A Question of Identity (34 page)

‘Are we trying to find this place and get the owner to vacate?’

‘Too risky. We’re setting the whole thing up ourselves. In Lafferton, doesn’t matter too much where so long as it’s tucked away.’

‘Waterloo Terrace.’

‘Nelson Street,’ someone else said.

‘Right,’ a DC said. ‘I did an op round there last year, had to hang about for days, got to know it like the back of. It’s the old working end of Lafferton, terraces, two-up two-down.’

‘Got you,’ Serrailler said.

‘Run-down. Some of the houses are boarded up, some have dossers, some students. One or two of the old locals left but they’ve pretty much died off. There’s a couple of pubs, bookie, two corner shops. Disused church. But halfway down Nelson Street there was a repair garage, with a yard. Got wooden gates, padlocked but kids broke the padlocks. Got an office, outside lav, sort of waiting area for people collecting cars. Could make a small builders’ yard.’

‘Get on to it, find out who owns it, we want to rent it, by the month. Any To Let signs?’

‘Been a For Sale one for yonks. Garage must have closed five or six years ago, maybe more.’

‘OK, you get on with that asap, Barry. Next up, small ads. I want them on cards in all the corner shops and newsagent windows you can find. Then in the free papers – wherever you see “Kittens for Sale” and “TV Aerials. Good Rates. Reliable.” Get them ready to go up but don’t roll them out until the yard’s set up. Nice excuse to requisition some new felt tips from
stationery. Off you go, won’t take long, but I want to see what you’ve done.’

One by one the team picked up on their jobs. Simon pulled in three uniforms for overtime work, playing the roles of extras round the yard.

The most difficult to assign was the builder who owned the yard and was doing the advertising. Getting him to look the part was not as hard as having him sound it.

But by the end of the afternoon, he had his team, and the DC had come back with a deal done easily on the empty garage. They were in business. The text of a small ad printed out was on his desk, and two cards beside it.

Simon ticked approval and asked for twenty handwritten copies.

He was about to leave, and drive round there for a recce, then go to Rachel’s, hoping that she might be back from the hospital, when he had a call from forensics. They had found a minute amount of saliva on the mirror in Olive Tredwell’s bedroom. If the DNA was recoverable and matched hers, it meant that she had been strangled after she had been placed in the chair. She had watched it happen. They were running final tests and would know definitively tomorrow.

EVEN SAM WAS
on the doorstep to greet Molly. She had spent the day at Bevham General, seeing her tutors, and come over to spend the night at the farmhouse. She looked older, thinner, and her face had changed subtly. The old Molly had been plump, still half childlike in her soft round features, but now her bone structure showed. She would never be a beauty but she was pretty, with an interesting, thoughtful face. Felix wrapped his arms around her, and every bit of news spilled out of the other two as they went in, Sam carrying her bag.

She had driven herself there. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever cycle like I used to,’ she said to Cat, as they went upstairs to her old room. ‘I know nothing that happened had anything to do with cycling, but it seems to have attached itself to that. I’d be terrified.’

‘But apart from that, how are you?’

‘Good,’ Molly said firmly. ‘I feel steady now. I’ve learned to cope with flashbacks, I know what to do if I have a panic attack, but I’m not having many now. I’ve had a lot of help from the psychologist – I never realised the half of what they do. Oh God, it’s lovely to be back here, Cat . . . it’s just the same but something’s different.’

‘We’ve painted the walls. New bedcover. Better lamps.’

‘It’s still home though.’

Cat sat on the edge of the bed. ‘So, what did they say?’

‘I’m repeating my final year and taking the exams after that. No worries. The prof said the experience might prove very useful even
if it doesn’t seem so at the moment. Empathy with patients being the buzz phrase – I’ll understand about PTSD better than most . . . She asked if I had thought of going into psych. I hadn’t, but she suggested I give it some thought. I don’t know though . . .’

‘No, and you won’t yet. Listen, you don’t have to – there’s no pressure and I’d totally understand if you wanted to be at the hospital for the year instead – but if you wanted it this room is yours and you’d be more than welcome. Think about it.’

But Molly had already flung her arms around Cat.

