The Evil Beneath (22 page)

‘We’re having to tread very carefully, ma’am. We don’t want to push him over the edge. He seems very fragile, vulnerable…and his solicitor’s a real…hardliner.’

‘Who is it?’

‘Melody Kemp.’

She let a thin whistle escape her lips. ‘Enough said.’

Brad drew his hands to his hips. ‘The warrant?’

‘Okay. Be it on your head, Madison’ she said, undoubtedly knowing that the responsibility would always fall, lock, stock and barrel, back onto hers.

Clip, clop and she was gone.

‘I’ve got to get this done,’ he said.

I went back into the booth alongside the interview room and watched William Jones again. I wanted to see what he got up to on his own before I left. He had pulled the two chairs together and was now standing on them, rocking from one to the other. He looked bored and frustrated, like a child having been sent to his room. Had the police tracked down a parent or guardian, I wondered, someone who was keeping an eye on this man?

I’d never had a client with Asperger’s, but I knew from my training that those with the syndrome became agitated when their routine was interrupted and I was witnessing such a situation right now. William was now standing on the table and I was starting to get worried that he was going to harm himself. I was just about to go for help, when Brad went into the room accompanied by the others. He asked William to get down from the table and he did so, without any shame or embarrassment.

Brad spent a few more minutes with him but nothing new came to light.

‘I don’t think we should leave him in there alone again,’ I said, when he came back to the adjoining room. ‘He was getting very antsy.’

‘I’m on to it,’ said Brad. Sure enough, the social worker went back into the room and sat down opposite William Jones. The uniformed officer stood by the door, his hands clasped in front of him.

‘You were right,’ said Brad. ‘The psychiatrist called me before I went back in. William has Asperger’s,’ he said. ‘Come to my office and we can talk to him on speaker-phone.’

We weaved back through the main incident room and sat either side of the box at the edge of Brad’s desk.

‘I’ve worked with children and adults with this syndrome’ said Dr Mountfield, his voice echoing as if he was inside a church. ‘They’re often very bright, but have problems with basic social skills like small talk, eye-contact and empathy. They retain facts and figures, but they find it hard fitting in.’

‘Are they killers?’ asked Brad, squinting as though a bright light was being shone into his eyes.

‘No more and no less than the rest of the population,’ said the psychiatrist. ‘Not unless there’s also schizophrenia or psychopathology involved. Or substance abuse. There’s no evidence of that, so far, with Mr Jones, but we’d have to do full diagnostic tests to be sure. I can arrange that.’

‘Is there any connection between Asperger’s and criminal behaviour?’ asked Brad.

‘No. The moral development of adults with Asperger’s is often impaired and they don’t see the consequences of their actions, but there is no clinical evidence of violent acting-out, as a result. They’re more likely to be victims than offenders,’ he said. ‘They are often suggestible. Their naivety and vulnerability make them easy targets.’

‘They often find it hard to lie, I believe,’ I said, refusing to let Dr Mountfield take all the kudos.

‘Yes - they tend to deal with actualities. Metaphors and idioms go right over their heads.’

‘Difficult for them to find suitable jobs, I imagine,’ said Brad.

‘A funeral parlour sounds about right,’ said Dr Mountfield. ‘He would have a nice rapport with the dead, I’d say.’

‘There’s one more thing that could be useful,’ I said. ‘Asperger’s sufferers are collectors, aren’t they?’

‘That’s a common trait,’ said the psychiatrist.

Brad was on his feet. ‘All the more reason to get round to his flat as soon as we can,’ said Brad.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Unfortunately, there was no place for me in the search of William Jones’ flat, so I spent Wednesday morning with supervisees at Holistica, trying to fool myself into thinking everything was normal. I kept checking my phone for a message from Brad, but it was blank. I was waiting for a breakthrough, some ultimate discovery that would signal that this monstrous case was heading towards closure. It had gone on far too long and I felt like I’d been emotionally wrung out weeks ago.

When I’d finished my sessions, I noticed from the appointment book that Cheryl had no one booked in. I’d bought her an apricot croissant during my coffee break, so now was the ideal time to hand it over, before I left for my afternoon clients. It was a safer bet than leaving it under Clive’s dubious custody.

