Midnight Murders (11 page)

‘I've just eaten.'

‘How about cheese and biscuits and a beer? I've some first-class Dutch lager in the fridge that a friend brought back from Holland.'

‘Are you sure I won't be imposing?' Trevor asked.

‘Quite sure. I live alone because I like it that way, but that's not to say I don't enjoy company from time to time. Besides,' she grinned wickedly, ‘there's nothing on the TV tonight. I checked the paper.' Jean led the way out of the pub and over a bridge that spanned the yacht berths. ‘I live on the far side.' She pointed to one of the most expensive blocks, fronting the open sea on one side and the marina on the other.

‘Nice view.'

‘You'll see just how nice in a moment.' She waved to the porter as they walked through the foyer. She went into the lift and pressed the button for the top floor.

‘The penthouse?'

‘What else?' The lift halted. There was only one door in the lobby. Jean scrabbled in her handbag for her keys, and opened it.

Trevor stepped in behind her and found himself in a large, square, windowless hall with mahogany panelling, carpeted with a blue and red Persian rug, and hung with what turned out to be, on close inspection, very suggestive Persian prints.

‘I like the Orient.' She opened one of the panels to reveal a cupboard. ‘Can I take your jacket?'

Trevor handed it over as he looked for somewhere to drop his bags.

‘Drop those in the corner.'

He followed her into a living room that could have swallowed his flat four times over. Two walls were glass, one overlooked the sea, the other the marina, and he felt as though he had wandered into a people-sized fish tank.

‘This view is spectacular. I love the sea and can just about see the dirty corner next to the sewage works from my kitchen window.'

The other two walls were painted in shades of blue. The ceiling was pale grey, the floor carpeted in navy-blue Wilton. Even the sofas were upholstered in deep blue leather; the only soft touch was the Persian tapestry cushions on the sofas, and the hand woven Persian silk hangings on the walls.

‘Orient again?' He raised his eyebrows.

Jean brushed her hand across one of the hangings, which was almost but not quite as suggestive as the pictures in the hall. The colours were perfect for the room; predominantly blue and grey, with a few touches of white and burgundy.

‘You certainly know how to put a home together,' Trevor complimented, looking at the grey-washed, lime-oak glass fronted cupboards that held a selection of blue Turkish glass and Chinese porcelain.

‘Thank you. Take a seat, and I'll mix us a salad and fetch the drinks.'

‘I'd rather help.' He followed her into another inner hallway.

‘Cloakroom,' she pointed to a door ahead of them. ‘Bedrooms, bathrooms, kitchen, dining room and study,' she indicated the doors. ‘It's not vast, but it's comfortable. Take a look around.'

‘I wouldn't dream of it.'

‘Don't be so polite. People are always curious about other people's living space. Adam Hayter asked me if I had gold-plated baths and loos when he found out where I lived. The publicity campaign the builder ran when he marketed this place backfired. People expected rock musicians and film stars to move in, not the local scrap merchant.'

‘Scrap merchant?' Trevor looked at her quizzically.

‘My husband,' Jean explained. ‘The one who ran off with an eighteen-year-old tart.'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘There's no need to be. He did me an enormous favour. I was getting tired of hearing him crow about his face-lifts and lipo suction. And it was alarming to wake up next to him after the last face-lift. Something went wrong and he couldn't close his eyes. I hope his tart doesn't mind sleeping next to a wide-open stare. And I most certainly am “All right Jack”, thank you very much. My share of our divorce settlement gave me this apartment, the first boat you see in the row if you look out the study window, and enough money to tempt all the toy boys I want into my bed when the mood takes me.'

She moved into the kitchen and, unable to resist his curiosity, Trevor walked into the study and looked out of its huge picture window. A large ocean-going cruiser was berthed in front of a line of yachts.

‘That's your boat?' he called into the kitchen.

‘The
Turkish Queen
.' she called back. ‘It's five-berth. My husband had it built, and christened it after we holidayed in Turkey. At the time I thought he named it after me; now I'm not so sure. I'd like to rename it, but that's supposed to be unlucky.'

He looked at the rest of the study. Books lined the floor to ceiling oak shelves, all Everyman editions in mint condition that looked as though they'd never been opened. A bleached oak desk held a computer and nothing else. For all its expensive fitments the room looked strangely empty and characterless, like a display in a museum or a furniture shop.

He went into the cloakroom and washed his hands and face in a Victorian-style sink. The tiles on the wall were Minton, the thick fluffy towels American. Resisting the temptation to open the bedroom doors, he went into the kitchen where he found Jean mixing salad in between sips of gin.

