[DC Laura McGanity 05 ]Cold Kill Page 22

  Carson thought about that, and then said, ‘Anything else? When we spoke earlier, you said that Doctor Barker had gone to his office before he came here.’

  ‘He came here to tell us something, but then changed his mind,’ Laura said. ‘When he got home, he was killed. The file we thought he had been looking at related to someone called Shane Grix.’

  ‘So we’ve got a name,’ Carson said, surprised.

  Laura grimaced. ‘Shane is dead. Murdered in London. I’ve called a friend in the Met to see what they’ve got. He’s going to have a dig around and get back to me in the morning.’

  ‘Why are we bothered, if he’s dead?’ Carson said, turning to look at Joe, who had joined them.

  ‘Because it bothered Doctor Barker, and now he’s dead,’ Joe replied. ‘And I know why it bothered him.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Because Shane used to torture animals. His own pet hamster, the school guinea pigs, kittens that belonged to a neighbour. I had a good read of his file, and this is the thing: he would jam sawdust and dirt into their mouths and backsides.’

  There were murmurs of surprise. Carson’s eyes widened. ‘Why the hell would he do that?’

  ‘Doctor Barker asked him the same question, and it was all down to squeamishness. Can you believe that? Young Shane Grix couldn’t stand the noise and mess, because when the animals got scared, they would squeal and shit and piss all over him. So he jammed things in their mouths and elsewhere.’

  Carson shook his head. ‘He tortured animals and he was fucking squeamish?’

  ‘It seems that way,’ Joe said, nodding. ‘But you have to remember why he was doing it. He was hitting back.’

  ‘At what?’

  ‘The local bullies, all those kids who taunted him for being different. His mother tried to help, in her own way, by giving him too much love, but he wasn’t the loving type. He hurt animals because it gave him some satisfaction, as if he was hitting out at those who hurt him.’

  ‘But animals are not inanimate,’ Carson said, picking up on the theme. ‘They get frightened and screech and crap on your clothes.’ He shook his head. ‘There are some really weird ones out there.’

  ‘There always have been, but then things happen to them that change them,’ Joe said. ‘If he’d grown up somewhere different, where the kids were less cruel, or if his parents had taught him how to deal with bullies better…’

  ‘Or karate,’ Carson said.

  ‘Yes, or taught him karate,’ Joe agreed. ‘People find ways to deal with the crowd. Some people learn to be funny, or choose to run with the pack rather than against it. Some even form their own little clique, like minds together, the chess club types, but they’re all just trying to cope with life. Except that some don’t do it as well as others, and so they end up like Shane Grix. Miserable, lonely and resentful.’

  ‘And dead,’ Carson said. ‘The families don’t know anything about Emma.’

  ‘So we think. If Doctor Barker was still alive, I would tell him that he’d just got it wrong, but now he’s dead too, with underwear from the second victim jammed into his mouth.’

  ‘So what now?’ Carson said.

  ‘We wait to hear back from the Met,’ Joe said. ‘Or else we hope that he made a mistake with Doctor Barker. It was more spontaneous, and so we have a higher chance of getting a forensic result.’

  As Carson thought about that, Joe went to sit next to Rachel Mason. As Laura watched them, she spotted something. A look that passed between them. A flirt. A smile.

  Laura smiled to herself. Now she knew why Joe was cagey about his private life, and why Rachel was frosty whenever Laura got too close to Joe, because it seemed like Joe and Rachel were more than just colleagues.

  Joe must have caught her looking, because he returned the smile and looked embarrassed. Laura was about to say something when someone shouted ‘Shit!’ from the back of the room.

  ‘What is it?’ Carson asked, walking over.

  Laura and Joe lost their smiles as they watched Carson’s expression change as he read something from a computer screen. Then he stood up and stroked his cheek, a puzzled look on his face.

