Cut Short (33 page)

  'Fire, police or ambulance?'

  'I need to contact Woolsmarsh police station.'

  'You'll have to call them directly, madam. This is an emergency line.'

  'This
is
an emergency,' she protested. 'My name's Heather Spencer and I need to contact Woolsmarsh Police urgently.'

  'I'm sorry, this is an emergency line only.'

  'Wait! Please, I need to speak to Detective Inspector Steel at Woolsmarsh police station,' Heather gabbled. 'She's in charge of a murder investigation and I think the murderer's outside my house right now. It's the Woolsmarsh Strangler. He's here. I'm not imagining it, he's here. You've got to believe me.' She failed to control the panic in her voice. 'Inspector Steel gave me her direct line but I can't find the card she gave me and I don't know the number of the police station. My name's Heather Spencer. Please, you've got to help me …' She froze, hearing a window smash. 'Oh my God, he's here,' she whispered, 'he's broken a window and he's in the house.'

  Dizzily, she watched a dark shape floating towards her across the kitchen. She felt as if she was drowning. He reached the kitchen door. Someone whimpered as she turned and raced up the stairs. She thought she heard feet pounding after her but it could have been her heart. She ran along the landing and shut herself in the bathroom, the only door that locked. Too late, she realised her mistake. She should have escaped through the front door while she had the chance but, wrapped only in a towel, it hadn't occurred to her to run out into the street. Now she was trapped upstairs. The house was silent. Perhaps it was a chance burglar and she'd scared him off. He didn't look like the man in the park, but there was something familiar about the figure. She knew it was him. What was he doing? The house was silent. He might be waiting for her to open the door. He'd killed repeatedly and now he was in the house, threatening her. She had to control her panic and think.

  He'd killed the other women with his bare hands so he might be unarmed. She needed a weapon. Glancing round she grabbed the showerhead, weighed it in her hand, and tried to rip it from the bath. It wouldn't budge. She heard the stairs creak and panic flooded through her again. Razor blades. William used an electric shaver but she occasionally shaved her legs in the summer with disposable plastic razors. There must be a packet somewhere. She scrabbled frantically through the wall cabinet. Toothpaste, shower gel and bottles of shampoo flew to the floor, cotton wool balls burst unexpectedly out of a plastic bag and spun in the air before falling softly on the tiles. She found a few green and white razors. Her hands shook and she cut her finger as she fumbled to remove one of the blades. She couldn't imagine what he was doing. She dropped the rest of the razors on the floor and tried to peel away a strip of green plastic to release the blade but couldn't detach it. She sat on the toilet, picking desperately at it.

  There was a faint squeal. Heather stared at the door handle as it rotated slowly.

  'Open the door, stupid! I know you're there.' The yell startled her and she leapt up, almost slipping on a patch of shampoo oozing from a bottle on the floor. She gazed round wildly. Her eyes fell on some shiny bath pearls lying in a decorative china dish. She seized it. Bath pearls bounced like pink hailstones as she smashed the dish against edge of the bath. It broke into jagged shards. Please let the edges be sharp, she prayed, clutching a pointed sliver so that it sliced into her palm. Blood dripped onto the floor. Shaking with shock, she pressed a flannel against the wound. She felt as though the top of her head had floated away and this was all a dream.

  'What do you want?' she called, hardly recognising her voice, trembling with fear.

  'You've got to come out, I've found you,' he answered. There was a loud thud and the door juddered violently. He was kicking the flimsy plywood.

  'I'd like to help you,' she ventured.

  'Liar!' he roared. The door shuddered, splitting and splintering.

  A booted foot came through the crack and she clutched her weapon tightly. Above the boot a strip of dirty skin was exposed below a brown trouser leg. The boot vanished. She considered slashing at the leg if it reappeared. She risked further infuriating her assailant but a nasty cut might slow him down, giving her a chance to make a run for it. It was the best plan she could devise. Adrenaline coursed through her as she manoeuvred into position.

  His voice was wheedling. 'I found your hiding place so you got to come out. It's the rules.'

  'I don't want to hurt you,' she called out.

  'You're a liar!'

