A Walk With the Dead (27 page)

How any of that was possible was a very interesting question indeed – and he thought he already had the answer.

They had arranged to meet in the Drum and Monkey at eight o'clock. Nobody had actually called it a
crisis meeting
, but they all knew that was exactly what it was.

Paniatowski and Meadows were there at eight on the dot. Beresford, who had been breathing fresh fire into the team of detective constables he was sending out on the evening's round of door-to-door inquiries, arrived ten minutes late, and immediately apologized.

‘And where's young Jack Crane?' the inspector asked, as he sat down.

‘He'll be here shortly,' Meadows said.

‘Shortly?' Beresford said, expecting some kind of explanation.

‘Shortly,' Meadows agreed, offering none.

‘I've been looking over the records of all the cases involving serial killers to see if I can find a pattern that matches ours – and there isn't one,' Paniatowski said. ‘It's true that some killers like to leave all their victims in similar locations – there was a case in Northumberland where the murderer always dumped the bodies at bus stops – but the key word there is
similar
.'

‘Yet here we have a murderer who leaves both his victims – and if Dolly hadn't escaped, it would have been three – in almost the same spot,' Kate Meadows said.

‘Exactly,' Paniatowski agreed. ‘He must know that always using the park makes it much more likely that he'll be caught, so he can't be doing it simply on a whim.'

‘Are you saying that he must be driven by some compulsion to use the park – however dangerous he knows that is?' Beresford asked.

‘Yes.'

‘Maybe he uses the park because he
does
want to get caught,' Meadows suggested. ‘Some murderers do. They can't stop themselves killing, and they hope that somebody else will.'

Paniatowski shook her head.

‘I've been looking at some of those cases, too. When a killer has a desire to be stopped – even if it's an unconscious one – he leaves clues as to his identity. Our killer hasn't done that. In fact, he's been very, very careful – which is why we have absolutely no leads on him.'

‘Perhaps the reason he had to use the park is because it has some special significance for him,' Beresford suggested.

‘Like what?' Paniatowski asked.

Beresford shrugged. ‘I don't really know. Maybe he was assaulted in the park himself. Maybe, when he was a little lad, some pervert got hold of him there, and he's never recovered from the experience.'

‘But unless that pervert was a woman – and I think we're all agreed that's highly unlikely – he would have no reason for killing young girls,' Meadows pointed out.

‘And he doesn't get angry, which is what he would be if he'd had a life-changing experience when he was a kid,' Paniatowski said. ‘There's no bruising, apart from what's necessary to get the job done, and no mutilation of any kind.'

‘And there's nothing to tie his two victims – plus his potential victim – together, apart from their age,' Meadows said. ‘Jill was a nice middle-class girl, Maggie came from a home that you wouldn't wish on your worst enemy . . .'

‘And Dolly falls somewhere between the two,' Paniatowski supplied.

‘Do you think Dolly was having it off with this boyfriend of hers just before she was attacked?' Beresford asked.

‘Yes, I do,' Paniatowski replied. ‘And I strongly suspect that the boyfriend is much older than she is.'

‘So the common thread that's running through all three cases is sex,' Beresford said.

‘With the greatest respect, sir, you might as well say that the common thread running through them is that all the victims had two arms and two legs,' Meadows said. ‘Yes, they were all involved in sex in some way or another, but Jill was having a mildly lesbian affair, Dolly – as far as we know – was having a monogamous heterosexual relationship, and Maggie would pretty much open her legs for any boy who showed an interest.'

But there
had
to be a common thread, Paniatowski thought – there just had to be.

This killer was playing by a strict set of rules he'd set himself, and those rules included selecting victims in their early teens, doing no more than was strictly necessary to extinguish their lives, and leaving their bodies in the park.

He was disciplined.

He was motivated.

And she had no more idea of what was driving him now than she'd had when the first body had been discovered.

In the morning, she would inform George Baxter of the attack on Dolly. Then, the chief constable – who already thought she was too influenced by what had happened to Louisa – would take her off the case, and though she believed that no other chief inspector could have done more than she had, she knew she would feel that she had failed Jill, Maggie and Dolly.

T
he tight knot had begun to form in the pit of Jack Crane's stomach the second he had made the momentous decision, and as he approached the place where he was about to enact that decision, it grew ever tighter.

It was hardly surprising that he was nervous, he thought – what man
wouldn't
feel nervous when he was about to do something that would change the entire course of his life?

He rang Liz Duffy's doorbell. He had no flowers in his hands this time – the only gift that he was bringing to Liz was his feelings.

As he heard her footstep coming down the hallway, he searched his brain for the little speech he had so carefully constructed earlier, and could find no trace of it.

But that didn't matter, he told himself, because you didn't need to be clever and balanced when you were speaking from the heart.

The door opened, and Liz was looking up at him.

In his imagination, he had pictured an expression of delighted surprise on her face – delight when she realized that what they both knew
had to
happen was going to happen, surprise that it was happening
so soon
.

The reality was not like that at all – Liz looked startled rather than delighted, and more troubled than surprised.

‘I wasn't expecting you,' she said, and as she spoke she looked past him into the street, as if she believed that he had not come alone, but had brought along an army of friends with him to argue his case.

‘Half an hour ago, even I didn't know I'd be here,' he said, slightly less sure of himself now, ‘but then I realized that we really needed to talk as soon as possible.'

Liz frowned. ‘Talk? What about?'

What about!

Didn't she know? Couldn't she tell?

‘About
us
, of course,' he said. ‘Could I come inside?'

Liz hesitated for a second or two, then she said, ‘Yes, I suppose you better had.'

There was no fire blazing away in the grate that night, but there were two open suitcases on the sofa.

