Wings over the Watcher (24 page)

The two men passed in the corridor, these two rather ordinary men who had a strange, thin thread connecting them, a thread which was knotted with twisted emotions and misunderstandings, their feelings stretched as taut as the “E” string on a violin.

They did not acknowledge each other but Joanna noticed that both shrank back against the wall to leave feet of space between them even though the corridor was only narrow.

She wondered.

A briefing had been arranged for the afternoon. Korpanski arrived back at one, cheerful – with good reason. Apparently after telephoning the surgery to explain that she would not be at work for a few days Corinne Angiotti had cooked him lunch – meat and two veg. and they had sat together, chatting.

He’d obviously enjoyed the morning.

The first thing that caught Joanna’s eye as she entered the briefing room were the blown-up photographs of Beatrice’s body, lying under the hedge, neatly arranged, just as she had been when they had first found her. Joanna crossed the room and stood in front of the board to take a good, long look. Periodically, during a murder investigation, you have to remind yourself what it is that you are investigating. Immersing yourself in the life of your victim can sometimes be too much of a distraction so you lose sight of your goal – to make an arrest and avenge a death.

Joanna paid close attention to every single detail: the aspect of Beatrice’s body, the staring, bulging eyes, the dress pulled up over her torso, her face, knickers tidily arranged, shoes off. One missing, one found near the body. The handbag and missing shoe had been discovered tossed into the verge on the road between Grindon and Leek,
probably out of a car window.

She moved on.

The second photograph had been taken after the body had been moved and showed the vegetation flattened where the body had lain.

Joanna sensed a shuffling behind her and turned to see the assembled officers waiting impatiently.

“OK. Let’s continue,” she said, “right where we left off. I think we should consider timing a bit more carefully.

“At 8.50 Arthur Pennington leaves for work.”

“At 9.30 Corinne Angiotti saw Beatrice Pennington locking her bike to the railings outside the library. She tried to speak to her but either Beatrice didn’t see her or if she did she didn’t want to speak. By the time Corinne Angiotti arrived at the bike Beatrice Pennington was nowhere to be seen.”

“And Mr Angiotti?” Mike muttered in her ear.

She half-turned. “We don’t know his movements,” she said, “except that he was in Leek that morning and at school later.” But something struck her as cold and heavy as granite. “Speaking of Angiotti,” she said, “who’s with Corinne now?”

“Bridget Anderton.”

She didn’t like it. She had sensed around Pete Angiotti something devious and cruel. That had been quite a blow to his wife’s face. “I think we should detail a male officer,” she said. “There’s something about Angiotti that I don’t trust.”

Korpanski looked sour. “Like giving black eyes to women?”

“Like what’s the true story behind his leaving that school in Wandsworth?” She answered her own question. “Temper. That sudden, flashing temper that we’ve seen in killers before plus conceit. He won’t accept humiliation.”

Call it instinct. Call it years of working with criminals. Call it what you like but Joanna was very uneasy. Perhaps it was the vision of that neglected old house, hidden from view, up a long curving drive, overgrown with rhododendrons.
Rich, with plenty of places to hide. Perhaps it was the sight of Corinne Angiotti’s face, evidence of latent fury.

“Danny,” she said urgently to Hesketh-Brown. “Ring Pete Angiotti on his mobile number. Find out where he is and go straight round to his wife. Bridget can take over your duties for the afternoon.” She frowned. “I want you there.”

A house in the middle of a summer’s day appears so much safer than the same house on a winter’s night but in reality this is not so. People are so much more careless in the day and neighbours take less notice of the unusual. Doors are left unlocked, windows too, handbags and purses clearly visible on chairs. Neighbours are less vigilant. They ignore odd noises, which in the middle of the night would mean a 999 call. Friends can wander in and out of the house and garden, from room to room, in the day. No one keeps guard as they do at night. So if someone wants to enter the house in daylight it is much easier as the same building would be a virtual fortress after dusk. Houses are vulnerable in daylight. People too. And felons know this. He watched. The house was perfect for his intent.

He knew how he could approach it without being seen. He had done it before. It was not just Beatrice who could do this, take two, three steps, hiding from behind from a low slung branch, concealed by large leaves and dark shadows before waiting for a safe moment and advancing. Like the SAS or the Special Services. Watching. Stalking. Waiting for the right moment.

He drew nearer, seeing them through the window. From the outside looking in.

They were sitting at the table, drinking coffee. Feeling safe.

His lip curled. How women loved to do this, waste time, gossiping, exchanging pleasantries and confidences, sharing flatteries which drew them nearer.

He saw the WPC, neat in her dark uniform skirt, cross her legs, caught a glimpse of pale thigh above dark stocking
and wondered. Did
she
love women too? The two of them certainly seemed to be hitting it off very nicely.

He saw Corinne hold a tea-towel under the tap and dab her face with it. It must be throbbing. Good. He had no sympathy to waste for her.

But time was marching forward and he had work to do. He must separate them. Even
he
could not deal with them both together.

Joanna would punish herself afterwards, thinking that she had failed to protect both women.