  'I'm not a liar, I'm a teacher.'

  'You're not Miss Elsie!' he bellowed in a fury. Who was Miss Elsie? Frantic with terror she crouched by the side of the door, waiting for his leg to reappear through the gaping hole.

58

Brothers

William paced the floor. The old argument was brewing. He watched his brother, George, set a mug of tea in front of their father who nodded bleary-eyed thanks. George settled back in his chair and looked up at his brother expectantly.

  'I don't know what you want me to say,' William shrugged helplessly. 'Nothing's changed. You refuse to face up to your responsibility.'

  'You know I'd help more if I could,' George muttered. His father watched his lips. 'It's not as easy for me as it is for you, Will. You know my time's not my own. I spend little enough time with the children as it is.' William nodded bitterly. He'd been waiting for that to come up. 'If you had children—'

  'It wouldn't hurt you to bring them to see him once in a while,' William interrupted brusquely. 'When was the last time they were here?'

  'They're busy,' George looked away, avoiding William's gaze. 'They've got lives of their own. I hardly see them myself any more.'

  'Sit. Drink your tea,' their father said suddenly. His voice no more than a dry wheeze, he was still their father; a vestige of authority clung to his wizened frame. William dutifully sat down and sipped his tea. 'Take a biscuit. Go on,' the old man urged. William glanced around. There weren't any biscuits. 'Cake,' their father added brightly. 'Have some cake. Your mother baked this morning.' He grinned toothlessly. They drank their tea in silence for a moment.

  'You need to take some share in the responsibility,' William said at last, putting his cup down. 'Things can't go on like this.' He waved his hands helplessly. 'You can see what he's like. We do what we can, me and Heather, and the carer's reliable, but dad needs more.'

  'Heather and I,' his father corrected him, suddenly sharp.

  William grinned back at him, startled. 'Heather and I,' he repeated obligingly.

  'He seems perfectly content. Aren't you, dad?' George turned to the old man and William groaned in frustration.

  'Now then, what's this all about?' their father demanded. His demeanour had changed. Shoulders hunched, he glared at William. 'You haven't been fighting again? Remember what I said to you last time? I won't have you pushing your little brother around, William.' His fingers clenched into knobbly fists. 'No pocket money,' he threatened in thin, reedy tones, 'and I'll lock your bicycle away.' William glanced at his brother who sat, face averted.

  'Content, is he?' William growled. He wished his brother
was
still small enough to be pushed around. He took a deep breath and tried again. 'You asked to see me, George. Heather stayed at home because we thought you were ready to talk.'

  'Talk?' George hedged.

  'For goodness sake!' William burst out in exasperation. He glanced anxiously at his father. The old man's eyes had glazed over and he sat, oblivious to the row threatening to kick off.

  'He looks fine,' George said firmly. 'Suzanne and I have talked about dad a lot, William. Despite what you think, we're very concerned about him. He's my father too. And just because you've got more time to visit him, doesn't give you the right to make decisions unilaterally.' William opened his mouth to protest but George held up a manicured hand for silence. 'At least hear me out,' he said. 'Suzanne and I don't agree it's a good idea to move him. He'd never adapt to a new environment. Not at his age.'

  'He can't stay here on his own.'

  'Suzanne and I think he can.'

  'When was the last time Suzanne saw him?'

  'I refuse to move him against his will. Do you want to move, dad?' He turned to his father who was staring at the ceiling. 'I didn't come here to argue, Will.' William dropped his head into his hands in a gesture of despair.

  George stood up. 'It'll take me over two hours to get back to London, and I promised Suzanne I wouldn't be late.'

  William thought of his own wife, at home by herself, 'Heather understands about responsibility,' he replied. He looked at his father. His head was flung back and he was fast asleep.

  'He looks fine to me,' George repeated stubbornly.

  'Are you going to put him to bed?' William asked. 'I gave his carer the night off. I said we'd get him settled tonight.'

  'Love to help, but I've really got to make a move.' George replied, thrusting his arms into his coat sleeves. Defeated, William watched his brother briskly button his coat. His visit had changed nothing. The whole evening had been a complete waste of time. William might as well have stayed at home with Heather and let the carer put his father to bed.