‘This room's too big for someone like me, who never cooks,' she waved her hand around the expanse of ultra-modern black and grey granite units. ‘I've never switched on one of the fridge-freezers, or used the large oven in the cooker, but I'm too idle to move house, and it's better to have too much space and too many gadgets than too few.' She handed him a tray with the salad and a can of lager on it. ‘I'll bring in the chicken pie and cheese. Sure you won't have some salad, too?'

‘Perhaps just a little.' Trevor's appetite was sharpened by all the beer he'd drunk.

She loaded pie, cheese, biscuits and fruit on to another tray, and returned to the living room. To Trevor's amazement, she opened the window.

‘We'll freeze.'

‘Not in a centrally-heated conservatory. It's cleverly designed; you have to look hard to see where the glass ends and the balcony begins. The balcony was so large, and the winters so long, it seemed a waste of space until I had the idea of glassing half of it in.' She set the tray down on a cane table. Returning to the living room she picked up two glass plates, cutlery, and a silver box of paper napkins. ‘Sorry about these disposable napkins, but I hate washing. In fact I hate all housework.'

‘This is marvellous.' Trevor sat facing both the open sea and the marina. ‘I'd forgotten life could be this good.' He resolved to do something about his shabby little flat the first chance he got.

Life was short, very short. It had taken a close brush with death for him to realise just how quickly the flame of existence could be snuffed out; and now he'd learned that no one, least of all himself, was immortal, perhaps it might be as well if he continued to remember his mortality for whatever time was left to him.

Jean was showing him a glimpse of the good and beautiful life, and it could be his if he made the effort. He'd seen too much ugliness. It was time he looked for something better that offered, if not the certainty of happiness, at least the chance.

They ate and drank, quietly, companionably. Dusk fell and one by one the harbour lights flickered on. First in the pubs and restaurants, then the lamps that sent silvery sparkles dancing on the waves along the water's edge and finally the red mast lights of the boats berthed in lines along the marina.

‘You don't need gold-plated baths,' Trevor said. ‘This view is worth every penny you paid for it.'

‘I didn't pay for it. I earned it as a reward for twenty years of marriage to a boorish lout who couldn't spell his own name. But,' she chuckled throatily, ‘I think the compensation was worth every second of the sentence. Don't you?'

CHAPTER ELEVEN

‘Vanessa Hedley's missing.'

‘What?' Karl Lane looked up from the pile of forms he was filling in and stared in disbelief at Lyn who was standing in the doorway of his ward office.

‘Vanessa's missing. I can't find her anywhere…'

‘Calm down,' he ordered, exercising his authority as senior nursing officer on duty. ‘You've checked the ward thoroughly?'

‘Yes.'

‘The therapy units?'

‘All the therapists left two hours ago.'

‘Spencer sometimes runs an evening class.'

‘Not tonight. I checked his room.'

‘Have you telephoned security?'

‘Yes. I asked them to search the grounds.'

‘Have you informed Tony?'

‘It's nine o'clock. I assumed he'd have gone home by now.'

‘He rarely leaves his office before eight on a normal evening and what's happening around here at the moment is anything but normal. I'll try him.' He picked up the receiver and dialled. ‘You'd better get back to your ward. Vanessa probably just wandered off through the gates when the porter wasn't looking. You know what she's like. But wherever she is, she can't have come to any harm given the number of police officers crawling around the grounds. How long has she been gone?'

‘I saw her at dinner. She left with Roland – '

‘Roland?' he interrupted.

‘They only went to the day room,' Lyn replied, knowing what he was thinking. ‘According to Lucy, Vanessa went to the toilet shortly afterwards and didn't return. Everyone assumed she'd gone to bed early.'

‘Did you ask Lucy if Roland followed Vanessa?'

‘No, but he's in his own room now. I saw him there ten minutes ago.'

‘They could have gone out together earlier, and Roland returned without her. He spends half his life skulking in the gardens. I think he has a bar hidden in the bushes. We'd better get security to trawl the shrubberies. Roland's probably got Vanessa plastered and she's still searching for her knickers in the dark.'

‘Karl, this is no joke.' Lyn was irritated by his flippant attitude.

‘Who says I'm joking?' He dropped the receiver. ‘Tony isn't in his office.'

‘I think we should tell the police.'

‘Why?'

‘She's missing,' she repeated in exasperation. ‘And she's the only person who's seen the killer.'

‘Vanessa Hedley's a psychiatric patient. Psychiatric patients go missing all the time. If we rang the police every time one decided to go walkabout, we'd be the laughing stock of the Trust.'

‘I think in this case we should make an exception.'

‘I'm senior nursing duty officer and any decision to contact the police has to be made by the senior admin officer. It's Tony's problem, not ours. Can you imagine what the local press will make of this, if it leaks out? Compton Castle staff, ask serious crime squad to find crazy lady they misplaced. They'll have a field-day, when they find out who she is. Someone's bound to recognise the name and they'll dig up the headlines from when she tried to kill her husband and his mistress. Then there'll be a hue and cry from the people who bought luxury executive homes outside the hospital walls, and who don't want a potential murderer living in the same square mile as their offspring.'

