Midnight Murders (14 page)

‘Professor, you say he's a loner – does that mean he doesn't relate to men as well as women?' Dan questioned.

‘Probably,' the professor answered carefully.

Dan wrote
Loner
.

‘And he's impotent?' Peter failed to keep a cynical tone from his voice.

‘Almost certainly, but I wouldn't like to hazard whether his sexual impotence is physical or psychological in origin.'

‘Either way, the results would be the same.' Peter watched Dan add
Impotent
to the list.

‘He probably lives alone,' the Professor continued enthusiastically, pleased that Dan was taking him seriously. ‘Or with a domineering female relative.'

‘One – or more than one?' Bill asked.

‘I'd be inclined to stick my neck out and say one, although I suppose there is a possibility that there could be a mother and an older sister,' Crabbe said.

‘What about a…' Peter hesitated.

‘What about a what?' Bill demanded.

Peter glanced at Harry Goldman. The psychiatrist had contributed so little to the conversation he'd forgotten that Harry was in the room, and he could hardly accuse the live-in companion of his most senior assistant of being the murderer. ‘A relationship where a man and a woman live together on a platonic basis to pool expenses,' he finished lamely.

‘That implies a socio-economic relationship, which your killer would shy away from. Our man has his own space, he either lives alone or has a room he doesn't allow his relatives access to,' the Professor insisted.

Dan picked up the pen again and added
Lives alone or with domineering female relative
.

‘Possibly a collector,' Harry reminded. He was proud of his contribution, and knew exactly who Peter had in mind when he mentioned platonic relationships.

Dan scribbled
Collector
.

‘He chooses his victim. Keeps her hidden. Does whatever he wants with her, shows her kindness, cruelty, torture, whatever his whims dictate. Then, when he tires of the game and her, he buries her.' Harry described the scenario as graphically as he could. ‘The ultimate secret trophy to be added to his collection. Uniquely his, forever.'

‘He must know this hospital inside out,' Peter reminded everyone, ‘to spirit Vanessa away the way he did.'

‘That's if he has her.' Bill lifted his feet from the desk. ‘Where's the damned coffee?'

‘He buried the others when there were security guards around.' Peter reached for his cigars. ‘We know he starved the last one. He couldn't have brought her into the hospital on a number 10 bus without someone noticing something out of the ordinary.'

‘As they were paralysed he could have kept them in the boot of his car,' John Crabbe suggested.

‘Not since we've been searching every car that goes in and out of here.' Dan unscrewed the cap of his pen.

‘Knowledge of, and access to drugs,' Peter prompted.

‘He would have suffered mood swings about the time of each disappearance and murder. You've nothing more accurate to give us on dates of the first two murders?' John Crabbe asked.

‘We've had to rely on the pathologist, and the only thing we can be certain of is that the last victim was buried on a cloudy night when there was an intermittent full moon.'

‘You've forgotten to list his low socio-economic grouping,' Harry left his seat. ‘I'm sorry, gentlemen, but I have an appointment with a patient. Trevor Joseph in fact.'

‘If you sign him out fit for duty, let me be the first to know,' Bill said. ‘I need every man I can get.'

A knock at the door interrupted them. Harry Goldman opened it.

‘Coffee, sir,' the constable held up a tray.

‘Bit bloody late,' Bill barked.

Peter took the tray from the constable. She was an attractive blonde. He winked at her and she kicked him sharply and painfully on the shin.

‘So sorry, Sergeant Collins,' she apologised insincerely. ‘My foot slipped.'

Harry left. Peters shut the door with his back. He dumped the tray on top of the papers on the table, to the disgust of John Crabbe, who made a great show of extracting his file from beneath it. The four men stared at the flip-chart while they helped themselves to coffee.

Strong, Loner, Impotent, No friends or visible woman in life apart from domineering mother or older sister. Possible collector. Knowledge of hospital layout, drugs, and has access to drugs. From the lower socio-economic grouping, had noticeable mood swings at times of victims disappearance and murder.

