.

He turned around when he heard the large wooden doors swing open and smiled when he saw Laura. She walked over to him, returning the smile, although Jack thought she looked tired, her eyes red, the skin under them dark and puffy.

‘Are you okay?’ he asked.

She ran her hands over her face. ‘We’re just chasing this thing hard,’ she said. ‘We need to catch him.’

‘Look after yourself too.’

‘I will. It’s nice to see you. It seems like forever since we spent some real time together.’

‘I was going to say the same thing,’ he said.

‘Is this what this is about, that you want to see me?’