‘I can imagine the headlines this will make if she has been snatched by the killer,' Lyn said. ‘Vanessa Hedley murdered by serial killer while hospital trust stays mum.'

‘Return to your ward, Nurse Sullivan,' Karl said. ‘You've reported Vanessa Hedley's absence to your senior. I'll take it from here.'

‘Karl – '

He remembered the last night they'd spent together. She was beautiful, even with her long dark hair gathered into a knot at the nape of neck. Probably the most beautiful girlfriend he'd ever had, and the best bed mate he'd found in a long time. He laid his hands on her shoulders. ‘It will be all right. No one's going to blame you. Everyone's aware that two trained staff and two auxiliaries can't supervise twenty-four patients every single minute of their day and night.'

A number of things about Karl had begun to annoy Lyn lately, not least his arrogant, patronising attitude.

‘I'm not concerned with being hauled over the coals by the authorities; you stupid man, but with what might have happened to Vanessa. She's a witness… '

‘Back to your ward, Nurse Sullivan.'

‘Damn you, Karl. I just hope you're right and nothing has happened to her.'

‘Been out, mate?' Peter slowed his car in the drive of Compton Castle, and wound down his window.

‘To town,' Trevor stopped and leaned heavily on his stick. ‘Give me a lift up to my ward. I'm whacked.'

‘Bill received a directive from Tony Waters that all police vehicles were to keep to the first hundred yards of the main drive, well away from all wards, but you know me and rules. Jump in.' Peter opened both back and front doors, and Trevor off-loaded his bags into the back and flung his stick on top of them, before clambering into the passenger seat.

‘Been shopping until now?'

‘I stopped for a meal.'

‘You what?' Peter stared at Trevor in amazement. Even in the darkness he could sense a change, a subtle increase in confidence and a rebirth of humour.

‘Steak and chips.'

‘And beer, by the smell of you.' Peter waved a hand in front of his face. ‘Lots of beer.'

‘Four or five,' Trevor admitted with a grin.

‘And you're obviously feeling proud of yourself, even if you're on the road to alcoholism. Welcome back to the land of the living.' Peter tried and failed to mask the emotion he felt. ‘It's about bloody time, even if I am jealous as hell at the thought of you munching steak and chips, when I'm confined to a diet of take-away grease eaten at ungodly hours in the mobile HQ.'

‘I thought I could smell something.'

‘Something getting cold.' Peter halted outside the ward block. ‘Here you are. Home. Does mother know you've been out?'

Trevor pulled a pass from his jacket pocket. ‘Allowed out until nine-thirty.'

‘You've one minute to spare. Here, I'll give you a hand with your bags. Bloody hell!' Peter exclaimed, as he picked up the one containing the shoes. ‘What have you been buying?'

‘A new image,' Trevor retrieved his stick, and limped towards the front door.

‘Good Lord, so you have.' Peter noticed Trevor's clothes as he stood beneath the light and rang the bell. ‘And you've had your hair cut. Well, that settles it.'

‘Settles what?'

‘You'll be kicked out of the Drug Squad. You're too damned clean and neat even for Serious Crimes.'

The door opened and Trevor walked inside. When Peter returned to his car, he almost tripped over a security guard who was shining a torch beneath it.

‘What are you are doing here at this time of night?' the man demanded officiously.

Peter looked him up and down. Ex-forces by his build and carriage, young, and probably working for minimum wage, he decided cynically. He brought out his wallet and flashed his badge.

‘Hospital Trust has declared this area out of bounds to the police, sir,' the guard pointed out in a marginally politer tone.

‘Returning an injured suspect.' Peter stepped into the driving seat. The smell of fish and chips reminded him that his supper wouldn't be getting any warmer. There was nothing worse than cold fish and chips. They reverted to blocks of solid, tasteless grease. But as he drove away from the wards towards the mobile HQ, he couldn't help feeling uneasy. Something was wrong; he could feel it in his bones. He just couldn't put his finger on whatever that something was.

‘Anything new on Rosie Twyford?' Dan asked when Peter walked in.

‘Absolutely bloody nothing.' Peter handed over one of the two paper-wrapped bundles. ‘Thought you might be hungry,' he replied to Dan's enquiring look.

‘That's kind of you.' The more Dan saw and worked with Peter, the more he was amazed by his generosity, which often came directly after a bout of particularly belligerent behaviour.

‘I came back because I'd rather sit out the night here, than listen to Mary Poppins regurgitate the blanks we drew in Rosie Twyford's bed-sit.'

‘It was that bad?' Dan picked up a handful of chips and squashed them into his mouth.

