Cut Short (29 page)

  The trouble with public appeals was they kicked off a wave of responses, every lunatic in the area reporting their crackpot visions. It fell to the police to roll up their sleeves and trawl through the tittle-tattle and delusion, to search for a clue to the mystery. Sometimes they found it. Geraldine had heard two constables laughing together at some of the more bizarre statements. She didn't envy them.

  She flung down the report she was looking at. It was a pointless exercise. Every interview had been scrutinised. She wasn't going to come across anything new. They were working through all the information, cross referencing every possibility, chasing up any and every lead, and rereading the same reports over and over again, hoping to find some magic key to unlock the mystery – but it was never that simple. The endless slog took time. And while they dedicated hours and hours of police resources to following up specious statements, the killer was free to roam the streets. He could be out there now, hunting for his next victim. Geraldine closed her eyes. She could almost sense his stealthy footsteps, his gloved hands reaching out …

  Sipping tepid coffee, she wondered what it felt like to have a job where the worst that could happen was that you were fired. No one else suffered. No one died. In most professions, projects were routinely written off but they couldn't pull the plug on their investigation as though it was a flagging television show.

  Geraldine worked relentlessly on through the night, pushing through her exhaustion, unable to shake off the feeling that she'd overlooked something. She decided to go right back to the beginning, start with the early statements and make her way through them all over again. She'd read through the files so many times she knew passages from the statements by heart. Where else might she have seen some thing?

  She leaned back, casting her mind over her day. Thinking about the voice messages Miranda Clarke received, she thought back to the second day of the investigation, when she'd been asked to monitor phone messages received at the station. They hadn't struck her as significant at the time and she hadn't listened to them again but now she sprang to her feet, energised by the possibility that had opened up. She checked the date in her notebook and went to ferret through the tapes, trying to rein in her expectations.

  She found the right one near the bottom of the pile and decided to start with the first call and check them all again. Humdrum voices droned on, stumbling, accusing. Listening to one woman's hesitant voice, Geraldine felt a sudden pounding in her chest and a rush of blood in her ears. She listened to it again.

I'm worried about my lodger. He's such a nice quiet man, on account of his speech impediment. He's not been back since Wednesday, so I thought the Woolsmarsh Strangler might've got him. Do you think I should let the room to someone else?

*

'He's not been back since Wednesday … on account of his speech impediment … I thought the Woolsmarsh Strangler might've got him …' Geraldine rewound the tape. '… on account of his speech impediment …' the muffled voice repeated. Geraldine felt a strange tingling at the back of her neck as she wondered where the missing tenant had come from. And where he'd gone. She stared at the tape and took several deep breaths, but couldn't keep her excitement in check. She told herself it was bound to be another dead end. But she was already rewinding the tape. She found the address. Mrs Edna Lewis had a small B & B at 17 Lyceum Park Road. Geraldine glanced at her watch. She made a half-hearted attempt to catch up on some of her outstanding paperwork, and paced the floor impatiently. Finally she snatched up her keys and set off for Lyceum Park Road.

51

Room

'Off for some breakfast?' the desk sergeant called as Geraldine hurried past.

  'Yes,' she replied without thinking. She decided not to stop to report what she'd found. It was probably another wild goose chase. Yet her heart raced with a wild excitement as she made her way across the car park. The sun had just risen, lightening the sky behind its coating of grey cloud. It was still only seven thirty. After running on adrenaline and coffee for four hours, her hands were shaking as she climbed into the car and she forced herself to drive slowly. The front entrance to the park would be visible from the top floor of 17 Lyceum Road. She waited in the car. At a quarter past eight Geraldine rang the bell. The door opened a crack and a face peered up at her.

  'Mrs Lewis? I'm Detective Inspector Steel. You called the station two weeks ago to make a statement about a missing tenant.' She showed her identity card and the door opened cautiously to reveal a mousy little woman. Scared button black eyes blinked at her above a faded pink dressing gown.

  Mrs Lewis led the way to a small square sitting room furnished with worn but comfortable arm chairs. 'Have you found him?' Geraldine told her they didn't know where her lodger was. 'It's very good of you to be concerned about him,' Mrs Lewis said uncertainly.

