Cut Short (30 page)

  'You invited me in.'

  'I'm not trying to accuse you of trespassing. I just want to know what you're doing here.'

  She nodded, reaching a decision. 'All right, Mr Jackson. I'll tell you. But it's off the record for now.' He let out an exaggerated sigh and nodded to indicate he understood. Geraldine sat down on the chair and he sat on his bed. 'We had a request from Ashford station. They think the previous occupant of this room received some stolen goods. They can't trace them and asked us to check if he'd left anything here. Did you find anything when you moved in here?' She was making it up as she went along.

  He shook his head, puzzled. 'What sort of thing are you looking for, Inspector?' He narrowed his eyes, calculating. He was wondering why an inspector was making this visit in person.

  'I can't tell you that. Would you mind if I had a quick look around?'

  'Be my guest.' He explained that Mrs Lewis had cleared and decorated the room before he moved in. 'If anything had been left, she would've found it.' Geraldine saw him watching her closely as her eyes roved round the room. She knelt down and looked under the bed. She had no idea what she was looking for. She just wanted to find some clue to link her to Jim Curtis. She didn't find anything. She couldn't look inside the wardrobe or the chest of drawers. They'd be full of Laurence Jackson's things.

  'Thank you, Mr Jackson.'

  'Is that it?' He sounded disappointed. 'You're working on the hunt for the Woolsmarsh Strangler, aren't you?' he asked abruptly, obviously trying to catch her unawares.

  'It's a huge investigation, Mr Jackson,' she replied evenly. 'The whole station is involved and a lot of officers have been brought in.' She smiled at him. 'But I'm involved in it, yes. And I won't forget your co-operation over this small enquiry from Ashford.' She handed him back his recording device and he stared at her, unconvinced.

  Geraldine ran down the stairs empty handed, but in her mind she held a picture of a muscular man with big hands and a scarred lip, sitting up there watching, hour after hour. She imagined him hidden away somewhere else, still watching. Wherever Jim Curtis was, they'd find him. In the meantime, she was late for the morning briefing.

  Geraldine raced to the station. At a zebra crossing in the town centre a woman with a pushchair seemed to move in slow motion across the road. After that, the traffic lights were against her. She nearly accelerated regardless but thought better of it, which was just as well as a cyclist careered unsteadily across the road directly in front of her. At last she screeched to a halt in the police station car park, nearly ten minutes late for the briefing. The door to the Incident Room squealed in protest as she pushed it. Everyone turned to look at her as she attempted to sneak in unobtrusively at the back, behind the constables.

  'How nice of you to join us,' the DCI commented frostily. 'Now perhaps we can get on.' Embarrassed at holding up the briefing, Geraldine was relieved she hadn't missed anything.

  'Thank you for waiting, ma'am. I'm sorry, I had to—' she began, but Kathryn Gordon silenced her with a raised hand and nodded at Merton.

  'We've traced Tillotson,' he said and everyone turned to him, Geraldine forgotten. 'But he's in the clear.'

  'It seems he has a cast iron alibi,' Kathryn Gordon chipped in grimly.

  'Tillotson was in a holding cell overnight in Portsmouth,' Merton informed them. 'Picked up at six o'clock on a charge of theft. Seems he nicked his girlfriend's jewellery and ran off back to Portsmouth with it.'

  'So we're back to square one,' the DCI said sourly, as she crossed Tillotson's name off the board. Disappointment seemed to permeate the air, spreading from face to face like a contagion.

  'Maybe not,' Geraldine stepped forward. For the second time that morning, everyone turned to stare at her. 'I never thought Tillotson was our man,' she said, glancing round, suddenly unaccountably nervous. She could feel her legs trembling. Someone gave a faint groan. Kathryn Gordon's eyes narrowed but she didn't speak.

  Merton shrugged. 'Hindsight's a great gift …' he began, but the DCI's eyes met Geraldine's and she held up her hand for silence.

  'Go on,' she said, looking at Geraldine. There was an almost palpable buzz of expectation at the excitement in Kathryn Gordon's voice.