‘Anything else, Professor?' Bill was anxious to be rid of the man and it showed.

‘Twenty-five to thirty-five years old – possibly forty at the outside.'

Dan amended the list, and remained, pen poised next to the chart.

‘He's also neat, tidy and careful,' Dan said thoughtfully.

‘What makes you say that?' the Professor asked.

‘Absence of hairs and fibres. The pathologist found nothing on the victims that didn't belong to them.'

Peter sipped his coffee. ‘Are we any further forward?'

‘Suppose we try to match our suspects to this profile,' Bill suggested.

‘The staff.' Peter was still smarting from the realisation that Bill and Dan regarded Trevor as a potential suspect.

‘The gardener, Jimmy Herne is too old. The administrative officer, Tony Waters is married… ' Dan began.

‘To a woman so cold I wonder if she's flesh or ice,' Peter observed.

‘She could be a volcano in private,' Bill smiled.

‘I seriously doubt it.'

‘What's the matter? Didn't she fancy you, Peter?' Bill was so tired he forgot the presence of Crabbe. All he wanted was his bed.

‘If you're going to do this properly,' Crabbe interrupted, ‘you should consider everyone.'

‘Harry Goldman?' Peter winked at Bill.

‘Single. Lives alone,' Bill pointed out.

‘Wrong socio-economic group.' Dan placed his empty cup on the tray.

‘Look at all the variables and mark the ones with the highest percentages,' Crabbe lectured.

‘Right on knowledge of drugs, and hospital, wrong on size.' Peter crushed the remains of his cigar in an ashtray. ‘He weighs what? Seven stone and two of those are his spectacles. Can you see him trotting across the lawn with a twelve-stone woman slung across his shoulders?'

‘Jimmy Herne the gardener? He didn't like us digging,' Dan reminded.

‘Too old, at sixty. And he's married with six children,' Bill revealed.

‘Spencer Jordan?' Dan flicked through his notebook.

‘Now there's a name to conjure with.' Peter reached for another cigar. ‘Right age bracket at thirty-eight, tall, strong, loner, no visible women, or friends, knowledge of hospital both as a patient and staff member, I dare say he could organise access to drugs, and after three years spent in psychiatric hospitals he should know how to use them.'

‘Collector?' Crabbe asked.

‘He has pictures on the walls of his room,' Peter answered.

‘It is an art therapy room,' Dan chipped in. ‘And he's the wrong socio group; he's not a low achiever.'

‘That depends where you're starting from. A few years ago he was a mile higher than he is now,' Peter struck a match. ‘He lives alone in a hospital flat. I'd say, after visiting his work room, he's neat, tidy, careful, and he has a past that could have turned his psyche upside-down.'

‘Put him down as number one on an interview list.' Bill tapped a cigarette out of a new packet. ‘Next.'

‘Adam Hayter,' Peter lit his cigar.

‘Big, but not strong,' Dan opened the window to let the smoke out. ‘He's flabby.'

‘Coming from you, that's rich.' Peter joked. ‘And flabby or not, he could manage a twelve-stone woman. After all, he must manage Dotty Clyne.'

‘What about no visible woman in his life?' Dan asked.

‘You call Dotty a woman?' Peter raised his eyebrows.

‘Other criteria,' Bill looked at the list.

‘Collector?' Dan read.

‘I don't know about collector, but have you been in his kitchen?' Peter looked from Dan to Bill. ‘Talk about everything in its place, and spotless. He's neat, tidy and careful, right age at twenty-nine, I'd go along with impotent, and as for loner, every time I see him I'm trampled by the rush of people desperate to avoid him.'

‘Lower socio-economic group?' Crabbe reminded.

‘Cooks are notoriously ill-paid, he has knowledge of both hospital and drugs, and he lives with Dotty who's a domineering woman.'

‘Add his name to the list to be interviewed, then we'll move on to the patients,' Bill left his chair and paced across the room to keep awake.

‘What about Dotty?' Peter suggested.