59

Escape

Geraldine pulled into the police station car park. The empty shed was under round the clock surveillance. Jim Curtis wouldn't escape again. After several hours' vigil, they'd followed Kathryn Gordon back to the station. The door to the DCI's office was open. As Geraldine passed she heard Kathryn Gordon barking out orders.

  'Call me as soon as you've got him.' Geraldine under stood her wanting to be there when the arrest was made. Sitting at her desk, Geraldine looked around. Everyone was trying to keep busy. Carter was at his desk, flicking over the pages of a document, waiting for the call. Merton was in Mortimer Street. Peterson was on the other side of the room, leaning against the wall, talking to Sarah Mellor who was smiling up at him.

  Carter came over and leaned against her desk. She'd never seen him so twitchy. 'You just come from Mortimer Street?' he asked. She nodded. 'Anything going on there?' She shook her head and he returned to his desk where he sat, gazing at a document. Geraldine knew he wasn't concentrating on his paperwork any more than she was. She tried to focus on a report but her thoughts kept wandering to Jim Curtis. What was he doing now, while they waited for him to return to his filthy hide out?

  When the call came through to the police station, it wasn't what they'd been expecting. Jim Curtis hadn't gone back to his shed. Geraldine and Peterson drove in tense silence to Heather Spencer's house. The sergeant glanced anxiously at Geraldine as they careered round a corner. They were both keen to be at the scene when the Woolsmarsh Strangler was apprehended. Sirens were screaming ahead of them and she accelerated. They weren't the first on the scene. Geraldine drew up outside a house cordoned off with blue and white tape. Two police cars and a van were already there, blue lights flashing, and several officers in uniform were standing behind the barrier. A line of onlookers had assembled, craning their necks to see what was going on. There was an atmosphere of muddle and excitement as Geraldine raced up the path ahead of Peterson. A uniformed officer was barking at the neighbours to keep back, a paramedic ran up the path to the house, and DS Black charged out of the front door and down the path, bellowing into his phone.

  'What's happening?' Geraldine shouted at him as he barged past her. He didn't answer but continued his frantic phone conversation.

  'Where is he?' Geraldine yelled at the uniformed officer standing outside the front door. He raised his eyebrows and shrugged. Geraldine hurried past him, her face taut. Peterson saw the consternation on her face as he charged after her into the house.

  'Up there,' a uniformed constable told them and Geraldine raced up the stairs. Heather Spencer was sitting on the edge of the bath, shivering. She was wearing a man's dark blue dressing gown and her right hand was wrapped in a bloody towel. There were splashes of blood on the floor and the door had been partially kicked in. A female constable was on the phone requesting medical support. There was no sign of Kathryn Gordon. The atmosphere was chilly with disappointment. Geraldine felt a horrible sinking feeling in her stomach.

  'Where is he?' Peterson repeated, coming in behind her.

  'Mrs Spencer, Heather,' Geraldine said gently. She knelt beside the woman who stared at her unseeing, her hair dishevelled, her face bloated from crying.

  'She's cut her hand,' the WPC explained unnecessarily.

  'Where is he?' A note of desperation had crept into Geraldine's voice. The police constable shrugged helplessly. Geraldine raced in and out of the rooms upstairs. Uniform were everywhere. In the bedroom the wardrobe doors hung open. There was no one there. She ran downstairs. Peterson met her in the hall and shook his head.

  'He's not here. We're searching the grounds,' a uniformed officer said tersely.

  They stepped out into the cool of the evening. No one could slip out of the front door now. Several DCs were searching through the watching crowd but there was no one matching the killer's description, no unidentified male skulking in the throng.

  'Can anyone vouch for you?' she heard a voice was asking.

  'He's my husband,' a woman answered indignantly. Geraldine and Peterson went back into the house. The atmosphere was despondent after the excited bustle outside. In the back garden several officers were trampling through flowerbeds. A beam of light from a helicopter swept across the garden and away to the east, like a sudden burst of daylight. The Woolsmarsh Strangler had gone.