The Mermaids Singing (21 page)

Tony sat down on the bed and looked around. Slowly, cautiously, he tried to construct a picture of the man who lived in this room. ‘You like to exercise power through violence,’ he thought. ‘You enjoy the flow of pain in your sexual experience. But there’s no subtlety here. No sign that you’re a man who plans things with care and detail. You worship your body. It’s a temple to you. You’ve achieved things, and you’re proud of that. You’re not socially inadequate. You manage to share a house with two other men, and you’re not obsessive about your privacy, since there’s no lock on the door. You don’t have a problem with your sexuality, and you’re comfortable with the idea of picking up a man in a club, provided you have the chance to get to know him a bit first.’

His picture-building was interrupted by Brandon. ‘Look at this, Tony!’ he said excitedly. The ACC had been painstakingly going through a shoebox full of papers, mostly receipts, electrical guarantees, bank and credit-card statements. The box was almost empty, but now, he held out a flimsy slip of paper.

Tony took it. It was some kind of official police form. He frowned. ‘What’s this?’

‘It’s the form you get when an officer stops you in a car and you haven’t got your documents with you. You have to take them to a police station within a fixed period, so they can check everything’s in order. Look at the name of the officer,’ Brandon urged.

Tony looked again. The name that had at first seemed a scrawled jumble suddenly resolved itself into ‘Connolly’.

‘I recognized his number,’ Brandon said. ‘You can hardly make out the name.’

‘Shit,’ Tony breathed.

‘Damien Connolly must have stopped him for some minor traffic offence, or just on a spot check, and asked him to produce his documents,’ Brandon said.

Tony frowned. ‘I thought Connolly was a local information officer? What was he doing dishing out a traffic ticket?’

Brandon looked over Tony’s shoulder at the slip of paper. ‘It was nearly two years ago. Connolly obviously wasn’t a collator then. Either he was doing a stint with Traffic or he was on duty in the area car when he saw McConnell doing something he shouldn’t have been.’

‘Can you check that out discreetly?’

‘No problem,’ Brandon said.

‘You’ve cracked it, then, haven’t you?’

Brandon looked astonished. ‘You mean… you think that clinches it? McConnell’s the man?’

‘No, no,’ Tony said hastily. ‘Not at all. All I meant was that if you can track that back from the other end, you should be able to get a magistrate to grant you an official search warrant on the basis that McConnell knew three of the four victims, which goes beyond mere coincidence.’

‘Right,’ Brandon said, sighing. ‘So you’re still not convinced McConnell’s the killer?’

Tony stood up and paced to and fro across the carpet, its jagged geometric pattern of grey, red, black and white reminding him of the one and only migraine he’d ever had. ‘Before you found this, I’d come to the conclusion you’d got the wrong man,’ he said after a few moments. ‘I know I’ve not had time to sit down and write out a full profile yet, but I felt like I was beginning to get a sense of what this killer’s like. And there are too many things here that don’t fit that picture. But this is a hell of a coincidence. This is a big city. We’ve established that Stevie McConnell knew or at least had met three out of the four victims. How many people are going to be in that position?’

‘Not many,’ Brandon said grimly.

‘I still don’t like McConnell for the killer, but it’s possible that the killer is someone he knows, someone who’s met Adam Scott and Gareth Finnegan through him,’ Tony said. ‘Maybe even somebody who was with him when he got that traffic ticket, or someone that he pointed Damien out to. You know the kind of thing: “That’s the bastard who nicked me for speeding.”’

‘You really don’t think it’s him, do you?’ Brandon said flatly, disappointment in his voice. ‘I suppose it’s thin. After all, there’s no evidence as such to connect the house to the killings,’ he said cautiously. ‘But you said yourself, he’s more likely to be doing his killing somewhere else. That might be where he keeps his souvenirs.’

‘It’s not just the absence of souvenirs,’ Tony said. ‘Putting it crudely, John, serial murderers kill to turn their fantasies into reality. Typically, they have fantasies developed to the point where they are more real to them than the world around them. There’s nothing here to suggest McConnell is that type of personality. Sure, he’s got a stack of porn mags. But so have most single men of his age, regardless of sexual orientation. He’s got violent computer games, but so have thousands of teenagers and grown men too. What there is is plenty of evidence to suggest that Stevie McConnell isn’t a sociopath. Look around you, John. This whole house reeks of normality. The kitchen calendar has dates for people coming round for dinner. Look at that pile of Christmas cards on his bookshelf. There must be fifty there. Look at his holiday snaps. He was obviously with the same partner for four or five years, judging by the locations and hairstyle changes. Stevie McConnell doesn’t seem to have problems forming relationships with people. OK, so there doesn’t seem to be anything relating to his family, but a lot of gay people get cut off by their families when they come out. It doesn’t mean that his family were dysfunctional in the ways that typically lead to the development of a serial killer. I’m sorry, John. I wasn’t sure at first, but the more I’ve seen, the more this guy just doesn’t smell right to me.’