  ‘We have a problem,’ he said. ‘We’ve got the results back from Google and it looks like the emailer used proxy servers.’ There were some confused looks. ‘He went to proxy websites and accessed the web-based email through those, as the proxy websites provide internet addresses that are random and not recorded. People use proxy servers when they’ve got something to hide – like people who look at kiddie porn, or fraudsters.’

  ‘So we’ve hit a dead end?’ Laura asked. ‘Like with Emma.’

  Carson shook his head. ‘Not quite. Remember the two emails he sent yesterday morning, the one about finding the newspaper not writing all the details unamusing and Ask them about Emma? Well, they came from an internet address that is very close to home.’ He pointed downwards. ‘Right here.’

  There were gasps.

  ‘He accessed his email from a police computer,’ Carson said, looking around the room.

  ‘So he is a police officer then,’ Laura said.

  ‘It was just possible before,’ Carson said. ‘Now it’s a definite, which means that he can find out about the investigation. Leads. Witnesses. Forensic results. So we are going back to pen and paper. Don’t put any witness details on the computer. Everything stays in this room. No one must talk about the case outside this room. The squad has got to be locked down. He must not know how we are getting on.’

  People looked serious, but Carson broke the mood by smiling and saying, ‘He might have just made his first mistake.’

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Jack continued to drive around the estate, looking for something that would define the story. The differences in the houses were stark. Many were pristine, with well-tended gardens and shiny double-glazing brightened by his headlights, but they sat next to houses that seemed just the opposite, with cracked or broken windows, the walls splattered with paint and eggs. Graffiti covered many doors, with words like paedo or nonce sprayed in black. On others, the letters WYD were sprayed in large letters.

  As he drove, the darkness seemed like a cloak, as whole groups of houses seemed to fade into the night, with street lights broken, and the further he went, the more obvious it became that the lights were broken where the damage was being caused, so that it seemed deliberate, to create a dark space for people to do what they would rather not be seen doing.

  He turned into another street, a long stretch of town-houses and three-storey blocks of flats, when his lights caught a group outside a house. He heard shouts and laughter, but it was mocking, not fun. They were dressed in black, although he caught the glimmer of a bike wheel. They must have known he was there, but they didn’t look round. He heard shouts of encouragement, and then something crashed on the floor, like a garden pot being broken.

  Jack stopped and climbed out of his car. He was wary, but he knew that Dolby would want this in the story. He pulled out his camera and pointed it towards the group. There was a shout when the flash went off, the burst of light showing up a group of teenagers, pale faces in dark hoods. Some had scarves over their mouths, so all Jack saw was the gleam in their eyes.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ someone shouted, with the deep burr of a man’s voice in a wiry adolescent body.

  Jack heard the group move closer to him, the movement just shifting shadows. ‘Do you want to be in the paper?’ Jack said, trying to keep the edginess out of his voice.

  ‘Fuck, no,’ the same voice said, behind Jack now.

  Jack was in darkness, the street light above him not working. He could hear them bouncing around him, muttering, cursing.

  ‘Which paper?’ someone else asked, the voice higher-pitched this time.

  ‘Just the local one. I’m writing about the estate.’

  They all laughed but Jack stayed still. He wasn’t sure how this would go. He knew he could deal with them one-on-one, but he was outnumber
ed, in the dark, and he had written enough court stories to know that some teenagers didn’t know when to stop hitting.

  ‘Why are you throwing things at the house?’ Jack said.

  ‘Who said we were throwing things?’ the deep voice countered.

  Jack’s eyes were becoming accustomed to the darkness now, and he saw that the leader was leaning forward across his handlebars, staring, just his eyes visible above his scarf.

  ‘What does WYD stand for?’ Jack said.

  ‘Whitcroft Young Defenders,’ someone said, making them all whoop with laughter, apart from the leader, who didn’t move or say anything.

  ‘Defending it from what?’ Jack said.

  The laughing subsided, and the leader edged forward with his bike, until Jack felt the tyre hit his shin. ‘What the fuck has it got to do with you?’