  Once they were seated, Geraldine began her questions. The missing tenant had lived quietly at the B & B for seventeen years. 'He had a nice room at the front,' Mrs Lewis said, 'up on the top floor. It's my best room. He had no call to go off like that. He liked it up there. It's a nice room with a lovely view of the park. He used to sit in there for hours, staring out the window. I'd see him when I went out to the shops, sitting up there looking out.'

  Geraldine felt her scalp crawl. 'You mentioned your lodger had a speech impediment. Did he have a scar on his lip, Mrs Lewis?'

  The landlady shook her head. 'Well,' she said apologetically, 'it's not something I like to mention. I think he was embarrassed about it.'

  Time hung suspended in the still air.

  'He told me he was born with a hare lip,' Mrs Lewis went on placidly. 'I was never quite sure what he meant. He wasn't all there, if you get my drift. He said they operated on his lip when he was very small, but it left a scar. It wasn't very nice. I tried not to look at it. I felt sorry for him.'

  'A scar?' Geraldine repeated. 'Do you read the newspapers, Mrs Lewis?'

  The landlady smiled wistfully. 'No. My eyes aren't what they used to be. Not that I was ever much of a one for the newspapers, even when I was younger. All that news, it's depressing, isn't it? Life's difficult enough, I always say, without reading about all the muggings and murders and I don't know what. And it just gets worse, doesn't it? I used to like magazines, when my eyes were stronger.' She sighed and fluttered her hands in her lap.

  Geraldine fished in her pocket. 'It's terrible what goes on in the world,' Mrs Lewis continued. 'I watch the telly, of course, but I always switch over when it comes to the news. It's too depressing. All those wars and famines. I know I should take an interest, and not bury my head in the sand, but it's not for me. And all this trouble in the park now. It makes you nervous to step outside your own front door.'

  Geraldine pulled a crumpled picture from her pocket. 'Could this be your missing lodger?' The delicate paper trembled in her outstretched hand. Mrs Lewis stared at it. She screwed up her eyes, then went to fetch her glasses. She took the picture from Geraldine and held it at arm's length, peering at it. Geraldine waited.

  'No,' the landlady said finally, handing it back, 'that's not him.'

  'But he had a scar like this one?' Geraldine asked, concealing her impatience.

  'Well, yes. Something like that. Only his scar was smaller than that, and more crooked. It's a bit like him, mind. It looks like one of those street artists drew him, you know? The five-minute portraits. They never get it right, do they?'

  Geraldine swallowed. 'What was your missing lodger's name?'

  'Jim Curtis.'

  'I'd like to take a look at his room.' Geraldine stood up.

  Mrs Lewis explained that soon after Jim Curtis had disappeared, she'd let the room to another tenant. 'I might have kept it vacant for him, only this young man turned up on the doorstep looking for somewhere to stay and he seemed a nice young gentleman. I'm—' she broke off, aghast, and pressed a hand to her lips. 'I tried to tell the social straight away, only I haven't had time to get down there and it's impossible to get them on the phone …' Geraldine wasn't there to investigate Mrs Lewis defrauding the Social Services of a week or two's rent. 'I'll get that sorted …' the landlady added, gazing fearfully at her visitor.

  'Yes, I'm sure you will. Now, would it be possible for me to see the room Jim Curtis rented?'

  'The problem is, like I said, it's been let. A very nice young man turned up, and he needed somewhere straight away. Some mix up with his last digs. My son-in-law had just redecorated the room for me – it needed it after seventeen years. Would you believe it, that's how long Jim Curtis lived in that room, and then he just upped and left, without a word. That's what made me think maybe something happened to him. Just as I had it looking very nice, all newly decorated, this young man turned up and agreed to pay extra for the view. It's got a lovely view up there. I didn't see any point in leaving it empty. I would show you the room, only now Mr Jackson's moved in it makes it awkward, doesn't it? He wanted to move in straight away. He works for
The Chronicle,
so I knew there'd be no problem with the rent. It's never a problem when you know where they work.'