Brandon got to his feet and carefully replaced the slip of paper exactly where he’d found it. ‘It grieves me to say so, but I think you’re right. When I interviewed him earlier, I thought he was way too calm to be our man.’

Tony shook his head. ‘Don’t let that mislead you. Chances are when you do pull the right guy, he’ll be calm too. Don’t forget, this is something he’s planned carefully. Although he thinks he’s the best, he’ll still have made contingency plans. He’ll expect to be brought in for questioning sooner or later. He’ll be ready for you. He’ll be reasonable, pleasant. He won’t look like a con. He’ll be bland, helpful, and he won’t ring alarm bells with your detectives. His alibi will be no alibi. He’ll probably say he’s been with a tart, or been to an away football match on his own. He’ll end up being eliminated from your enquiries because other suspects will be superficially far more appealing.’

Brandon managed to look even more depressed than normal. ‘Thanks, Tony. You’ve really cheered me up now. So what do you suggest?’

Tony shrugged. ‘Like I said, it’s a possibility that he knows the killer. He may even have his own suspicions. I’d hang on to him for a bit longer, sweat him for what and who he does know. But I wouldn’t call off the team. Get a warrant. Do a proper search, under the floorboards, in the loft. You never know what you might turn up. Don’t forget, I could be completely wrong.’

Brandon glanced at his watch. ‘Right. I’d better get these keys back before the end of the custody sergeant’s shift. I’ll drop you off on the way.’

With a last look to check they’d left nothing out of place, Brandon and Tony left McConnell’s house. As they approached the Range Rover, a voice from the shadows said, ‘Good morning, gentlemen. You’re nicked.’ Carol stepped forward into the light of the streetlamp. ‘Dr Anthony Hill, and Assistant Chief Constable John Brandon, I am arresting you on suspicion of breaking and entering. You do not have to say anything…’ At that point, the giggles took over.

Brandon’s heart had thudded into his throat at her first words. ‘Hellfire, Carol,’ he protested. ‘I’m too old for tricks like that.’

‘But not for ones like this, I see,’ Carol said drily, gesturing with her thumb towards McConnell’s house. ‘Unauthorized search, and with a civilian? Just as well for you I’m off duty, sir.’

Brandon gave a weary smile. ‘So why are you loitering with intent around the suspect’s house?’

‘I’m a detective, sir. I thought I might find you and Dr Hill here. Any joy?’

‘Dr Hill thinks not. What about your interview?’ Brandon asked.

‘Your suggestions worked really well, Tony. McConnell’s got no alibi to speak of for Damien Connolly’s murder, apart from one hour late on in the evening, by which time Damien could have been dead already. The significant thing is where he was for that hour. Sir, he was drinking in the pub where the body was dumped.’

Tony’s eyebrows climbed and he sucked his breath in sharply. Brandon turned to him. ‘Well?’

‘It’s exactly the cheeky sort of thing Handy Andy could pull. You might want to get someone to check if he’s a regular in there. If he isn’t, it makes it significant,’ Tony said slowly. Before he could say more, he was overwhelmed by a huge yawn. ‘Sorry,’ he yawned. ‘I’m not a night bird.’

‘I’ll drive you home,’ Carol said. ‘I think the ACC has something to drop off at the station.’

Brandon looked at his watch. ‘Fine. Make it eleven, not ten, Carol.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Carol said with feeling as she unlocked her car for Tony. He slumped into the passenger seat, unable to stop the wave of yawns that had engulfed him.

‘I’m really sorry,’ she made out through a jaw-cracker. ‘I can’t stop yawning.’

‘Did you find anything to make it worthwhile?’ Carol said, her tone more sympathetic than her words.

‘Damien Connolly nicked him a couple of years ago for a traffic offence,’ Tony said heavily.

Carol whistled. ‘Gotcha! We’ve caught him in a double lie, Tony! McConnell originally told Don Merrick he’d met Connolly after a burglary at the gym. Then in the interview he denied ever having seen him. He said he’d been lying to make himself seem interesting. But now it turns out he really had met him! What a break!’