Until they are caught you have a killer on the loose, a person who has tasted blood. And like a man-eating lion, this memory has imprinted dangerously deep inside their brain.

What has been done once can be done again. Second time around is easier.

Inside The Firs WPC Bridget Anderton was refusing a fourth coffee with a laugh. “No thanks. No more coffee.” She giggled. “I’ll never get off the loo. Besides, I think coffee’s supposed to be bad for you, isn’t it?”

Corinne gave the WPC a rueful laugh. “Everything’s bad for you in excess,” she said. “Sometimes I think doctors are absolute killjoys.”

In the hallway outside the telephone rang.

They looked at one another. Corinne stood up. “I’d better get it.”

So she was gone. Only the WPC sat alone at the table, relaxed and off her guard. He took two steps forward and ducked behind a branch, still dripping with the recent rain. He was less than ten yards away from her and she couldn’t see him.

“Who was it?”

Corinne frowned. “No one was there,” she said. “I picked it up but no one spoke. I thought I heard someone breathing. Even some background noise but no one answered.”

She had caught Bridget Anderton’s full attention.” What background noise?”

Corinne considered. “Traffic,” she said, “I think.”

“Did you dial 1471?”

“Caller withheld their number.” Corinne looked only mildly concerned and sat down to consider. She had never really thought about Beatrice’s murder. Not the actual murder. There was no hint that another person could be in danger. In between the lines the papers had conveyed the opinion that it was a domestic crime. But now, in this very moment, alone with a WPC, in a large and rambling house, Corinne could sense that a killer was out there. And what had struck once could strike again.

It suddenly seemed terribly important to learn. Who had killed Beatrice Pennington? Why had she died?

She turned her attention back to the WPC. “Why are you here?”

“To protect you.”

“From whom?”

But this, WPC Anderton could not answer.

Back at the station the briefing was almost over. Paul Ruthin had stood up to go when Joanna called him back. “I want you to do something for me,” she said. “Dig the dirt up on Pete Angiotti. It’s no use your going into the PNC. I don’t believe there was a charge – not one that stuck anyway. Try here.” She gave him the name of the school. “Speak to whoever you can. I want to know how much of a danger this guy is.”

Ruthin looked surprised but he took the paper and smiled. “Leave it with me,” he said.

Joanna felt nothing but relief.

Bridget Anderton picked up on the woman’s unease but she was an active, confident, fit policewoman. “Lock your door,” she advised. “You stay inside. I’m going to take a look around the garden.”

She was making the mistake of believing she was not in
danger, that no one could possibly wish her harm.

She took her truncheon from her belt. Ready. Just in case.

He grasped the knife in his hands and watched the policewoman step through the French windows, down onto the terrace, looking around her. He could feel her thoughts, searching him out. But
he
would find
her
. Not
she
him. He did not care what happened to him afterwards – as long as he got her.

From the other side of the door Corinne turned the key, peering through the glass anxiously.

He could almost swear they could both sense his nearness
and
his intent. It pleased him that they felt so threatened. In fact he was so pleased it was hard for him to resist rubbing his hands together. This stalking of prey brought the adrenaline to his system like no other action. He smiled.

Policewomen are trained in self-defence. They are also trained to be observant. So when Bridget, from the corner of her eye, saw the changing light in the dark shadows of the trees she forced herself not to turn her head but tightened her grip on her truncheon, touched her pepper spray and moved forward, affecting a nonchalance which would have earned her a place in RADA.

He stalked her quietly, moving two small steps to her one, keeping in the shade all the time.

It was Corinne, peering through the window, who saw him and screamed.

Outside Danny Hesketh-Brown’s car skidded to a halt.

Threats quickly turn to farce.

Hesketh-Brown charged through the trees.

I have a knife. I am not afraid.

Pete Angiotti turned to face him. Hesketh-Brown pulled him into an arm-lock. “Well,” he said. “What have we here?”

“Any reason why I shouldn’t be in my own garden?”

“We told you to keep away.”

Angiotti took in the scene very quickly. Two police officers. He was outnumbered.

“Prove it,” he challenged. “Prove any of it.”

Bridget Anderton held out her hand. “Give me that,” she said. Angiotti lunged at her and Bridget fell, gasping.

It is always the worst decision. Whether to apprehend your felon or help a colleague.

Corinne Angiotti was at Bridget’s side, mobile in hand, dialling 999 and holding her hand over the wound in Bridget’s chest. The policewoman’s eyes rolled. Hesketh-Brown snapped the Quikuffs on and knelt on Pete Angiotti, the caution snarling from his lips and sounding a threat.

Within minutes the garden was swarming with blue lights and men in uniform. An ambulance man snapped an oxygen mask on the WPC’s face.

“Her lung is pierced,” Corinne said calmly. “She’ll need surgery.”

Her husband gave her a look of pure venom and said nothing.

Joanna took the questioning, she and Mike working together as they had now over the years.

As they approached the interview room, she warned Korpanski. “No outbursts, Mike,” she said. “Make no assumptions.”

His eyes blackened. “What on earth do you mean?”

“Just that,” she said quietly. “We’re not there yet.”

