Cut Short (25 page)

  Her mood didn't improve when she followed Peterson inside and saw that Kathryn Gordon was already there, waiting for them. The DCI turned and looked coldly at Geraldine. Just as both women were about to speak, Millard began.

  'She's not a pretty sight,' he warned them. Geraldine stealthily fingered the pouches below her own eyes. She glanced up and saw Kathryn Gordon looking at her. The DCI dropped her gaze, but not before Geraldine had seen an expression of disapproval cross her face. 'She's been in the water all night,' Millard continued. It was difficult to establish the time of death, but the doctor estimated she'd been in the water for approximately nine hours. 'I'll let you know if there were any drugs in her system, when the tox report's back.'

  'Not exactly a distinguishing feature among the kids, these days,' Peterson grumbled.

  'It wasn't the Strangler?' Kathryn Gordon asked.

  'That's what I thought, initially,' Millard said grimly.

  'Thought?'

  'Her lungs confirm she didn't drown,' the pathologist explained. Kathryn Gordon gave an involuntary groan. Geraldine felt sick as Millard's voice rumbled softly on. 'There are the typical signs of submersion, swelling and wrinkling of the skin, and discolouration, which occur from immersion before or after death. But there's no sign of froth or foam in the airways, no fluid in the trachea or bronchi, and none in the stomach.' He looked up. 'All of which confirm death occurred prior to submersion.' He glanced down at the body again. 'There's haemorrhaging in the middle ears which can indicate drowning, but it's also present in victims of asphyxiation.'

  'Was she strangled?' Kathryn Gordon asked bluntly. Millard nodded and continued to reveal his findings in a low, steady voice. The state of her lungs and airways confirmed that Jacqueline Ross was already dead when her body entered the water. The marks on her neck indicated that she'd been strangled, about twenty-four hours earlier. Bruises on her arms indicated where she'd been grabbed from behind. Discolouration on her jaw was consistent with a hand having been pressed over her mouth before she died.

  Peterson was staring at Millard as though he wanted to hit him. Geraldine felt slightly concerned, yet reassured, by the young sergeant's fervour.

  'What else do we know about her?' the DCI asked. There was no immediate means of identification except her face, bloated and discoloured.

  'She died maybe a day before she entered the water. And she was thrown in the water naked,' Millard repeated.

  'So she was killed somewhere else, the body was deposited in the lake, and her clothes were left behind,' Peterson said.

  'She was killed on Friday night?' Kathryn Gordon asked.

  'It's difficult to say with certainty. She's been in the water too long to be precise but I'd say so, yes. Friday night sounds right. But that's an opinion.' He stressed the final word care fully.

  'After the party, on her way home, probably drunk. If we can find out exactly where she went, we might start to close the net … We have to find out where she went,' Geraldine said.

  'Was it a sexual assault this time?' Peterson asked quietly.

  Millard shook his head. 'She's still virgo intacto.'

  The atmosphere was despondent when they returned to the Incident Room. A number of senior investigating officers preferred not to display pictures of victims after death when other photos were available. There was a feeling in some quarters that such morbid images lowered morale. Kathryn Gordon had no such qualms. Mrs Ross probably had albums full of pictures of her daughter, but none as recent as the photo on the board, which resembled a medieval gargoyle.

  That evening, Geraldine left at the end of her shift intending to drive straight home. Instead she ate fish and chips in her car and returned to the station.

  'Is the DCI in?' she asked.

  The desk sergeant shook his head. 'She left over an hour ago,' he said. 'She'll be in the pub.'

  'Do you know if Ted Carter's with her?'

  He shook his head again. 'You might catch him, but he's probably gone home by now.' Geraldine thanked the desk sergeant. She hesitated, then made her way to the Incident Room and picked up a pile of papers from the floor. She could still work for a few hours before she grew too tired to concentrate. Even then she knew she'd be unable to relax, haunted by the feeling they'd missed some detail that might identify the killer. But although she'd gone over and over the statements, she'd found nothing to move the case forward. Meanwhile, the man the papers had dubbed 'The Woolsmarsh Strangler' had struck again. The newshounds were going to have a field day.