  Everyone else fell silent, and Jack felt the mood turn more hostile.

  ‘Because I’m writing all about you,’ Jack said. ‘Don’t you want a starring role? Be more famous than the other gangs, if that is what you are.’

  ‘People know who we are.’

  ‘So what about that house? Won’t they pay their dues?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Come on, you don’t seem like the stupid type. You all work for Don Roberts, I guessed that much, earning cigarette money by making people sign up for his security firm.’

  The tyre jabbed against Jack’s legs.

  ‘You need to be more careful what you say.’

  They were interrupted by a beam of light, and as he looked, Jack saw that it was the security van with the two security guards he had seen earlier. It came to a stop by the pavement, and the leader rolled towards it on his bike. He leaned in and exchanged whispers with the passenger, and then he looked back and gave Jack a slow salute.

  ‘See you around,’ he said, and started to ride off down the road, the other youths following.

  Jack let out a long breath and then went over to the van.

  ‘You boys work long hours,’ Jack said. ‘I hope he pays well.’

  The small one scowled. ‘It would be a shame to see your car get damaged.’

  ‘Round here, with you boys on duty?’ Jack said, and then shook his head. ‘You keep the estate crime-free, don’t you? For a fee.’

  ‘Those who pay get the protection,’ he said.

  Jack nodded towards his car. ‘Is this going to cost me?’

  The security man shook his head, and Jack caught the gleam of his teeth. ‘Call it a trial period.’

  ‘How long will it last?’

  He smiled at Jack, but there wasn’t too much humour in it. ‘Your car will be fine,’ he said, and Jack guessed the hidden meaning, that there wouldn’t be any problems as long as he didn’t write about the security situation.

  ‘Thanks for that,’ Jack said. ‘Back to work though,’ and he stepped away from the van.

  He expected them to follow as he approached the house that had been the target of the youths, but instead the van set off, the path bathed in darkness once more as the headlights went around the corner.

  He went slowly along the path, knowing that there was debris. His feet caught the shards of a broken plant pot, and he felt the soil and flowers underfoot. There was the tinkle of broken glass as he reached the door. He rapped hard on the wood.

  There was no reply at first, but he could see the soft glow of a bulb inside the house, and so he knocked again. He was about to walk away when he heard coughing from the other side of the door. When it swung open, he saw a tall woman, messy straw-coloured hair that was streaked with grey, her face in shadow from the hall light behind her head.

  She didn’t say anything. She swayed slightly, and Jack caught the smell of drink.

  ‘I’m a reporter,’ he said. ‘I just want to ask you about the damage that’s been caused to your house.’

  She put her hand against the door frame to steady herself. ‘I’ve got nothing to say,’ she said, and the words came out with a deep slur.

  ‘What, you want them to get away with it?’ Jack said. ‘Why don’t you call the police?’

  The woman shook her head. ‘There’s no point,’ she said and went to close the door.

  Jack put his hand out to stop it. ‘I’m a journalist. I’m doing a piece on the estate. It might stop if you go public.’ He pulled out a business card from his pocket. ‘Call me if you want to talk about the estate,’ he said.

  She took it from him and stared at it for a few seconds, before she slammed the door shut, leaving Jack in complete darkness.

  He turned away, thinking that he finally had the makings of an article.

  David Hoyle’s home was ahead of him, on the other side of the field. He tried to focus. Stick to the plan. No more diversions.

  It was one house converted from a small row of almshouses, so it was like a long bungalow with lots of windows. He had watched Hoyle go out before, and so there would be only one person in the house: Angel, his girlfriend. He smiled. He’d done his research.

  He stepped out of his van and took a deep breath, felt it force out the noises, so that he could hear just the rush of his blood, everything else on hold, waiting for the aftermath. There was a path along the field that hugged a high hedge and ended next to Hoyle’s home. An escape route.