  Geraldine took a deep breath. 'I remembered hearing a call we received, on the 28th September.' She flipped through her notebook. 'Here it is. '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.' Wednesday was the 26th. The missing lodger disappeared on the day Angela Waters was killed and,' she raised her eyes from her notebook and looked straight at Kathryn Gordon, 'on the strength of Heather Spencer's statement, we've been looking for a man with a scar on his lip who seemed reluctant to talk. Possibly someone with a speech impediment.'

  'Go on,' the DCI urged.

  Geraldine resumed. 'I've just come back from visiting the caller, Mrs Edna Lewis, at 17 Lyceum Park Road.' The room crackled with tiny sounds of rustling paper and scratching pens. The significance of the address wasn't lost on the listeners. 'She confirmed the e-fit from Heather Spencer's description was probably her missing tenant, name of Jim Curtis. He rented a room with a view of the park.' Geraldine consulted her notes again. 'The landlady described him as 'a quiet man', born with a harelip, operated on when he was very small, leaving a scar.'

  'Didn't she see his picture in the papers?' Merton asked.

  Geraldine shook her head. 'When I showed her the image she said it was a pretty poor likeness. Only the position of the scar linked it to her lodger. In any case, she said her eyes aren't good any more. She doesn't read the papers and doesn't like watching the news. Says it's too depressing.'

  'She's right there,' someone chipped in.

  For a second no one spoke. Then the DCI nodded briskly. 'Get on with it then,' she barked. 'Report back to me as soon as you find Jim Curtis. Bring him in and let's see what he's got to say for himself.' She turned and conferred with the duty manager. Before she disappeared into her office, she wrote JIM CURTIS in large letters on the board. With a quick grin at Peterson, Geraldine set off on her allocated task as the duty sergeant added details below the e-fit picture and began writing up Jim Curtis's last known address.

52

Records

The introductions were swiftly made. They were both busy.

  The young social worker peered anxiously through her glasses at Geraldine. 'You asked about Jim Curtis,' she said. 'You're lucky. Someone had his mother's file sent on and we kept it. She died in 1980, so I suppose it's OK for you to have it.' She handed Geraldine a dusty folder and started tapping at her keyboard. 'Jim Curtis,' she muttered under her breath, scanning the screen. While she waited, Geraldine glanced through the mother's file.

Carole Curtis: prostitute, two arrests for soliciting … addict: amphetamine, crystal meth, smack, solvents, alcohol … abusive relationships … one brief stay in a refuge … Three abortions … Died 1980 … James born 3rd May 1964 … Claire born 15th September 1969. Died 1972 …

The social worker accessed Jim Curtis's records and hesitated. 'I'm not sure I should let you see his personal details.'

  Geraldine did her best to look puzzled. 'We've never experienced any difficulty with co-operation from the Social Services. We've always found you very efficient,' she lied shamelessly, banking on the social worker's inexperience. 'We're two arms of the same organisation really.' The social worker looked uncertain but she complied, reading aloud from her screen as the document was printing.

  'James Curtis. Is this the one you're after? Born in Lewisham 3rd May 1964. Hospitalised at fifteen weeks to correct a congenital left sided unilateral cleft lip and cleft palate. No child abuse on record, but hospital visits for various injuries. An accident prone child.' The social worker glanced up at Geraldine with a sceptical jerk of one eyebrow before continuing her litany. Her printer whined crankily in the background. 'He was taken into care in '73. One period of fostering when he was eleven, for about three months. Foster parents reported aggressive behaviour. No educational achievement to speak of. Low IQ. Not much detail on his educational needs, I'm afraid. He was on the list for an assessment, but there's no follow up on record. Typical. He's on medication for paranoid schizophrenia.'

  'A cleft palate,' Geraldine repeated. 'He had an operation for a cleft palate.'

  'Yes. But I wouldn't say that's the worst of his problems.'

  Geraldine nodded, brisk again. 'How long's he been on medication for paranoid schizophrenia?'

  The social worker referred to her records again. 'He was diagnosed in 1984.'

  'That's over twenty years ago.'

  'Yes. He moved here in 1987. No reason for the move is mentioned in the records. He was transferred from depot injections to anti-psychotic tablets nearly two years ago.'