45

Interview

The newsroom was humming as usual the following morning, but inside the editor's office it was relatively quiet.

  'Come in, take a seat.' The editor, Bill Hardy, didn't so much as glance at Laurie as he sat down. Bill Hardy had barely exchanged two words with him before the Rogers story broke. Since then, he'd given him a nod, or a 'Morning, Jackson,' as he passed through the newsroom, making Laurie feel like he was on his way at last, destined for better things than local charity events with wilting pot plants and homemade cakes. The paper had been going wild with strangler stories over the past fortnight. Laurie was desperate to get a look in but as he waited he began to regret having requested a meeting. At last Bill Hardy looked up, eyes bright with energy in his creased face, his dishevelled bush of grey hair springing up from his head in every direction.

  'Well, Jackson? What is it this time? Another scoop up your sleeve? It's a gift, being able to sniff out a lead.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Well, come on, out with it. What've you got in mind this time? Another story?'

  'Yes, sir, I think so.'

  The editor rubbed his hands together briskly. 'Let's have it then.'

  As Laurie described the increasing local unrest about the serial killer, he could see Bill Hardy's attention starting to wander. He went on too long, trying to build up to his exclusive.

  After a minute, the editor interrupted him. 'Well, have you come up with a plan to catch the killer? Where's all this going, Jackson? Get to the point.' Laurie mentioned his report on the protest, playing up the fact that theirs was the only paper to print a photograph of the detective inspector entering the park, as well as leaving. He wondered whether Bill Hardy had noted the significance of the picture, which showed that Laurie had been first on the scene. He pointed it out, tentatively.

  'Yes, nice work. What's next?' He spoke with a hint of impatience. Laurie told him about the protest. 'Yes, a group of local women. Nothing better to do with their time,' the editor said dismissively. 'What of it?'

  Laurie hesitated. Suddenly his exclusive interview with the leader of the protesters didn't sound very impressive but he couldn't very well back down so he ploughed on awkwardly.

  There was a very brief silence when he finished speaking. Bill Hardy was studying his screen again.

  'Fine, fine. Do the interview and let's see what comes up.'

  'I think this unrest is going to escalate, sir,' Laurie said, in an attempt to interest the editor in his idea.

  Bill Hardy glanced up. 'I daresay, but we're here to report the news, not speculate about it, Jackson,' he said. That was a bit rich, considering the headlines he'd been running: MORE DEATHS LIKELY, for one.

  'What do you suggest I do then, sir?'

  The editor leaned forward, staring straight into Laurie's eyes. 'Do what all reporters do, Jackson. Find a story and report it.'

  Laurie nodded and scrambled to his feet without a word.

  Julie Masters lived on the West side of town on the way to Ron Rogers' estate. The further West you went, the more expensive property became. Laurie knew all about the price of property in the area. Not that he was thinking about buying. He barely managed to live within his means as it was. But he'd done some research on local housing for a story. Julie Masters' house would be worth a packet, he thought, as he passed between high hedges and caught sight of the landscaped garden leading down to a wide double fronted house.

  The aroma of fresh coffee met him as Julie Masters opened the door. Her hair had been swept back off her face but a few tendrils fell artfully over heavily made up eyes. Her top was low cut, her jeans skin tight. Mutton dressed as lamb, Laurie thought uncharitably but was glad he'd worn his black chinos and Paul Smith jacket. She led him along a hallway, past closed doors, to a kitchen that stretched in an L shape along the back of the house. Through the huge window, the garden looked beautiful, but it didn't match his view of the park, Laurie thought smugly. Julie Masters didn't offer him coffee so he launched into his questions straight away.

  'Mrs Masters,' he leaned forward, smiling affably. 'I understand you're one of the founder members of the women's protest group?'

