Killing the Beasts (29 page)

From the high and low tones in everyone's voices, Jon could tell his hypothesis had provoked a mixture of excitement and doubt.

McCloughlin looked at him for a moment before addressing the room in general. 'I want that theory checked against all three victims so far. For a start let's see whether any keys are missing from their flats. See if you can disprove Jon's line of reasoning. Now, while we're at it, anyone else got any thoughts they'd like to air?'

The female officer who, earlier in the investigation, had wondered if Polly was planning to travel with anyone, said, 'Polly Mather was about to embark on a round-the-world trip – as far as we know, on her own. I've checked her property inventory and there's no sign of a passport, which seems strange. Is it worth checking to see if the other victims' passports are missing too?'

'With which line of enquiry in mind?' McCloughlin demanded.

'I don't know,' she shrugged. 'It was just a thought.'

He nodded at her. 'Go for it. Let me know what you find. What we have to establish is the link between our three victims – and there has to be one. So we'll be widening the circle of enquiry; in addition to friends and family, we'll be getting statements from all colleagues and other associates. I also want their exact movements over the last seven days mapped out – where they've been, how they got there, who they went with. I want everywhere they visited covered: shops, pubs, cinemas, even toilets. I can't emphasize how important more haste, less speed is on this one. Work quickly everyone, but with total concentration. We've got to find the thread that links them together before another body shows up. Oh and one other thing.' Self-consciously he began adjusting his tie. 'I'm doing a TV interview tonight, some details to stop the press piranhas going into a total frenzy. I'll use it to appeal for information from anyone who has had someone suspicious or unusual knock on their door, trying to gain entry to their house. It might throw up something interesting.' As the outside enquiry team queued up at the allocator's desk to receive their next action, Jon lingered at the white boards, staring at the photographs once again.

'Not bad, not bad at all.'

The voice took him by surprise and he was smiling before he'd turned his head. 'Hi, Nikki.' He looked down at her. 'You don't think I just made a total twat of myself?'

She didn't patronize him with a blank denial. 'OK, there were a few holes in your theory. But at least you're thinking around the problem. Who else had the balls to air any sort of a theory?'

'You mean who else was thick enough to spout off with a half-baked hunch? Still, what brings you to the incident room?'

She looked around. 'Central heating. Do you realize how crap my fan heater is at warming up that draughty bloody caravan they've given me?'

Jon grinned, feeling the familiar urge to give her a hug. 'So, apart from thawing out, what else are you up to?'

Nikki continued in a more businesslike tone. 'Actually, I'm just dropping off the plan-drawer's pictures. Then I'm back over to my office to look at getting the crime scene painted with ninhydrin.'

Jon knew that, although ninhydrin showed up fingerprints, it also destroyed more fragile forms of evidence. As a result, it was usually the very final stage in the forensic examination. 'Are we calling it a day, then?'

'Well, unless you've got any other particular tests in mind. But there's not much for us to go on. No blood splatters, no broken locks, windows or wrecked furniture that could have caught on clothing or scratched skin. In fact, the only promising thing we've removed are a few fibres from the upholstery. I'm talking to the other CSMs in the hope they might find more of the same in the property of the other victims.'

'What are they like? These fibres.'

'I'd say they were pure wool. A sort of pale green. Perhaps from a suit; it's hard to say.'

'Fair enough. Well, I'd better go over and see what my next task is. I'll see you around.'

'All right,' answered Nikki brightly. 'But remember, if you want a cup of lukewarm instant coffee, don't hang around. I'll not be in my caravan for much longer.'

*

DCI McCloughlin's interview was the lead story for Granada News and not far behind in the national bulletins. He gave the usual limited information about the three victims, then aired his concern that the killer, or killers, appeared to be gaining access to his victims' homes without any sign of a struggle.