‘I was going to ask but then I thought probably you wouldn’t need me, or want anyone or . . . well, anything might have changed. Yes, please!’

‘That calls for a celebration bottle then. I’ll go and open one. Take your time, have a bath, come down when you feel like it. I’ll keep the marauders at bay.’

‘No, don’t, I want to see them. There’s a lot to catch up on. I know you told me about the hospice . . . how’s everything else? Simon married yet?’

‘Oh ha ha.’

‘And how are Judith and Richard? I heard at first but not for a bit now.’

‘Fine,’ Cat said, going out. ‘Busy. But fine.’

Hannah was coming up the stairs as she went down, bursting with things to tell Molly, ask Molly, complain about or boast about or share in confidence with Molly. She left them to it.

Simon finally left the office at nine that evening. Rachel was not answering her phone, which meant she was at the hospital, but he drove round past the house anyway. Her car was not there. Lights were out.

He had stopped for fuel and bought a bunch of flowers on the forecourt, but now he looked at them on the passenger seat and saw that they were dismal and looked cheap. He scribbled a note on a torn-out page from his diary and put it through the letter box instead.

Thinking about you. Ring when you can
S. x.

He dropped the flowers in a bin on the way home.

OLIVE TREDWELL’S SON
had written to the Chief making a formal complaint against the police and Serrailler in particular. Muriel Atkinson had telephoned several times in distress to ask why the killer of her twin sister had not been caught and why others had been allowed to die in the same terrible way. Simon was about to have a team meeting for an update on the builders’ yard set-up, when a call was put through to him from Rosemary Poole’s daughter.

‘I keep reading this and that in the paper, I keep seeing your face on the television and you’re being all full of sympathy for the bereaved families, but we don’t get told anything, we’re fobbed off with “ongoing investigations” and what we can guess from the TV. It isn’t good enough. I’ve got two little boys here asking questions I can’t answer, wanting to know what happened to their Gran, and what am I to say? I don’t think you understand.’

‘Mrs Fletcher, I assure you absolutely that I do. And you were right to ring me. I can’t promise that I can tell you everything because some things have to remain confidential to us – if they got out they could hinder our progress.’

‘You’re saying you’ve made progress? Seems like the exact opposite to me.’

‘I know it does. As I say, I can’t tell you everything but you’re right to pick me up on my failure to keep you and the other relatives informed and hear what you have to say. I’m going to
ask all the bereaved families to come here and meet me, and ask whatever you like – and I promise you I’ll do my very best to address all your concerns.’

‘You sound like a politician.’

‘God help me, I hope not. We’ll arrange a time suitable to everyone and meet you all here. Perhaps we can even organise it for late this afternoon, if that isn’t too short notice.’

‘Make it for two in the morning. I’ll be there.’

‘Someone will ring you later and give you a time.’

‘The TV people won’t be there, will they?’

‘They will not. This will be a closed and private meeting, you have my word.’

‘To be honest, I thought I‘d be wasting my time – I never expected to get to speak to you, thought I‘d be fobbed off with someone or other. So I‘m grateful.’

The meeting was held in the conference room at six o’clock and the press officer and Polly had set it out with the chairs in an informal half-circle, with a table of tea, coffee and biscuits, places in front for Serrailler and the Chief. No one else. There was no desk, no microphone, no reporting, no interruptions.

Simon told them everything he was able to about each case and its investigation, and the way everyone worked both separately and as a team. He was sympathetic, apologetic, gently spoken, and used as little police jargon as possible. There was actually very little he could say that they hadn’t already heard but he managed to make it sound new, and as if he was taking them all into his confidence. It worked. The initial hesitant questions were not aggressive and he did not feel challenged. Mrs Sanders’s twin sister said she believed the police had the hardest job in the world, Karen Fletcher asked if there was anything more they could do to help. ‘I’ve racked my brains to think of anything I might know, but I can’t. I’d rack them again if it was useful. There’s a monster out there. We can’t get our own loved ones back but surely to God we can try and do something, anything, to stop this happening again.’

‘That’s all very well,’ Olive Tredwell’s son said, ‘but it isn’t our job, is it? It’s theirs.’

Murmurs of agreement.