‘We're looking for a man,' Bill said impatiently.

‘A dyke?' Peter glanced at Crabbe. ‘What do you think?'

‘Rare, but they do exist.
Female serial killers account for only 8% of all American serial killers, but 76% of all female serial killers worldwide,'
Crabbe clearly loved statistics.

‘I didn't ask for a lecture,' Peter admonished. ‘Only an opinion as to whether or not it's worth considering in this case.'

‘It could be, as long as you realise that statistically it's a long shot. But you said that Dotty was living with a therapist – this Adam Hayter.'

‘She is,' Peter confirmed.

‘In my experience, lesbians rarely live with men.'

‘Precisely. She's living with Hayter.'

‘Let's move on,' Dan said evenly. ‘She's big, strong,'

‘Impotent,' Peter interrupted.

‘And a psychiatrist, which puts her out of the socio-economic group,' Bill said.

‘But that's the only variable,' Peter said enthusiastically. ‘She has a knowledge of the hospital, and drugs. She's the right age at thirty-six. She's impotent in male sexual terms. She has to be worth thinking about.'

‘Add her to your list,' Bill ordered Dan.

‘If we're going to look at one woman, we'd better look at them all. Jean Marshall, Lyn Sullivan, Carol Ashford… '

‘Carol Ashford's married,' Dan ran his finger down a list of staff in his notebook.

‘Happily?' Bill asked.

‘She's married to Tony Waters. They live on a farm.'

‘Then it's a safe bet it's neither of them,' Crabbe pronounced decisively.

‘Jean Marshall's divorced, but outgoing and friendly.'

‘Peter, you've known her longer than any of us.' Bill leaned against the door.

‘I'd say she's more the “serial one night stand” than serial killer.'

‘Lyn Sullivan's twenty-one, and has a boyfriend; the nurse, Karl Lane,' Dan commented.

‘I think it's safe to leave the women,' Bill ordered. ‘Let's start on the patients.'

‘Roland Williams is too old,' Dan said.

‘He's lecherous,' Peter observed. ‘And not impotent, from what I've heard and from what I've seen, he likes to touch up females every chance he gets.'

Bill looked at the professor. ‘Our man?'

‘Is neither a toucher nor a lecher. In fact he's probably a prude. Wouldn't stand for public mention of sex. Outwardly he probably sees sex as something dirty. Remember the domineering woman.'

‘Roland out,' Peter moved on. ‘Michael Carpenter?'

‘Pyromaniac – not impotent from what his girlfriend said at his trial. In fact whatever the opposite is, that's him,' Dan had done his homework.

‘On to the women.'

‘Vanessa's disappeared. Lucy is too scared to say boo to a goose. She's young and believes herself married to Jason Donovan,' Peter explained to Crabbe.

‘An unlikely candidate,' Crabbe said decisively.

‘Ali Bevan is fixated on men.' Peter flicked the ash from his cigar. ‘Which means we're left with Spencer Jordan, Adam Hayter, Dotty Clyne, or any one of the fifty-two porters split between day and night shifts. Not to mention the nurses, male and female, and the security guards… '

‘Maintenance men, gardeners – ' Dan added.

‘And Uncle Tom Cobley and all,' Peter sighed. ‘God help us. For all of this,' he waved his hand at the flip-chart, ‘it could be just one stray nut. And, as I've said before, what chance do we have of finding one nut in a bloody orchard ripe for harvesting. Now, if you gentlemen can possibly spare me from this interesting exercise, I'll see if my team has turned up something we can work on. Superintending a search isn't an intellectual exercise, but it will help me cling to the illusion that I'm doing something constructive towards finding Vanessa Hedley.'

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Harry Goldman looked up from his desk as Trevor Joseph entered his office. ‘I heard you went out yesterday.'

‘Can't keep anything secret in this place, can you?'

‘Sit down. Tell me, how did you find the world after your absence?' Harry waited for Trevor's response.