'Therefore, I would like to hear from anyone who has had someone call at their house, probably first thing in the morning, with an unusual or unconvincing reason for doing so. Perhaps you've turned such a person away because they were unable to show you a proper ID card, or they were offering a product or service that seemed bogus. If you've had such a call we urge you to phone us immediately.'

In his daughter Liz's flat the old man sat directly in front of the TV screen, several empty bottles of Guinness now on the table beside the armchair. She was upstairs, completing some designs for a presentation on Monday morning. As DCI McCloughlin finished his appeal, holding the camera with an earnest gaze, Liz's father let out a slow, rasping snore.

Chapter 20

August 2002

Tom came to with a start, unsure if it was the sound of his own snores or the rain battering down on his head that had awoken him.

He didn't know if it was something to do with air being blown in off the Irish Sea, then rising and cooling on reaching the Peak District, but downpours in Manchester were a way of life.

Normally the rain was consistent in its intensity – a never-ending sheet of fine drops that managed to soak their way through outer layers of clothing in no time. But occasionally the skies really opened up, releasing a barrage of droplets that bordered on tropical in their heaviness.

This was such a downpour.

Slumped in a chair on the patio, Tom focused on the TV through the French windows, drips catching in his eyebrows, falling in a steady stream from his nose, running down his legs and into his shoes. The dancers in the closing ceremony at the Commonwealth Games stadium tried to keep their movements synchronized as they splashed and slipped through the puddles of water.

Despite the rain, the temperature was pleasantly warm. With a movement so deliberate he could only be exceptionally drunk, Tom held the whisky bottle up. He considered whether to replace the top: he didn't want any rain watering it down.

He'd given up trying to ring Charlotte's mobile. For the first few days after their argument it went onto answerphone every time he called. Then the number went dead and he realized she must have moved to another one.

Slowly he raised the bottle to his lips, sucked down a great mouthful and decided the drink wasn't suffering. Turning his eyes back to the screen, he watched as the Queen was escorted to her place, attendants struggling to keep umbrellas over her. After another hour or so, the firework display began. Tom watched the screen, seeing the rockets taking off in a Mexican wave around the rim of the stadium. Then, tilting his head to the night sky, he watched the flickering lights bouncing off the low-lying cloud, water coursing down his chin, snaking in rivulets across his bare chest and wildly racing heart.

The next day he remembered that Charlotte's parents, Martin and Sheila, had moved to the Cotswolds in the weeks after he had married their daughter. He and Charlotte had met up with them in a restaurant with the surprise news that they had got married. It was an announcement that provoked only tight smiles and forced words of congratulation. He sensed the distance between the couple and their daughter, as if they'd resigned themselves to the fact that their little girl had chosen a path in life of which they didn't approve but dared not criticize.

On the internet he went to the directory enquiries web site, typed in their details and geographic location. The search threw up five possibilities and Tom found them on his fourth call.

'Hello, it's Tom Benwell here. 'A pause followed, long enough to force him into saying, 'Your daughter's husband?'

The information finally clicked and Sheila exclaimed, 'Tom! Oh how silly of me to get mixed up. How are you and Charlotte? Everything OK I hope?'

'Well...' He knew then that his wife wasn't with them. 'As a matter of fact, we've had a bit of a bust up – a few days ago now. She wanted some space, so we're spending some time apart. I was kind of hoping she may have gone to you.'

Sheila didn't seem at all concerned that her daughter had apparently vanished. 'No, she hasn't rung us. How odd. I hope it turns out to be nothing you can't resolve.'

'I'm sure we will.' He paused and when he carried on, there were tears running down his cheeks. 'I was silly, Sheila. Made plans about moving house and jobs without telling her. I think it all took her by surprise. Listen, if she calls can you tell her to please phone me?'

'Of course.'

'Thank you. And I was wondering, do you have the numbers for any school friends she might have gone to at a time like this?'

'Tom,' she said, 'you struck me as a very nice man, if a touch naïve. I'll be honest with you, though it seems very strange to be telling my daughter's husband this. Charlotte has always been very single-minded, to the point of not really having any close friends. She always preferred the company of men. Wealthy men, to be frank. 'A wistful note had crept into her voice. 'I don't know why.'

