The Handshaker (13 page)

The pictures on the Internet had been impressive, but they had not prepared her for the reality, and she was instantly captivated by the sheer size of the hall. Her gaze travelled around a grand, palazzo styled entrance cavern, its floor tiled in a black and white chequerboard pattern, a wide, curving staircase to one side, its walls bedecked with landscapes and portraits – she knew from her research into him that there was at least one genuine Stubbs amongst them – and a couple of display cabinets filled with fine china; Royal Worcester, Meissen, Dresden. The hall alone was larger than her apartment, and the whole effect made her feel as if she was on a dance floor in a Hollywood musical.

There were several doors dotted around the place. Croft led her to the rear and into a spanking new kitchen. There was nothing antique or Georgian about this. From the terracotta floor tiles to the jet-black worktops, shiny white cupboards, to the halogen hobs and pine furnishings, everything shouted 21st century.

“Tea or coffee?” he asked and Millie noted that the enthusiasm burning through his conversation in his university room was gone. He looked tired and drawn, worried.

“Whatever you’re having,” she said.

He made tea, his movements dull and mechanical, an automaton running on pre-programmed habit.

“I was too late. He already has her.”

His statement brought Millie back to the reason for her visit. “Felix, we don’t know that.”

“You don’t know it. I do,” he said, placing a beaker of tea before her. “The note he sent this morning told me where he would strike next, and it was here. Oaklands.” He waved a futile hand at their surroundings, his face angry, as if the house, which he and Trish loved so much, had betrayed him.

Millie sipped her tea and repeated her assertion of their brief phone call. “I saw that note, remember, and there was nothing in it to tell us where he would strike next. Nothing. It’s not his style.” She tried to keep her voice smooth, encouraging, on his side, not arguing with him.

“You only read it,” he told her, “but I analysed it.”

It was an unequal battle. He had something fixed in his mind and she would never dissuade him. Her only recourse was to confront him with whatever myth he thought he had uncovered. “All right. Show me.”

He picked up his tea and led the way from the kitchen, back out into the cavernous hall, crossed to his right and pushed into the study.

“Trish hated this room,” he said, glumly leading her to his desk.

Millie understood at once.

It was a near replica of his university rooms, and every bit as chaotic. Centred on a mock Adam fireplace, was a green leather Chesterfield armchair, its covering dried and cracked in places. At the rear stood a roll-top bureau, chipped, scratched and marked as if demonstrating to the world the hardships of its 50 years existence, and alongside it was a G-plan sideboard with sliding front doors, on which stood a Dansette record player. There was a selection of 78s, 45s and 33s behind the glass doors. The walls, as his website had shown, were lined with old bookshelves and laden with his hundreds of books, while ornaments were dotted around the room, shouting the tastes of post-war Britain, including a pair of ghastly, King Charles Spaniels made of cheap pot. Even the telephone was 1950s; an old fashioned, black thing with a proper dial, but without modern speed-dialling or memory facilities. Millie had the feeling that if he could, Croft would have torn out the mock Adam and installed a brick and tile fireplace.

The sheets of A4 paper she had given him were spread on the desk, along with others on which he had made notes. Drawing up a chair, Croft motioned Millie to it, and took his seat behind the desk.

“Did you know,” he asked, “that every one of those notes contains an anagram of the victim’s name?”

Millie shook her head. “No. We figured some of the wording consisted of anagrams, but no one’s ever cracked them.”

“I broke them straight away.”

Millie accepted the boast, but when she looked at his distraught features, there was no sign of arrogance about him. He looked a broken reed, his shoulders sagging, face haggard.

“There’s more,” he went on. “I noticed that The Handshaker changed his notes after the murder of Margaret Griggs.”

“We did too,” she admitted, “but we couldn’t make head nor tail of it. Our psychos figured he was on something.”

Croft snorted. “Despite the fact that there is no evidence of drug addiction? Where do you get your profilers?” He narrowed an intense stare on her. “Every note tells you where he’ll strike next.”

Millie made no comment, merely sighed.

Croft shifted his seat closer to hers, and his aftershave filled her nostrils. Expensive stuff.
Lagerfeld?
Givenchy Pour Homme?
Whatever it was, it beat the hell out of the
Gillette
and
Adidas
stuff her colleagues used.

He showed her the photocopies she had left with him and on which he had ringed the letters at the beginning and end of every line.

“They’re acrostics,” he announced. “Remember, Millie, puzzles are my thing. I spotted them almost immediately. On Margaret’s note it spells Warton and on Aileen’s it spells out Pearman’s. At first I thought he was telling us where the women were abducted from, but then I checked the background notes you gave me and they said Aileen was abducted from Warton, not Margaret, and Susan was taken from Pearman’s, not Aileen. In other words, he told you where he was going to take the next victim. Now, on Susan’s note, he’s spelled out Oaklands. That’s where the next victim would be abducted.” He paused and tears sparkled in his eyes again. “And while I was out playing detectives with you, he took Trish.”

16

Victoria ceased wriggling. The bough from which she hung creaked in the high winds, swinging her to and fro.

The Handshaker looked up at her and felt nothing now. When she was alive, awake, she struggled against her bonds and that turned him on. When she was confronted with her doom, the noose slung over the branch, slipped around her neck, she screamed and that turned him on even more. Sufficiently to let him jerk off while she kicked and danced on the end of the rope. But now that the last breath had come from her, he lost interest. It was always the same.

He walked away from her, stepping back into the woods a few paces, from where he turned and looked up at the high wall. The branch could be seen from the house on the other side, and he was certain that anyone keen-eyed enough to look closely would see the rope hanging taut from it, but Victoria could not be seen. She was too low down. Her feet were only twelve inches from the carpet of moss.