‘It hadn't suffered unduly,' Trevor replied. Harry Goldman suddenly seemed incredibly condescending.

Goldman rested his chin on the tips of his fingers. Trevor felt that he was frantically searching his mind for something to say. ‘Do you consider yourself ready to leave your ward?' he asked eventually.

‘Yes, you were right. I was fit to leave weeks ago.'

‘And, you think you're ready to leave right away? Today?'

‘Yes.' Trevor left his chair and went the window. ‘It's just that… '

‘Everyone has doubts before taking such a monumental step. This place has been your second womb… '

‘I don't have any doubts,' Trevor cut through Harry's jargon. ‘But thank you for taking care of me when I did.' He didn't want to sound ungrateful. ‘I'm going to visit my flat and sort out a few things. But there's also work.'

Goldman stared at him in amazement. ‘I strongly advise against a return to such a stressful job. Aside from your physical injuries, there's the pressure. After an experience like yours, it will be difficult enough for you to cope with day-to-day living. You may believe you're ready to face more, but the balance of your mind is delicate. The slightest upset could cause a relapse. You should rest, relax, see friends, take a holiday. It would be most unwise to contemplate returning to work for at least six months.'

Trevor smiled; it was his turn to patronise. ‘You don't know the police force, Mr Goldman.'

‘I am beginning to find out a little about it.'

‘Superintendent Mulcahy suggested that I stay here, on the inside, for a few more days, to see if I could help with their enquiries.'

‘Into the murders?'

‘Yes.'

‘That would be most unwise. As I said, the slightest stress or strain could… '

‘They're pushed. They need all the help they can get.'

‘It's laudable to see such dedication in a public servant, but you have to realise that my – and your – first duty is to Trevor Joseph the patient, not Trevor Joseph the police officer.'

‘They are the same man,' Trevor said shortly. ‘I'm grateful to you for everything you have done to aid my recovery. Could I impose on you a little longer? Would you write me a pass that would enable me to continue living here, but to come and go as I please during the day?'

‘It would be unorthodox.'

‘I might be able to help clear this case up and get the police off the premises.' Trevor saw Harry wavering. ‘It should only be for a week or so.'

Goldman picked up his pen. ‘I'll give you a pass, on two conditions. First, you see me here every morning at eight-thirty for half an hour, so I can check your progress. And second, you limit your working time to no more than two hours a day.'

‘I agree.' Trevor knew that most police work meant talking to people, so it would be difficult for anyone to determine whether he was, or wasn't, working.

‘And you will have to be back in your ward every night by ten o'clock.'

‘I intend to be.' Trevor recalled the timing of the last burial.

‘This is still most unorthodox,' Goldman protested, finally signing the pass.

Trevor left the psychiatrist's office and walked down the corridor of the old Victorian block. There was evidence of police activity everywhere. In the fleet of cars and vans abandoned around the building, the teams of rookies combing the lawns, flowerbeds and shrubberies inch by inch on hands and knees; the crackle of voices bouncing back and forth on the radios of the officers searching the floors above him. Shuffling along, relying on his stick, he made his way purposefully towards Spencer's room.

It was break-time, and Spencer was sitting alone on a stool pulled up to one of the clay-covered work tables, a couple of slices of carrot cake and cup of decaffeinated coffee laid out on a sheet of newspaper in front of him.

‘Coffee?' Spencer offered.

‘Thanks.' Trevor poured himself one, without bothering to reheat the water.

‘You look better today,' Spencer complimented.

‘It's just the clothes and the haircut.'

‘And something else. You look… ' Spencer studied Trevor, ‘quietly confident.' He pushed a piece of cake towards Trevor.

‘Thanks to you.' Trevor took the cake and bit into it. ‘I went to town yesterday, as you can see.' He smoothed the back of his shorn neck. ‘Today I'm going to my flat.'

‘Leaving us?'

‘For the day.'

‘Harry breaking you in gently?'