'The numbers of any friends, male or female, will do.'

'That's what I'm trying to get to. I don't have any numbers. I'm ashamed to say that her life isn't that familiar to us.'

Tom was only half taking it in. 'OK, well thanks Mrs Davenport.'

'Hang on!'she suddenly exclaimed. 'She got a postcard the other day. It was redirected from our old address to here. Sent from Olivia, her old flat mate.'

Tom had no idea who she was.

'Anyway, Olivia gives her new address; she's still near Manchester. A place called Disley, I think. Hang on, I'll just get it.' She came back on the line a minute later and read out the address. 'Oh and Tom? Please ring me when she does turn up. She's done this sort of disappearing act before, but it's always nice to know that she's safe and sound.'

Tom felt his guts tightening and anxiety beginning to build at the back of his head. It was time. He reached for the new bag he'd got from Brain, so plump and soft and comforting.

The video had finished long ago, rewound itself and was waiting for something else to happen. Tom was slumped in his seat, a bottle of brandy, the powder and the gun on the coffee table before him. He drifted in and out of sleep, stirring every now and again to take another sip or pinch.

Where had she gone? What about their baby? He'd tried everything he could think of. The staff at the David Lloyd Club wouldn't help. Details of their members' training classes were confidential. When he had lost his temper two assistants from the gym had almost carried him out the door. That was another thing: his temper. It would flare up so easily, then die down to be replaced with stifling despair. The swings in emotion were exhausting him, making it hard to sleep. The only thing that seemed able to straighten out his emotions and make him feel better was the powder.

The sole evidence that Charlotte still existed was the withdrawals from their joint bank account. A few hundred here, a few hundred there. But always from cashpoints – never transactions at a hotel or somewhere that would give him a clue as to where she was staying.

Staring at the blank screen in the darkness, he was vaguely aware of a car driving slowly past. A couple of minutes later he heard a tiny creaking noise. Groggily he looked towards the doorway.

A shaft of light shone in the hall, flickering around, catching on the mirror at the end of the corridor. He got to his feet, having to grab the back of the sofa before he fell over. He picked the gun off the table and staggered to the door. Peering round, he could see a thin ray of light shining through the letterbox. Caught in the bright beam was a piece of wood with a hook on the end. Raising up the gun, he stepped out of the front room. The torch beam jumped to his legs and started travelling upwards as he tried to squeeze the trigger. The thing wouldn't budge and he realized the safety was on.

The light suddenly cut as the letterbox snapped shut.

Tom lurched down the corridor. As he snatched the keys off the hook he could hear someone scrabbling to their feet beyond the door. Pushing the key in the lock, he flung his front door open. A dark figure was running from the end of his driveway.

'You fucker!' Tom screamed, trying to go after him but tripping on the doormat. He fell down the steps, the gun clattering across the tarmac and under the Porsche.

A car started up further down the street but, by the time he'd got back to his feet, the vehicle had accelerated away.

He paced to the end of his drive and watched the red lights as the vehicle sped round the corner and out of sight. Hyperventilating, he marched back to his car, reached underneath and retrieved the gun.

Back inside he turned the hallway light on and examined the weapon. A couple of new scratches had been added to the scarred black metal, merging with the file marks that obliterated where some writing and numbers used to be.

He flicked the safety catch off, stepped into the dining room and placed it in the second drawer of the sideboard under some napkins.

He decided that Charlotte would see sense once she had accepted the fact they were starting a family. Every parent yearned for a safe environment to bring their children up in. She would too; she just needed time to come around to the fact she was going to be a mother.

What he had to do, he decided, was have everything ready for when she came home. He went on to the businesses for sale section of the Cornwall Tourist Board web site, then scrolled through to the cafe.

A red band across the screen read 'under offer'.