  'Meaning his medication has been self administered for two years,' Geraldine said slowly. 'What would happen, now, if he stopped taking his tablets?'

  The social worker looked up, her pale eyes faintly troubled. 'He wouldn't. Why would he?'

  'He could have stopped taking them at any time over the past two years.'

  'In theory, yes. But he would've been kept on injections if he couldn't be trusted to take his medication orally. The change wouldn't have been made without a full psychiatric assessment. There are strict procedures. They would have to be sure he's a hundred per cent reliable. And he still has to check in every month to collect his prescription. It would be followed up if he didn't show. The notes say he was compliant.'

  'You mentioned aggressive behaviour.'

  'As a child, yes, but he's been sorted out. He's fine on his medication.' Their eyes met. Neither woman spoke for a moment.

  'So,' Geraldine repeated her question slowly, 'if he
did
stop, what would happen?'

  'You'd have to ask his doctor that.'

  'Has he been collecting his medication recently?' Geraldine asked quietly.

  'He collects it every month.'

  'But we don't know he's been taking it.' There was a longer pause. The social worker looked down and resumed reading from her notes.

  'He's a loner, been living in the community since he moved to the area. Current address …' she scrolled down.

  '17 Lyceum Park Road. Landlady Mrs Edna Lewis.'

  'Yes.'

  'He left that address at the time the first girl was murdered in Lyceum Park.'

  The social worker swore under her breath. 'They never let us know what's going on. So where is he now?'

  'That's what we're trying to find out.'

  'He could be in a hostel? Or sleeping rough?'

  Geraldine shrugged. 'We've checked all the usual haunts. Asked around. No one's seen him.'

  The social worker sighed wearily. 'Let's hope they put him back on injections when you find him and monitor him properly this time.'

  'What he needs is to be locked up in a secure institution,' Geraldine retorted, exasperated.

  'That's a bit harsh, isn't it?' the social worker gave a disapproving frown. 'You're talking about a seriously disturbed man. He should never have been left to wander the streets unsupervised but the trouble is, once they're out in the community it's so hard to keep track. They slip away. He needs help, not punishment.' Geraldine wondered if the social worker would have been so charitable if she'd seen Jim Curtis's victims.

  'We have to keep the streets safe,' was all she said. 'That's got to be the priority, for all our sakes.'

  'What's he done?' the social worker asked, suddenly uneasy.

  'We're not yet sure ourselves.'

  'We can't watch these people twenty-four seven, is all I'm saying,' the social worker insisted wretchedly. 'It's a huge burden on resources and …' she sighed. 'We keep making the case for more funds, but …' There was nothing more to say.

  'No one can hold you personally responsible,' Geraldine assured the dejected social worker, as she took her leave.

  Theoretically
everyone
was accountable, but no one was ever held responsible. The social services were doing their best but they could only provide crisis management. When the system failed, there was no one around to pick up the pieces. Sometimes, no one even saw the pieces until it was too late. Too late for Angela Waters, Tiffany May and Jacqueline Ross. Geraldine was almost certain she'd discovered the identity of the Woolsmarsh Strangler, but all she felt was a sick despair. The deaths of those three women had been an insane waste of their young lives and, whether she was right or not, the killer was still at large. Nothing had changed.

  Peterson accompanied her to the doctor's surgery where the practice manager ushered them into a small white waiting room.

  'The doctor will be with you shortly,' she said as she left them, an anxious smile hovering around her mouth. A few moments passed before they heard her voice outside in the corridor.

  'I don't know what it's about, Dr Callum.' There was a muffled buzz. 'They didn't say.'

  Geraldine stood up and opened the door. 'Dr Callum? I'm DI Steel and this is DS Peterson. We'd like to speak to you in private.'

  The tall grey haired doctor led the way into his consulting room and waited courteously for Geraldine to sit down. He glanced pointedly at his watch as he told them he could spare them a few moments.

  'I have patients waiting,' he added apologetically. Without explanation, Geraldine asked him about Jim Curtis.

  'I'm afraid all the information I have about my patient is confidential,' he replied. He sat with his arms folded, and met Geraldine's gaze steadily.