‘Something like that.' Trevor was grateful to Spencer, liked him even, but breaking the glass on the fire alarm last night had been a watershed. It was something he wouldn't have thought twice about doing before he'd been injured, and the action had reminded him what it felt like to be a police officer. As a rookie, he'd been warned that police officers couldn't afford the luxury of too many friends outside the force. And how well did one person ever really get to know another?

At any moment Spencer could become a suspect. And, as Bill constantly drummed into the officers on his team, “Friendship clouds judgement.” There were plenty of coppers who'd made mistakes on that score, and some had ended up in the slammer.

Spencer stood looking out of the window at the officers combing the grounds. ‘Are you part of the team?'

‘I'm on the sick.'

‘My grandfather used to say “Once a copper, always a copper”.'

‘Yesterday I was hoping to prove that maxim wrong.'

‘And today?'

Trevor finished his coffee. ‘I need to do some more thinking on the subject. That's why I want to go back to my flat.'

‘Scared?'

‘Frankly, yes. I haven't seen it in four months, and after recalling a few aspects of my life that I didn't like, I've begun to wonder where I go from here.'

‘You don't want to carry on where you left off?'

‘Before I was injured, I never had time to think about my life or where I was headed. I'd roll out of bed dog-tired in the morning, wake myself up by standing under a jet of cold water, work ten – twelve, on occasions twenty hour shifts, eating lousy lukewarm take-away in the station as and when I could. There was no time to spend on anything important, like creating a home or a relationship.'

‘And now you want both?'

‘You've probably heard it all before. But if there's one thing I've learned during the past four months, it's that once you're dead, that's it. You stay dead for one hell of a long time. No one's going to come round to the crematorium, pat you on the head, and say, “Well, you were a nice hard working, conscientious fellow, so we'll give you another crack of the whip”. So now,' Trevor rinsed his cup under the tap in the paint-spattered sink, ‘I'm determined to do as much as I can, in whatever time I have left.'

‘I wish you luck.'

‘In fact, I'm probably in danger of turning into a right selfish swine. I intend to make time, not only to put together a real home, but to build a relationship. Are you married?'

‘I was.' Spencer crumpled the newspaper that had been under the cake and threw it into the bin.

‘I'm sorry,' Trevor sympathised. ‘Breaking up with someone is always hard.'

‘It is,' Spencer replied.

Trevor made his way back to his ward and opened his wardrobe door, intending to dig out his new coat. He paused for a moment, staring at the clothes Peter had hung up for him when he'd been admitted. The only reasonable item was the jacket he'd bought the day before. The rest of his new clothes were still in the carrier bags he hadn't yet unpacked. He lifted them on to the bed and tossed his new jacket on top. Taking one of the black bags Peter had brought in for his laundry, he removed everything from the hangars and threw the lot into a sack. He tied the top into a knot.

‘Spring cleaning?' Jean stopped outside the open door.

‘Tidying up before I leave. Harry Goldman's given me a free pass for a week. After that I'll be out of here, and on my own.'

‘You going out now?'

‘To take a look at my flat. Thought I'd see if it's still standing.'

‘How would you like to have dinner with me tonight?'

‘The answer is yes if I'm allowed to buy it.' His pulse raced at the thought of taking the first step towards establishing a relationship with a woman. ‘How about that pub on the marina?'

‘Eat in the same restaurant two nights running and you're in danger of falling into a rut. Have you tried the Greek restaurant in Argyle Street?'

‘There's nothing down there except offices.'

‘It opened three months ago.'

‘Turn my back for a couple of months and the whole town changes. Shall I meet you there?'

‘Seven o'clock,' she whispered as approaching footsteps echoed down the corridor. ‘That'll give us time for a drink afterwards.'

Trevor slipped on his jacket and tested himself by walking down the tunnel to the old block. Both his legs were aching, a nagging toothache type pain that had its origins in the unaccustomed exertions of the day before. Ordinary, everyday sounds fell strangely around him, transformed and muted by the perspex. The roar of car engines became the cries of animals in pain. The crashing of pots of pans in the kitchen were a swordfight, the rattle of a trolley travelling over hard floors, the staccato report of machine gunfire.