I tapped on the door of her consulting room and hearing no reply, tentatively opened it. I stalled, realising she wasn’t alone.

‘Sorry,’ I said, backing out.

Cheryl beckoned me in. ‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘Leyton’s just leaving.’

The broad man sitting beside her didn’t give the impression of doing anything of the sort. He was leaning back on a fold-out chair that under his great weight looked like it was made for a child. He didn’t look anything like the man in the tattered photograph Brad had shown me of Cheryl’s brother; he was clean shaven for a start, and there was nothing austere about his face.

‘This is Juliet Grey,’ she said. ‘You remember I mentioned her to you?’

Leyton clambered to his feet and gave me a gracious smile, resting a puffy hand on my shoulder and reaching out the other. It was warm and his flamboyant gesture reminded me of the sincere manner of a particular uncle I adored when I was little. Leyton was all crumples and smiles, but once he’d got his balance and stood tall, his shoulders went back and I remembered what Brad had said about him being in the armed forces until he retired. His deportment confirmed it.

‘Leyton Meade at your service,’ he said and a waft of lemony freshness enveloped me. He talked to me as if we were old friends and told me about all the tourist attractions he’d visited since he’d arrived in London, two months ago.

Cheryl had her arms folded and breathed heavily from time to time.

As Leyton spoke I recalled the rest of my conversation with Brad; the catalogue of heinous crimes Leyton Meade had allegedly committed, but for which he had never been convicted. I was trying to assess whether this man was capable of those violent assaults - beatings, rape, torture - and whether he could be involved with the bridges murders. He was certainly big enough, strong enough, mobile enough to lift the bodies and his hands would have no problem wrapping around a neck twice the size of mine. But was Leyton a killer?

Psychologists claim that everyone is capable of murder, if pushed to the limit. What do you look for when meeting a potential killer? What are the warning signs? Characteristics such as over-control, a sense of entitlement, an impulsive temper, jealousy and possessiveness are the commonly known triggers that can tip people over the edge. I decided I would need to see Leyton under stress to be able to make any sort of judgement. As it was, he appeared to be as convivial and playful as an oversized teddy bear.

Cheryl looked at her watch. ‘I’ve got a client, Leyton,’ she said.

‘Okay,’ he said, jovially. I knew for a fact that she hadn’t. He got to his feet. ‘I’ll have to take leave of you two lovely ladies.’ He shook my hand again and turned to Cheryl, who avoided any contact and reached over to open the door.

‘I’ll be in touch,’ she said, in a matter of fact way as he left.

‘Sorry to barge in,’ I said. I handed her the white paper bag. ‘Thought you might like this - you said the other day you were partial to anything with pastry.’

She peered inside and licked her lips. ‘Perfect,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

‘Your brother seemed charming,’ I said, hoping to probe a little into why there had been such a tense atmosphere between them.

‘Yes,’ she said. I saw her arms stiffen as she spoke. ‘Isn’t he…just?’

The clock behind Cheryl’s head said it was two minutes to one and I realised I had to get back home for my clients. When I left the room, I was cross with myself: I’d missed several opportunities with both of them to dig deeper.

During the afternoon I had two clients who were making progress - and then Lynn Jessop. In most cases, counselling helped turn people’s lives around, but there would always be the odd exception, like Lynn, where it barely seemed to scratch the surface. In cases like hers, I felt lost and de-skilled.

Lynn looked more tired than usual when I opened my front door. Her iron-coloured eyes fixed on mine straight away; they were heavy and hard with contracted pupils that made me think of a stag beetle.

Before she launched into another catalogue of concerns about Billy, I wanted to check the number she’d given me for her GP. I’d tried to reach the surgery and only got as far as a recorded message saying that the number had been discontinued. I wasn’t quick enough, however. Before I could take a breath, she was off.

‘They’ve been dunking him in the water…trying to drown him,’ she said, spitting the words at me as though it was my fault.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I said. ‘What happened?’