Korpanski almost exploded. “What more does he have to do, Jo? He virtually killed Bridget. If Hesketh-Brown hadn’t arrived in the nick of time you would have had a double murder on your hands.”

“It still doesn’t prove that he killed Beatrice Pennington.”

Angiotti looked calm. Hands on table, eyes giving her a hard stare. “I was only in the garden,” he said. “It’s my garden. I can’t understand why your police officer grabbed me the way he did.”

“You had a knife,” Joanna said.

Angiotti gave her a hard stare.

She didn’t understand. “You
knew
we were watching her. You
knew
you wouldn’t get away with it. We were waiting for you.”

Angiotti continued to stare at her and suddenly she understood how deep his hatred was. Yes – he had known he wouldn’t get away with it. In fact he had had no intention of escaping because he would have turned the knife on himself. Oddly enough this earned him some respect from her.

“Bitch,” Angiotti snarled.

She was still struggling to comprehend. “Why? When she’d done nothing?”

Angiotti’s face was a mask. “Because,” he said and folded his arms.

Korpanski’s face was like thunder. Joanna knew he was dying to punch Pete Angiotti right on the nose. She shot
him a warning glance.

She put her arms flat on the table. “You do understand we’re investigating a murder,” don’t you?”

It was meant to ruffle the doctor’s husband. “You can’t pin anything on me,” he said.

Joanna merely lifted her eyebrows. “A serious assault on a police officer? You call that nothing?”

The knock at the door was a welcome diversion. Even better that it was Paul Ruthin.

“I think you’ll be interested, Ma’am.”

Joanna moved outside, closed the door behind her and kept a watchful eye on Korpanski.

“Go on,” she prompted.

“Pete Angiotti left under a cloud,” the PC said. “He was accused of assaulting a thirteen-year-old girl.”

“Accused? Give me the circumstances.”

“She’d been kept behind for bad behaviour. Her mother had signed a detention slip and the girl was there until five o’clock. It was November and very dark. When her mother picked her up the girl said Angiotti had ‘roughed her up’.”

Joanna gave a deep sigh. “The girl could easily have made the allegation through spite – or just wanting to get her own back. I take it the allegations were later dropped?”

“There were full investigations.”

“And?”

“There are two schools of thought,” Ruthin said, looking troubled. “Some thought Angiotti was a bit of a slime-ball. Others believed there was something behind the allegations. The investigations unearthed nothing concrete and Angiotti was reinstated. Not before there was a hoohah right through the school. It divided everyone.”

“Anything more?”

“Nothing concrete.”

“Any rumours?” She glanced anxiously through the porthole window.

Again Ruthin shook his head.

“It’s just that I can’t see the connection.”

“Except one thing. The girl claimed that at one point Angiotti put his hands around her neck.”

“Really?”

“She said he lost his temper with her when she cheeked him.”

“Now that is interesting.”

She re-entered the room. Korpanski was studiously watching Angiotti, dislike making his eyes shine.

Angiotti was staring away from the Detective Sergeant, into the corner. His eyes flickered over her.

“Well then, Pete,” she said. “We’ve heard a little story about you.”

“I hope it was entertaining,” he responded sulkily.

“An allegation that you tried to strangle a thirteen-year-old girl in your old school?”

“It wasn’t true.”

“So let’s get the real truth, Pete. You assaulted your wife and you knifed Bridget Anderton. It was attempted murder.”

“No it wasn’t.”

Joanna was close to losing her temper. “I don’t care what
you
bloody well call it. I call it attempted murder and that will be the charge we bring before the Crown Prosecution Service.”

“It won’t stick,” he said.

Joanna gave a deep sigh. “We’ll see,” she said. “And now the murder charge. Where
were
you on the morning of Wednesday June the 23rd?”

“At school,” he said, “teaching.”

“Your wife tells us that around the time that Beatrice Pennington went missing you were in the town, near the library.”

Angiotti stared straight ahead and something inside Joanna went cold. She would not like to be Corinne at this moment.

“You understand we’ll be searching your house, your car, for forensic evidence?”

“You can search where you like, Inspector,” Angiotti said truculently. “You won’t find anything. I didn’t do it.”

Joanna’s head was feeling muzzy. She felt confused because too many thoughts were flying through her head. She excused herself and left Korpanski to conduct the interview. She wanted to be alone. She wanted to think.

She found Dawn Critchlow working in the main office and asked to see the statements again.

Once inside her office she closed the door behind her and read through each statement very carefully then sat, alone, thinking. She sat down at her desk, trying out her new theory to see if it fitted all the facts.

Fact one: Beatrice had appeared to bolt when Corinne Angiotti had tried to speak to her when she should have welcomed contact with the object of her love.

Fact two: Pennington’s words, “What have they done to you?”

Fact three: Beatrice’s flashy dress, guaranteed to be noticed, almost drawing attention to herself.

Fact four: she had worn a cycling helmet for that last, fateful journey which was also out of character.

Fact five: the fact that both husbands had been aware of the existence of the letters and therefore the relationship between the two women.

And gradually a picture began to emerge.

She felt herself smile. So that had been it.

It fitted.