  He walked nonchalantly and pulled on his gloves, tight latex so that he could still feel through them. He tried to look natural, aware that if someone looked out from the houses opposite he would appear suspicious to them. His mouth was dry though, and he was aroused, beads of sweat on his lips. He had to be careful. He didn’t want to leave a trace of DNA.

  The path took him onto the street and so he made straight for a gate that led to the back garden. He reached for the latch, careful to make sure it didn’t creak.

  As the gate swung open, the street light outside caught the bright colours of garden blooms. He closed the gate slowly and began to move along the stone wall, the edges sharp, making soft swishes against his clothes. He didn’t want to trip a security light, but when he got a full view of the garden, he saw that there was a light shining over the lawn at the back of the house. He sidled to the corner and slowly peered round, letting the room come into view. It was the dining room, a long table stretching towards the back doors, with a kitchen to one side, filled with brushed aluminium and utensils hanging from racks. There was no one there, and as he moved closer, he realised that he could see right through into the living room.

  He kneeled down to the flowerbed and scooped up some handfuls of dirt, jamming it into his pocket. His hand pressed on the door handle at the back. It was unlocked. She must be in. He felt his excitement grow, and so he tried to stop his heavy breaths, coming faster now, his tongue flicking onto his lip. He wasn’t wearing a mask. He didn’t expect any witnesses.

  The door creaked on its hinges and he paused, waited for the rumble of feet or for someone to call out, but there was nothing.

  Why had she left the door unlocked? She had made a choice to put herself at risk.

  As he slipped inside, he noticed that it was warm in the house, the air filled with the cloying smell of plug-in air fresheners and the remnants of a microwave meal. He smiled. Dining for one. He thought back to the house layout. Three almshouses knocked through into one. There was a dining room at the end of the house, next to the kitchen. The living room was in the middle, occupying the space of what would have been the next almshouse, and the bedrooms were further along.

  He moved slowly through the dining room and headed for the living room. He listened out for the sound of the television, his breathing as quiet as he could make it. He could hear chatter further into the house, just small mumbles of conversation. He stopped. Did she have a friend over? Two people would be hard to take on. He stopped to listen out more, but then he realised that he could only hear one voice. She must be on the telephone.

  The living room was empty, the television just a black screen.

  H
e moved towards the archway that led into a corridor separating the three bedrooms. The silence in his head was too quiet, the voices stopped, waiting for him to act, the ecstasy of the release.

  The sound of her voice got louder. If she was on the phone it would have to be quick, silently grabbing her before she could say anything, although he grinned when he thought of what the person on the other end might hear. Her cries, muffled, maybe a struggle.

  The first bedroom door was ajar, and so he pressed his ear against it. The room seemed silent. He gave the door a gentle push. No one was in there, just paintings scattered around the room.

  He backed out of the room and went to the next one along. The door looked closed, but he saw that it wasn’t clicked shut. He put his ear to the door. He could hear that one voice again, but there was something else too. He stopped his breaths so he could work out what it was. It was a clicking, scratching sound, fast but irregular. Then it came to him. It was the sound of fingernails on a keyboard, broken by the occasional laugh or murmur. She was on a computer. He patted his back pocket, felt the handcuffs, his knife in the belt of his trousers.

  He pushed gently on the door, ready to rush to her if there was a creak. His mouth was open to keep up with his breaths as the room came slowly into view.

  The walls were light, but coloured blue by the glow of the screen. The carpet was thick, so that as he stepped inside his footsteps were silent. The air seemed warm and moist, and he could smell lavender. She must have just come out of the bath.

  He saw her. She was facing a computer screen, headphones on, an instant messaging program open. She was wearing a long T-shirt, and her legs were bare.

  His back brushed lightly against the wall as he got closer. She was engrossed in the screen and so she didn’t see him, wasn’t aware of him. He held his breath, not wanting to give himself away, but he knew she would become aware soon, even through the headphones. His hands reached behind for the handcuffs. Her fingers were slender, her fingernails manicured, graceful as they flitted across the keys, the glare from the screen catching the whiteness of her teeth.