‘Only if you believe he’s the killer,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, Carol, but I don’t think he’s the one. I’m too tired to go through it all now, but once I’ve drawn up my profile and we go through it, you’ll see why I can’t get excited about Stevie McConnell.’ He yawned again and leaned his head on his hand.

‘When can we do that?’ Carol asked, fighting the urge to shake his thoughts out of him.

‘Listen, give me the rest of today to myself, and by tomorrow morning I’ll have a draft profile for you. How’s that?’

‘Fine. Anything else you need in the meantime?’

Tony said nothing. Carol gave him a quick sidelong glance and realized he had dozed off. All right for some, she thought. Forcing herself to concentrate, she drove across town to Tony’s house, a turn-of-the-century brick-built semi in a quiet street a couple of tram stops away from the university. Carol pulled up outside. The car’s slow glide to immobility did nothing to disturb Tony, whose breathing had become audible.

Carol undid her seat belt and leaned over to shake him gently. Tony’s head came up in a startled gesture, his eyes wide and frantic. He stared uncomprehendingly at Carol. ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘You’re home. You fell asleep.’

Tony rubbed his eyes with his fists, muttering something unintelligible. He looked blearily at Carol and gave a sleepy, lopsided smile. ‘Thanks for bringing me home.’

‘No problem,’ Carol said, still twisted round in her seat, fiercely aware of his closeness. ‘I’ll give you a ring this afternoon, we can fix up a time to meet tomorrow.’

Tony, awake now, felt claustrophobic. ‘Thanks again,’ he said, retreating hastily, opening the car door and almost tumbling on to the pavement, thanks to the combination of haste and sleepiness.

‘I can’t believe I wanted him to kiss me,’ Carol said to herself as she watched Tony open his gate and walk up the short path. ‘Dear God, what is happening to me? First I treat Don like a mother hen, then I start fancying the expert witnesses.’ She saw the front door open, stuffed a cassette in the stereo and drove off. ‘What I need,’ she told Elvis Costello, ‘is a holiday.’

‘You tease, and you flirt, and you shine all the buttons on your green shirt,’ he sang back.

‘Last night, we were practically sticking the champagne on ice. Now you’re telling me you want to let McConnell go?’ Cross shook his head in a gesture of exasperation so ancient it probably appeared on a Greek vase. ‘What’s happened to change everything? Come up with a cast-iron alibi, has he? Out on the razz with Prince Edward and his bodyguards, was he?’

‘I’m not saying let him go this minute. We need to question him closely about his associates, check if he introduced anyone to both Gareth Finnegan and Adam Scott. And after that, we have to let him walk. There’s no real evidence, Tom,’ Brandon said wearily. Lack of sleep had transformed his face into a grey mask that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Hammer Horror film. Cross, on the other hand, looked and sounded as fresh as a toddler who’s just had a nap.

‘He was in the Queen of Hearts that night. For all we know, he had Damien Connolly’s body in the boot of his car, just waiting for closing time. It’s got to be grounds for searching his gaff.’

‘As soon as we’ve got enough evidence to get a search warrant, we’ll do it,’ Brandon said, reluctant to admit that he’d already taken that unorthodox step. Earlier, he’d asked Sergeant Claire Bonner to check all Damien Connolly’s arrests and traffic tickets, supposedly on the off chance of a connection to McConnell, but so far, she hadn’t unearthed the crucial information that he knew was lurking there.

‘I suppose this is all down to Boy Wonder,’ Cross said bitterly. ‘I suppose the shrink says McConnell’s childhood wasn’t unhappy enough.’

Carol bit her tongue. It was bad enough being the fly on the wall in this clash of the titans without reminding either of her bosses she was witnessing their conflict.

Brandon frowned. ‘I have consulted with Dr Hill, and yes, he does feel that on the basis of what we’ve got so far, McConnell probably isn’t our man. But that’s not the main reason why I think we should let him loose. The lack of evidence is a hell of a lot more important to me.’

‘And to me. That’s why we need time to collect some more. We need to interview these poofters he was drinking with on Monday night, to see what kind of state he was in. And we need to take a look at what McConnell’s got under his mattress,’ Cross said forcefully. ‘We’ve had him in custody for less than twelve hours, sir. We’re entitled to keep him till gone midnight. Then we can charge him with the assault for now, and ask the magistrates for a lie-down in police custody, which gives us another three days. That’s all I’m asking for. I’ll have nailed him by then. You can’t say no to that, sir. You’ll have the lads up in arms.’