‘I followed Billy after school again and they came after him. One boy in particular. They forced him down to the water…knee in his back…banged his head…pushing his face under…’ Her sentence gave up the ghost. ‘They laughed. I didn’t know what to do.’

Tears were tipping on to her cheek and I leant over with the box of tissues.

‘Is Billy okay?’

‘I took him to A&E. Concussion. They couldn’t say if there would be any permanent damage. They kept him in a day or two.’

‘This is really serious, Lynn, did you report it? Would you recognise the boys?’

‘I can’t always be there. He won’t talk about it.’

‘But, did you tell the police?’

‘They won’t do anything. I’ve reported it before. I told you. I know who the ring leader is now. He should be punished.’

‘Is he at the same school as Billy?’

‘No. But I’ve seen him before. In the neighbourhood. I know his name.’

‘Won’t the police follow it up? Talk to the school, his parents?’

‘
You
, of all people, should know that doesn’t happen.’ Her sudden sharp tone took me aback. It was as if, again, she was accusing me of being part of the problem.

I knew before I said it that I was overstepping the mark. ‘I know a decent police officer. I could talk to him about this…confidentially.’ A look of horror shot across her face, but I carried on, anyway. ‘Whereabouts do you live, Lynn?’

‘No. That’s not going to work.’ She continued to shake her head. ‘They’ll tell the school and Billy will get all upset and hate me for it.’

‘But Billy is getting seriously hurt. Doesn’t he want it to stop?’ She gave me a pleading look. I didn’t know what it meant. ‘I know I shouldn’t be suggesting this,’ I said. ‘I’m a psychotherapist, not a social worker, but this has been going on —’

‘No. You don’t understand.’

‘Understand what? Tell me…I want to help.’

‘You can’t. It’s too late. It’s far
too late
for all that!’

She was on her feet, punching out those final words in my face, before she yanked open the door. I opened my mouth but nothing came out. As her stomping footsteps faded away down the corridor, the door handle was left swinging out of its socket; she’d pulled it right off.

I flopped back into the chair, flummoxed. I heard the front door slam and went down to lock it. I was done for the day in more ways than one.

There was a note on the mat. Lynn had trodden on it, on her way out. It simply said:
Outside
. I recognised the writing. I opened the door and found Brad leaning against his car with his ankles crossed.

‘I was just passing,’ he said, smiling in a way that indicated we both knew he was fibbing.

‘Is everything okay?’ I said.

‘It does get to that stage, doesn’t it?’ he said. ‘When every time you see a policeman you assume something awful has happened…’

‘Sorry…it’s just…’

‘Bad day?’

‘Not my best - are you coming in?’

He nodded. ‘I’m off duty for once.’

‘Hot chocolate?’ I suggested, as I slammed the flat door to shut out the cold. I needed something warm and soothing.

‘Love one,’ he said. I liked the way he settled himself on the sofa without being invited. ‘Wanted you to know the latest.’ He patted the space next to him. He looked smug. I could only assume there’d been an arrest. ‘Good news and bad news.’

‘Did you go to Mr Jones’ flat?’

I flopped into the space he’d indicated, faintly warmed by his hand.

‘No obvious evidence of the victims, but we’ve sent various fibres to forensics. Nothing there about Fairways, nothing yet about you. But, we found two folded body-bags in his wardrobe.’

‘Really? Anything else?’

‘The voice scan is a match. It
was
him who left the last message over the phone.’

‘Wow - that’s brilliant.’

The elation on his face faded.

‘Downside is his shoe-size is nine and we’re looking for size ten - we checked all this shoes - so that’s not good. Plus, his hands are too small to have made the marks on the victim’s necks.’

‘It’s not him?’ I sank back, let my face fall into my hand.

‘He didn’t do it, but it looks like he could be working with someone who
did
. An accomplice who is pulling the strings. The psychiatrist says Jones is a follower; he’s highly suggestible, he’ll do what someone with influence asks of him.’

‘And this someone is the actual killer…’ I sat up.

‘Presumably. We’re pretty certain now that the bodies were driven down to the water in body-bags, then put in a boat, perhaps a fair distance away from the bridges. Forensics says the fibres of PEVA we found are a match for the same type of body-bags as the ones William had in his flat - same colour, same material, same make.’