  Geraldine swore softly under her breath. It would be a journalist. If Jim Curtis's name appeared in the papers, he might leave the area. Disappear. Change his name. They'd lose track of him and somewhere else more girls would die until, in time, a new investigation would begin.

  'Did Jim Curtis leave anything behind when he left?'

  'That was the funny thing. He left all his clothes behind, even his coat. He was very proud of that coat. Used to wear it in all weathers. That's why I thought something must've happened to him. It's not normal, is it, to go off like that leaving everything behind? I mean, he was a strange man, but you'd think he'd want to take his things with him.'

  'Strange?' Geraldine queried.

  'Quiet. Kept to himself. He hardly ever left his room. And he wasn't all there, if you know what I mean.'

  'Have you still got his belongings stored?'

  'No. What would I be wanting with all his rubbish? Clothes, and some sour milk in the fridge. I threw it all out. And his bits of newspaper. He had a picture of that rock star's daughter, Melanie something or other. Pretty girl.'

  'Did you keep anything he left behind?'

  'No, I told you, I threw it all out. His clothes were no good to anyone. If he wants to come back for them, I'll tell him straight, I just had to get rid of them. I can't be expected to store things when people leave. If he'd given me any sort of notice, we might've come to some arrangement. But he left me without a word. What was I supposed to do with his stuff? I can't keep everything people leave behind when they go. I run a B & B, not a lost property office—'

  'Of course, Mrs Lewis,' Geraldine interrupted. 'Now, I'm going to ask you to be very discreet and not mention Jim Curtis to anyone. It's very important. You say his old room has been let to a reporter. If Jim Curtis's name got into the papers, it would cause a lot of trouble.'

  Mrs Lewis looked worried. 'Trouble for poor Jim?' she asked. A gnarled hand wandered to her lips and she blinked nervously at Geraldine.

  Geraldine nodded. 'Serious trouble, and not only for Jim Curtis, for you as well. I don't need to point out the difficulty you could find yourself in for renting the room privately while still collecting rent for Jim Curtis. If you co-operate and keep quiet, and notify the authorities straight away, we won't pursue it.'

  Mrs Lewis nodded. 'I will,' she said. 'I'll be down the social first thing tomorrow.'

  'Good. And remember, not even your family must know I've been here asking about Jim Curtis. Not a word to a soul, Mrs Lewis.' The landlady nodded dumbly. 'Now, I'd like to take a look at the room, if your new lodger doesn't object.'

  Geraldine followed Mrs Lewis up two flights of stairs. The landlady knocked at a door on the top landing and a dapper young man opened it.

  'Thank you, Mrs Lewis,' Geraldine said. 'I won't trouble you any further. I'm sure you're busy.' With an anxious nod, the landlady turned and made her way back down the stairs.

  Laurie Jackson was almost jumping up and down with excitement when Geraldine introduced herself.

  'I thought I recognised you,' he said as he led her into his room. 'What's this about, Inspector?' As if by magic, a tiny recording device appeared in his hand. Geraldine took it from him and switched it off. Still holding the dictaphone, she crossed the room and looked out of the window. 'What's this about?' he repeated, with slightly less exuberance.

  'I wanted to see the view,' she replied.

  'Yes, it's a very good view,' he agreed, joining her by the window. 'Now, what's this about?'

  'Is it a comfortable room?' she asked, glancing round. She wasn't sure what she was hoping to find. The old fashioned wardrobe was closed. An electric shaver and tooth brush mug perched on a narrow glass shelf above a chipped sink. A towel hung on a ring beside it. A small side table and chair stood in front of an old fridge that hummed annoyingly in one corner. Geraldine turned back to the window.

  'It's a great view,' the reporter repeated. 'You can look out of the window and watch the world go by, and no one knows you're here.' Geraldine nodded, gazing down at the park. She glanced up and saw the young reporter staring hungrily at her, desperate for a story. He saw her hesitate.

  'Look, Inspector,' he spoke firmly, arms folded, legs apart. 'This is my room, you know. You come barging in, without any reason, and all you can say is you want to know if it's comfortable. I think you owe me an explanation.'

  'An explanation?'

  'Yes. What are you doing, here in my room?'