He pulled himself together. The other thing a policeman couldn't afford, along with close civilian friends, was an over-active imagination. He walked through the main hall to the mobile HQ and knocked once before entering.

‘Sergeant Joseph.' Sarah Merchant beamed at him, as he climbed awkwardly up the short flight of steps. ‘You look in good shape.'

‘I feel in good shape.' He smiled at her and the other two girls manning the telephones. ‘Busy?'

‘Wish we were busier,' one of the girls grumbled. ‘If we were, it might mean that all this sitting around, waiting for something to happen, would be over and done with.'

‘Rookies always get given the worst jobs,' he commiserated. ‘But it won't last forever. There'll be another batch of recruits coming in soon, and when they do, you'll be kicked upstairs to more interesting things, and then you'll wish yourselves back here. Is the super in?'

‘The super and Inspector Evans.'

‘They on their own?'

Sarah nodded, and he went to the door. After he'd disappeared into the inner sanctum, one of the other girls turned to Sarah. ‘Who is that?'

‘Sergeant Joseph. He was on the Drug Squad.'

‘The one who almost got killed?'

‘Almost.' Sarah stared intently at her computer screen. Trevor Joseph had almost got himself killed on his last case, but her boyfriend hadn't been so lucky. Murdered during the investigation, they hadn't found enough of him to fill a small box, let alone a coffin.

‘He treats us as though we're human beings,' the girl said. ‘Like we're police officers first and women second.'

‘Hasn't he heard about the men in the force's official attitude to women recruits?' the other demanded.

‘Perhaps it was the bang on the head,' the first one giggled.

‘Perhaps a similar thump could do the same for the super and Sergeant Collins.'

‘Sergeant Joseph has always been the same,' Sarah said. ‘He's a nice guy, but don't let his appearance deceive you. He used to be a good policeman who knew how to get tough when he had to.'

Bill eyed Trevor as he entered the office. ‘How are you?'

‘Fine.' Trevor propped his stick in a corner and sat down without waiting to be asked. ‘Dr Goldman's just told me I'm fit enough to leave the hospital.'

‘And you came here to tell us?' Bill said sourly.

‘I've decided to take you up on your offer. Goldman knows about it and he's given me a pass for the next week. I'll be sleeping here, but I'll be able to move freely during the day so you can brief me on what exactly you want me to do.'

Bill gave Trevor a rare smile. ‘Mix with the natives. Pick up the vibrations. You know how it helps to have someone on the inside.'

‘This is hardly undercover,' Trevor warned. ‘In this place I'm known as a copper.'

‘Then you do intend to rejoin the force?' Bill asked.

‘You agreed to reinstate me.'

‘From the day you return to work. Is today soon enough?'

‘One day too soon.' Trevor rose clumsily from his chair. ‘Make it tomorrow. I'd like to look at my flat today and there's not much I can do with the search going on. I'll be back tonight.'

‘Want a ride into town?' Dan asked.

Bill glared at him. ‘You're supposed to be running a murder investigation, not playing chauffeur.'

‘Patrick rang. He has the test results on the victims' blood samples.'

‘Keep me posted, I'll be at the station.' Bill picked up the telephone, dialled and began shouting at the hapless individual on the other end of the line.

‘Things aren't going too well at the moment,' Dan explained to Trevor as they left. ‘It's good to have you on board.'

‘I'm not sure I'll be able to contribute much. And I'm not relishing the idea of staying on in this place when I don't need to.'

‘The car's around the corner,' Dan remarked, seeing Trevor limp. ‘Would you like me to bring it to the door?'

‘No thanks. Sorry if I'm slowing you up.'

‘You're not. Sometimes I think that's what's the matter with all investigations. Everyone rushing around like a load of crazed ants gathering sugar to take back to the nest, no one taking a second to stop and think, and everyone overlooking the obvious when it's right in front of them.'