  'Well, yes, it was my idea.' The interview progressed slowly. Julie Masters answered his questions monosyllabically, seeming a different person to the fired up speaker he'd seen leading the protest outside the park. Laurie persevered, struggling to hide his disappointment. Some exclusive this had turned out to be. Exclusive, because no one else would waste their time on a bored housewife with nothing to say. Yet she had agreed to the interview. He wondered if she wanted to discuss something other than her women's movement. Laurie pressed on, but she kept glancing at her watch. If she had anything interesting to say, he'd have to discover it soon. He tried a more general question, to see where it led and she started complaining about the council. Her main gripe centred on the serial killer's activities in the park.

  'But surely it's down to the police to catch him, Mrs Masters. What can the council do?'

  'What can the council do?' she repeated, suddenly animated. 'That bunch of hypocrites? The council are our elected representatives and they're doing nothing to protect us. They sit in their fancy offices and do nothing to make our streets safe so women can walk freely around Woolsmarsh without fear of murderers and rapists.'

  This was a bit more like it. 'What would you like to see the council do?' he asked again.

  'They should set up surveillance of the park and the streets around it for a start. The killer must be living somewhere nearby.'

  'You want the council to set up surveillance of the park?'

  'Yes. That's where he's killing all these poor girls. If they watched the park, they'd catch him, wouldn't they? It's hardly rocket science.'

  'You don't think he'd just move on somewhere else?' For a moment, Laurie had thought he was onto something, but the interview degenerated into a pointless debate, with Mrs Masters insisting the killer be 'hounded out of Woolsmarsh.'

  'By a posse, you mean? A lynching?'

  'Well, no, of course not, but something's got to be done to protect the ordinary women going about their daily lives.'

  Laurie was relieved when she told him she had another appointment and he thanked her for her time.

  'How did your interview with Julie Masters go?' a colleague asked when he returned to his desk.

  Laurie shook his head despondently. 'Complete waste of time,' he griped. 'Might fill a gap on the women's page, but that's about all.' It was hardly the front page feature Laurie had envisaged.

  'Did you get a chance to pump her about her husband?'

  Laurie tried not to react. 'Huh?' he said casually, fiddling with his keyboard, as though he hadn't heard the question.

  'Jonathon Masters.' Laurie recognised the name of the controversial leader of the local council, always in the news with his radical statements.
That
was the story behind the interview with Julie Masters – only Laurie had been too poorly prepared to find it.

  'No,' he said flatly, 'she refused to say anything about the council.'

  His report appeared the following week. It was only a short article, as he'd predicted, and didn't make the front page. It had been heavily ghosted.

JONATHAN MASTERS' WIFE IN SAFETY CAMPAIGN

Jonathan Masters' wife is leading a campaign to make the streets safe. The wife of the council leader has stepped up in support of local women. The movement, Women of Woolsmarsh, of which blonde Julie Masters (29) is a founder member, is spearheading a protest against police inaction over recent brutal murders in the town.

Details of the victims followed, with the identikit picture of the killer, showing his notorious scar. The article concluded with a comment from Jonathan Masters in bold type.

COUNCIL LEADER SPEAKS OUT

In an exclusive interview with the
Woolsmarsh Chronicle,
council leader Jonathon Masters said: 'The council fully supports this movement and we urge everyone to be vigilant in helping the police with their enquiries. We are looking into the proposal for a temporary closure of Lyceum Park.'

The article outlined Jonathon Masters' defence of traditional family values and quoted him calling for 'a decent society where everyone can freely go about their daily business without fear.'

  'What d'you think?' someone asked Laurie.

  'Julie Masters hasn't seen twenty-nine in a long while,' he replied spitefully.

46

Car

The post came early next morning. There was a small pile of envelopes on the hall mat when Geraldine left her flat. She flipped through them quickly. Most were for her neighbour upstairs. She put them on the window ledge. There was only one personal letter for her, a pink envelope with her name and address carefully inscribed in childish handwriting. She slit it open and pulled out a pink Thank You notelet, written in the same immature script. A chubby little dog winked up at her from a bed of pink daisies.