He drew a flashlight from his pocket, its beam bobbing ahead of him, and trudged back towards the car park.

During the summer months, it would be risky to hang a woman here, even in the early hours of the morning. Many couples used the woods for illicit sex, but the foul weather, the rain beating down through the trees, ensured his solitude. Lovers would be confined to their cars on a night like this and indeed he had ridden Victoria on the back seat of his car before stripping her completely and bringing her into the depths of the copse. She didn’t protest. He smiled evilly to himself. She
couldn’t
protest.

As always, the job had gone without a hitch. After picking her up from Fenton Road filling station, he had gone along with the rush hour traffic out of town, and by the time he arrived here, it was already dark. Victoria slept in deep hypnosis on the back seat while he listened to
PM
followed by the 6 o’clock news on Radio 4. By 6:30, when he had had enough of reports from Iraq and Afghanistan, he switched the radio off, climbed into the back seat, and screwed her.

Now, 7:15 and it was all over. The Handshaker guessed it was a record; for him at least. He picked her up sometime after half past four and by a quarter past seven she was dead. Less than three hours.

It was the way of the world, he reflected as he trod the sodden grass back to the car park. Everyone wanted everything
now
. Instant gratification. No waiting around. And so it was with Victoria. No hanging about in his back bedroom for days and days, she was hooked, fucked and hanged in a matter of hours; quick, clean and simple. If she had been given a chance, he was certain she would have thanked him for his efficiency.

Up ahead, street lighting permeated the forest. He paused. There was another car on the car park, close to his.

Shit! Just what he needed, a couple shagging in the dark. If they saw him, they wouldn’t think twice about it, but when Victoria was found they’d put two and two together and go to the law with what they’d seen, and if he stepped out now, they may very well get a description of him too.

On the other hand, the car showed no signs of movement and normally when couples were fucking, the vehicles would jiggle on their suspension, so maybe it was someone who had pulled in to take a leak or make a phone call.

An alarm bell rang in his head. Suppose the driver had recognised The Handshaker’s Ford Fiesta? That car – not his regular vehicle, obviously – had been used for every abduction and hanging, and was the most wanted vehicle in the northwest. The police had several registration numbers for it, all false, and according to the media there was a general APB out on it, but he had never yet been stopped in it. Why? Because he stuck to the law when driving, that’s why. He did not draw attention to himself, and when he was not using it, he kept it well hidden. But if this pest had seen it and made the connection, could he now be calling the cops to tell them? If so, The Handshaker could not risk driving home in it.

On a night like this, he didn’t fancy the walk home, either, and it may be that sterner action was required. He hefted the flashlight in his hand. A rubber-cased, heavy-duty affair, made even weightier by its three large batteries. A cruel smile crossed his lips. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d had to deal with an interfering male; there was a kid near Bristol ten, no fifteen years ago. He’d tried to intervene, stop The Handshaker taking one of his legitimate victims and what did he get for his pains? A solid fist on the jaw a hard foot to the head and a dip in the Avon … while he was still unconscious. The police fished him out somewhere near Avonmouth a few days later, and the girl had to be strangled there and then.

He did not like spur of the moment, unplanned killings. They were the kind that could get you nicked if you weren’t careful. He preferred the meticulously planned, well-executed murder, which allowed him time to savour and revel in the victim’s abject terror. However, there were times when, in the interest of expediency, instant action was called for, and this could be one such time.

He could feel the tension rising in his stomach. His grip on the flashlight tightened. One more minute and… the driver engaged the gears and drove sedately off.

The Handshaker breathed a sigh of relief. Probably someone stopping to answer a call on his mobile phone. He couldn’t have been talking to the law because if he had reported the Fiesta, he would have been obliged to wait there until the police arrived.

The Handshaker waited a few moments to ensure the driver did not return and that no other vehicles appeared. He prepared the keys in his right hand and then, when he was happy that all was clear, he stepped out into the car park, hurried across to his car, opened the driver’s door, and ducked in out of the rain, out of sight.

He considered the situation. It was always possible that the driver had called the cops anonymously and decided to clear off before they got here, but he doubted it. Such a nosy parker would be in a hurry and there was nothing rushed about the way he had driven out of the car park. The Handshaker was confident in his safety. Security enveloped him like a comfort blanket.

Using a handkerchief to wipe the rain from his hair and forehead, he congratulated himself. He had done it again. Relieved another woman of the burden of living, ensured that she had enjoyed herself, been sexually satisfied before sending her to meet her god, and he had got away with it. More than that, he had moved his grand plan on one more step.

He reached into the glove box and retrieved a plain brown envelope. It only needed posting on the way home, and the night’s work was done… almost. He needed to check on Sinclair, possibly ride her once more if he could find the energy.

He started the engine, and flipped the wiper switch to full power. Pulling off the car park, he accelerated gently towards Scarbeck and thought about the number of times he had got his rocks off today. If he was not careful he’d have a heart attack.

Joining Huddersfield Road, he smiled at the thought of the police breaking in to find Sinclair starved to death under his dead body. It was the only hope they had of ever catching The Handshaker.

17

Millie decided that Croft was right. The Handshaker had Trish Sinclair. Police procedures meant she could not say so to him but they both knew it.

“Technically, legally,” she explained, “we can’t do anything until she’s been missing twenty-four to forty-eight hours, but I’ll make sure the team is informed and I’ll put out an APB for her car tonight. In the meantime, you should try to get some sleep and not to worry.”