‘The only one who admitted to knowing her was the guy in the next bed-sit, and he claimed he had only met her twice in the hallway. But as four of the other residents have been hauled in for pushing, and three for soliciting, it's not the kind of cosy household you invite your neighbour in to for a cup of tea and a chat.'

‘It's the kind of household the social workers look for when they want to off-load their difficult charges.'

‘You got it in one,' Peter mumbled, his mouth full.

‘I'm not going to object to extra help. After we've eaten, you can give me a hand with this.'

‘What is it?' Peter stared at the enormous, grey cardboard box on Dan's desk.'

‘The staff files of current hospital personnel.'

‘Official files never tell you anything. Friend of mine works in a press cutting agency. I gave him a staff list yesterday and he came up trumps.' Peter cornered the last of his soggy chips in the blind end of the greaseproof paper bag, then crammed them into his mouth. Screwing the greasy paper into a ball, he flicked it into the bin. ‘Let's see what he found, shall we?' He walked out of the door and went to his car.

‘The personnel files are a collection of CVs, medical histories, and job descriptions. If I hadn't been assured otherwise by Tony Waters, I'd say they'd been sanitised for our benefit,' Dan complained an hour later, as he pushed the fourth file aside and reached for the coffee pot. ‘Want one?' he held the pot in front of Peter.

‘May as well.' Peter separated the national press cuttings from the mass of local paper's wedding photographs and details of charity cheque handovers. ‘My friend is nothing if not thorough.' He spread out a photocopied double sheet, taken from a Sunday arts supplement.

‘
Darling of the art set makes his first million
,' he read. ‘
Spencer Jordan has added to his phenomenal success by selling his entire current Californian exhibition to the Metropolitan Museum of Modern Art…
'

‘You sure that's the same Spencer Jordan?' Dan asked.

‘Take a look at the picture.' Peter passed it over. ‘He's younger, better dressed and hairier, but it's the same man. What have you got on his CV?'

Dan rummaged through his files. ‘Successful commercial artist. Exhibitions, lots of exhibitions, art college here, then in America… given the post of art therapist at Compton Castle two years ago. A note on his medical file says he had an eye removed, and he's made a good recovery from severe clinical depression. Isn't that what Trevor Joseph has?'

‘Yes,' Peter whistled. ‘Look at this,' he pushed a paper across the table. Lurid headlines blazed above a gruesome photograph that covered the front page of a tabloid.

‘Has to be American press,' Dan commented. ‘Not even a hardened jackal of the British press corps would sink this low.

Four bodies had been laid out on a lawn. The faces inadequately covered with tiny squares of cloth that barely obscured their features. The hair and ears were in plain view. Two were small, one a tiny baby. All the corpses were bloodied, clothes and skin slashed to shreds.

‘
Artist's family slain by sect in ritual killing
,' Dan read. He turned the page. ‘
Spencer Jordan, the well-known British artist returned to his Californian home after hosting an exhibition in New York, to find his entire family slain and their murderers occupying his house.'

There was another photograph on the second page of Spencer being led out of the house by a paramedic. His cheeks were bloody and a gauze bandage covered his eyes.

‘
One of the sect attacked Spencer Jordan, tearing out his eye, but despite his horrific injuries Mr Jordan managed to fight his way to the front door and raise the alarm
.'

‘Which explains why he suffered from depression,' Peter observed.

‘The eldest child was four, the youngest two months,' Dan whispered. ‘Poor bastard. No wonder he started his career here as an inmate.'

‘Is his medical history in his personal record?' Peter asked.

‘Nothing other than what I read out, Waters' secretary let slip that Harry Goldman fought the Trust to give Spencer the post of therapist here.'

‘It's probably worth buying her a drink or two in the Green Monkey.'

‘Where do you think she told me that?' Dan replied. ‘I took her there earlier this evening. Find the local gossip, ply her with drink, pump her, and you'll save yourself a lot of leg work.'

‘Unwritten police college motto?' Peter agreed.

‘Pays every time. What do you think? The man obviously suffered.'

‘But did he suffer enough to lose his marbles and turn into a killer? When did he first take up his post here?'

‘Two years ago. When did this happen?' Dan rammed his finger on the newspaper.

‘Four years ago. Two years missing.' Peter pushed a smaller article covering the trial towards Dan. ‘There's a footnote here, Spencer Jordan could not be called to give evidence because he was incarcerated in a state mental institution. The killers were convicted on forensic evidence, and sentenced to life.'

‘What's life in California?' Dan asked.

‘Probably the same as here,' Peter replied. ‘Ten years remission for every six months of good behaviour, a pat on the head and a directive never to be a naughty boy again when released.'

‘That man's been through a lot.' Dan folded the newspaper so he didn't have to look at the photographs.