‘So you’ve got him,’ I said.

He put his hand up.

‘Not exactly - the
type
of body-bag is the same, but we haven’t got the
actual
body-bag he used and we know William
isn’t
the one who strangled the victims.’

‘Is it enough to arrest him?’

‘Not yet. The only real link is the body-bags and his message. The boat that turned up at Kew Bridge had been stolen from the river bank near Hammersmith, but there are no matches for William’s prints.’

‘You’ve let him go?’

‘For now, but he’s under strict surveillance. We’re hoping he’ll contact the other guy.’

‘Leyton Meade?’

‘Don’t know yet. He hasn’t put a foot wrong it would appear, since he’s been in the UK.’

‘I’ve met him,’ I said. ‘He was with Cheryl at the clinic.’

‘And?’

‘He seemed incredibly sweet - but Cheryl certainly had a problem with him.’

‘I wonder what that’s about,’ he said, pensively.

‘Was William’s flat obsessively neat?’ I said.

‘Stacks of magazines, backdating to 1990. Everything arranged in odd ways. His dinner plates were set out for the whole week side by side, with the knives and forks already in position.’

‘How weird…it does fit with Asperger’s, though.’

‘And we found lots of handwritten sheets with figures in columns and hand-drawn maps, diagrams of circuit boards, newspaper clippings…we’re looking into those.’

‘It’s not enough - but you seem pleased.’

‘We’re on to something. At last. And this hot-chocolate is great. And I’m off-duty.’

I noticed that he’d said that twice now.

I put some music on and asked him if he wanted to stay for supper. He accepted without any reservations. Spaghetti bolognaise wasn’t much, but the bottle of Chardonnay helped it go down. We managed to steer ourselves away from the case and he talked about his childhood; how his father had been in the navy and met his mother at a barn dance in Italy, how he’d persuaded her to move to England.

I took a sip of wine and stared at the glass. ‘But, with a father in the navy, how come you never learnt to swim?’

‘I fell in an outdoor pool when I was four and panicked. I hated the water after that. I knew Dad was ashamed of me. A Commander in the Royal Navy and his son can’t even swim.’ He frowned. ‘He tried everything to try to get me in the water again - special navy trips, swimming pools, the seaside - but I couldn’t do it.’

I could picture him as a four-year-old boy floundering, out of his depth in the water, swallowing, choking, going under. I squeezed his arm and he put it around me. He seemed engrossed in his past and it was almost as if he hadn’t realised he’d made such a decisive move. It felt natural to be wrapped against him.

‘How did you get out that day?’

‘We were at a neighbour’s house and the dog started barking. The neighbour jumped in and pulled me out. I was unconscious and they got me to hospital. It gave my parents a real scare.’

I thought of Lynn Jessop’s son; his head pushed under the water by cruel, malicious boys. I nearly mentioned it, but remembered the look of horror on Lynn’s face when I’d proposed the idea.

‘You mentioned an incident in the water, yourself,’ he continued. ‘The Lake District, I think you said. I’m not sure when we ran through your history that I got down the full details, in the end.’

‘Oh, yeah. I forgot to tell you about that. It wasn’t a big deal. It was a school trip and our dingy went the wrong way around some rocks. We ended up in rapids and the two other girls in my boat fell out. I managed to save them, that’s all.’

‘That’s all?’

He tipped my face up towards his and gently rubbed my chin.

‘They had life-jackets on. They would probably have been okay, but there was no one else around. We were the last boat to go through.’

‘And you jumped into the rapids and got them both out?’

I’d always seen the incident as trivial in my mind, but now that I was explaining it, I realised that it was probably a life-threatening situation.

‘There were two of them. Emma Brockley was in my class at school, I swam towards her first. She admitted she wasn’t a great swimmer once we were on the water. She was nearest to me and I suppose, because I knew her, it was instinctive to get her out first. The other girl, Angie, was sixteen, in the year below me. She didn’t seem to be doing anything to save herself once she fell in. She bobbed under the water a few times before I could haul her back into the dingy.’