‘Are you taking a trip?' Crane asked.

‘Yes,' Liz replied, woodenly.

Now he understood what was going on, he thought. Now the worried expression on her face and the deadness in her voice were starting to make sense.

It was very simple really. The sudden reawakening of their feelings for each other had, for a while, sent his head spinning – but it had plainly
terrified
Liz.

And her terror was more than understandable. She had been badly hurt once, and she did not want to have to live through the same pain again. So she was running away, like a frightened rabbit, and only when she felt strong enough to resist her natural impulses would she return.

‘There's no need to be scared,' he said reassuringly. ‘There's no need to go away – even for a while. I love you, and I think you love me. We can make it work this time, Liz. I know we can. And I promise, here and now, that I'll never, ever let you down.'

He was half expecting her to rush across the room and throw her arms around him, but instead she remained rooted to the spot.

‘You don't seem to understand,' she said. ‘I'm not packing my bags because I'm going away for a
while
– I'm leaving Whitebridge for good.'

‘But you can't!' Crane gasped. ‘You've got your practice to consider. And your work as a police doctor.'

‘I resigned from the practice this afternoon.'

‘But surely you can't go just like that – they'll have wanted you to work out some kind of notice, while they find a replacement.'

‘They did want me to work out my notice – but I told them I wouldn't. And as for my work as the assistant police surgeon, my letter of resignation is already in the post.'

This was turning out so differently from the way he'd thought it would that Crane was having difficulty convincing himself any of it was real.

‘It'll be a black mark against you,' he argued. ‘You'll never get a decent job again.'

‘I don't care.'

‘You'll be throwing away everything you've ever worked for.'

‘It doesn't matter.'

A sudden wave of guilt swept over Crane.

‘It's because I came on too strong, isn't it?' he asked. ‘That was foolish of me, I know, but when I realized what I'd let slip out of my grasp once before . . .'

‘It has absolutely nothing to do with you,' Liz said.

Were there ever crueller words in the English language than those, Crane wondered, as he reeled with the shock.

It has absolutely nothing to do with you.

‘So what is it to do with?' he asked, as anger swept through him, burning away the guilt.

‘I've been speaking to Simon,' Liz said.

‘Simon!' Crane repeated, almost choking on the name.

‘He wants me to leave. He thinks it's for the best.'

‘After all he's done to you, why are you even listening to him?' Crane demanded.

‘He never meant to hurt me. It wasn't his fault.'

‘And will you be running straight back into his arms when you leave here?'

‘That's really none of your business.'

‘Stay,' Crane begged her. ‘Just for a month – or even a week – until you've had time to consider things properly.'

‘I've already considered them.'

‘If someone has to go, let it be me,' Crane pleaded. ‘I know you can be happy here, and if I'm in the way of that happiness, I'll resign from the force and go somewhere else.'

‘I've already told you once that it's absolutely nothing to do with you,' Liz said, as if she hadn't even noticed the sacrifices he was willing to make. She glanced at the open suitcases. ‘Listen, I've still got a lot of packing to do, and I think it's best that you leave now.'

And what would have been the point in staying, he asked himself, as he stepped through the front door and heard that door close firmly behind him. Liz had spoken to Simon, he had told her what he wanted her to do, and now nothing would change her mind.

As he walked along the lonely street, he tried to convince himself that – this time – Simon would make her happy.

But he knew, deep within himself, that Simon wouldn't, because – even if you ignored the way he had treated Liz – he was still a nasty piece of work.

He was surprised that this thought had even entered his head, but now that it was there, it refused to go away.

Simon's a nasty piece of work . . . Simon's a nasty piece of work . . . Simon's a nasty piece of work . . .

It was true, and thinking back to their time in Oxford together, he could produce countless examples of Simon's nastiness to support his case.

So why had he never seen Simon in quite that light before?

It was partly that the man had used his obvious charm to paper over the cracks in his personality.

But I've done some of that papering-over for him, Crane thought. I've mentally edited out what Simon did and Simon said, because Liz so obviously loved him, and I wanted him to be the kind of man who'd take care of her.

He should not have left Liz's flat when she asked him to, he told himself. He should have stayed and tried to talk her out of throwing her life away.

He was a failure and a coward. The dashing knight could have saved the fair damsel from the dragon, but instead had pretended that the dragon wasn't a dragon at all.

Crane glanced down at his watch. It was almost nine o'clock, nearly half an hour after the time he had promised Sergeant Meadows that he would be at the Drum and Monkey. He should go there now, because the team was in trouble, and he was a part of that team.

He had reached the corner of the street. If he turned left, he would be in the Drum and Monkey in ten minutes.

He turned right.

He would certainly go to a pub, he had decided – but it wouldn't be the one where Paniatowski, Meadows and Beresford were waiting for him.

The theory that had begun to germinate in George Baxter's mind in the car park of the Red Lion had almost come to full bloom by the time he reached Dunston Prison, and all that was left to do was to see how well that theory stood up when tested against the facts.

He began the test with a phone call to the governor of Winson Green Prison in Birmingham. He had only one question to put to the man – but it was a vital one, and the governor's answer would make clear whether he had a solid foundation stone on which to build his case, or was merely left holding a handful of dust.

The foundations were solid, the governor's answer confirmed, and Baxter breathed a sigh of relief.

His second call was to Wally Small, an old friend of his, who was a reporter at the Birmingham Evening Post.

‘Of course I remember the Ski Mask Rapist case,' Small said, once they'd finished exchanging pleasantries, and got down to business. ‘It was really big news round here.'

‘And do you also remember the principal witness for the prosecution?' Baxter asked.