‘You’re right,’ Simon said. ‘The job of catching this extremely dangerous man is ours first and foremost, but this is no different from any other situation – we rely on members of the public for vital information, things people may know or remember that we couldn’t possibly be privy to. That’s not dodging our responsibility, I assure you. Now as to the resources we’re putting into this –’

‘Hang on.’ An overweight man with a shaven head almost knocked over his chair as he jumped up. ‘Anthony Tredwell, Olive Tredwell’s grandson. Before you start blinding us with talk about police manning and giving us the sob story about being under-resourced, I don’t think you realise just how angry everyone is. You’ve been let off lightly up to now, people have even asked how they can help you. How
we
can help
you
? And I heard what you just said about not knowing stuff. But it’s your job to find it out, not wait to be told. Christ Almighty! I want to know exactly what is being done, line by line, and why these other murders have been allowed to happen under your noses, why this monster, as the lady rightly called him, is still roaming the streets killing innocent old people . . . I want to know why you’ve failed so far. Because you have failed, make no mistake, and if something isn’t done, there’ll be more. So never mind about us helping, I’ve got one word for you and that’s S-U-E – sue. We’ll be suing you for every penny, see what that does to your bloody “resources”.’

There was a murmur among the others, though Simon found it hard to tell who was in agreement, who sympathetic to him, but as they were all leaving, Karen Fletcher stood back for a moment.

‘Thank you,’ she said very quietly. ‘And for arranging this. I know you’re doing your best, you’re doing your jobs. I shouldn’t have rung you and spoke the way I did this morning. I wouldn’t like to guess how many late nights you’re working.’

Simon shook her hand. ‘Thank you. And they will pay off. We’ll get this man, Mrs Fletcher.’

‘Well done, Simon – they’re onside now, I think. They listened. And forget the bluff. Nobody’s going to sue.’

‘He needed to get it out of his system. I was surprised there wasn’t more anger in the room actually.’

‘Grief takes some funny forms. Now – this builders’ yard. It’s a pretty long shot and I’m never keen on entrapment.’

Simon took a deep breath. ‘It’s hardly that, ma’am, and frankly, at this point . . .’

‘I trust you know what you’re doing.’ The Chief stood up. ‘I’ll leave you to it but don’t keep me guessing on this one. And it goes without saying that the press mustn’t get a whisper.’

Simon waited until he heard her footsteps go smartly down the corridor before he swore. Sometimes, the Chief could make him feel like a first-timer still wet behind the ears.

THE CARDS WENT
up on pinboards and were stuck in shop windows all over Lafferton. Simon hoped they wouldn’t have to extend to Bevham. The local free paper had a small ad under TRADES VACANCIES which appeared at the top of a column in bold. The paper came out twice a week and it would appear in both editions.

Simon left his car some distance away from Nelson Street and walked round to the garage. He wore jeans, dirty trainers and a faded Guns N’ Roses T-shirt under a denim jacket – dressed as unsuitably for the cold weather as most of the males in the area. He had rejected a baseball cap, which looked so wrong that it gave him away, and just gelled his hair back. He had not shaved for the past twenty-four hours. He wasn’t going to do more than hang about the yard, listening, on standby, but he couldn’t stick out like a sore thumb.

If this had been a bit of TV filming instead of part of a major murder inquiry, he thought as he slouched in through the gates, it would have been fun.

The empty, long-disused repair garage had been transformed into a small, scruffy but fully functioning builders’ yard. A pickup lorry and a small truck were parked up, both with ‘Cliff Hendry & Son, Building Contractors’ on the side. The back of the lorry had been let down and roped-together planks of 4 x 2 were half loaded, with more stacked against the back wall. The rear windows of the van had an ancient Bevham
Wanderers sticker, and the doors were held together with string.

Cement mixers, a portable generator, ladders and some random scaffolding, a broken bath and toilet, a couple of stools and a skip half full of rubble had been placed about, and some shavings and general dirt were underfoot. There were also small piles of stones, aggregate and sand, various buckets and spades and bags of cement. At the far end, assorted kindling and wood chippings and an industrial wheelbarrow were available to feed the wood burner in the covered shed area.