Cut Short (36 page)

  'Nothing yet, ma'am.' Geraldine felt a stab of disappointment.

  They crossed the dark garden. Peterson stumbled once on a bramble before he slunk into the shadows behind the shed. Geraldine tapped softly at the door. It opened a sliver. A thick curtain hung inside the door to black out the light. Inside, the work of the forensic team went on silently. Geraldine twitched the curtain and slipped into the brightly lit shed where white suited officers were busy. One of them held up a plastic bag and Geraldine saw it held a delicate strand, a few ginger hairs that might have been picked off a jumper.

  She nodded and left, pulling the curtain across quickly and closing the door without a sound. She joined Peterson, concealed behind the shed wall. They could establish that Jim Curtis had been sleeping in the shed. They were convinced he'd killed Jacqueline Ross in there, but they had no proof. Geraldine swore under her breath, wishing either Heather Spencer or Melanie Rogers had been able to identify their attacker. They were so close. They couldn't track Jim Curtis down only to see him acquitted in court. A canny lawyer could dress a felon in a clean suit, put credible words in his mouth and create reservations about anyone's guilt. Questions would be raised about whether the victim, or only her clothes, had ever been inside the shed. There must be no room for doubt.

  Two hours passed. Still they waited in the freezing dark. Geraldine's feet ached with the cold but she hung on. With every moment that passed, the chance of Jim Curtis returning to the shed grew more remote. They heard rustling in the grass.

  'Rats,' Peterson mumbled. Geraldine didn't budge. She knew the DS wanted to go back to the station but she clung on, determined to be there when Jim Curtis returned to his hideout. She wanted to handcuff him herself, his hands behind his back.

  They waited. The forensic team worked in the shed, unseen. Peterson kicked silently at the dirt with the toe of his shoe. A thick mist was beginning to glow with early morning light when she spoke again.

  'We've lost him,' she said, no longer trying to muffle her voice. It seemed to boom in her ears after the silence of their dark vigil. 'Something's wrong.' She looked around the garden, eerie in the early mist. 'If he was coming back, he'd be here by now. He knows something's up. We're wasting our time.'

  They returned to the car where Geraldine told Peterson about the hair.

  'It doesn't change anything,' she pointed out when he punched the air in triumph. She suddenly felt very old. 'They found her clothes, that's all. It doesn't even prove she was here. The whole place is littered with old clothes. He's like a magpie. He's been collecting bin bags from outside charity shops and bringing them back here. He could've found Jacqueline's clothes and brought them back to the shed, with her hair clinging to them.'

  'Forensics will find evidence she was killed in there,' Peterson replied. Geraldine smiled, but she felt uneasy. Jim Curtis should have been back by now. They still didn't know where he was. If they'd scared him off with the police patrols and the chopper, they might not find him before he moved away and killed again. And again.

  'He won't get far, gov. He'll be picked up. We've got the whole town covered,' Peterson said.

  'That's what I thought. But he must know we're searching for him. He would've seen patrols on the streets, couldn't have missed the helicopter.' She shut her eyes. Peterson waited. 'Let's focus on what we know about him. He's got mental problems'

  'He's paranoid,' the sergeant said. 'He's been on his own, sleeping rough. He doesn't trust anyone.' He glanced at Geraldine.

  She was sitting perfectly still, eyes shut, thinking. 'Heather Spencer said he's like a child. His records confirm low IQ. He's gone to hide, somewhere he feels safe. He took Jacqueline Ross to the park. Maybe that's where he feels safe.' She opened her eyes.

  'The park? Are you sure? I would've thought that was the last place he'd want to —'

  'No. I'm not sure,' Geraldine interrupted him. 'Let's go.' She stared straight ahead as Peterson drove off, muttering under his breath.

  Geraldine felt sick with despair, but she had to do some thing. She couldn't just return to the station and sit around. They'd discovered his hideout too late. Jim Curtis must have fled the area at the first sight of a police presence. He might have a car – he could be anywhere by now. They'd lost their chance to catch him. Working in the shed, SOCOs were standing on the same floor the killer had trodden, searching the stinking pile of old newspapers and clothes he'd slept on, breathing the killer's stale air. They'd come so close to finding him.

  They drew up by the park gates.

  'Don't make a sound,' Geraldine warned Peterson. They closed the car doors as gently as they could.

  They nearly missed him, lying down gazing into the water. In a glimmer of cold moonlight that cut through the swirling mist they caught a glimpse of movement in the reeds by the lake. If he hadn't moved his head slightly from side to side they might never have seen him. A low mumbling reached them. He was talking to himself. Peterson bent over to whisper in Geraldine's ear. She couldn't catch what he was saying. She nudged him and they walked swiftly down to the water's edge. They were too slow. The figure had vanished, aware of their silent approach. Peterson swore under his breath.

  'Cover the main gate,' Geraldine hissed. She turned and hurried towards the back exit. They couldn't let him slip away, not now they'd found him. She was on the phone, summoning backup. He wouldn't get far. She hoped he'd slithered into the water, or ducked into the bushes but she knew he might already be racing silently to the perimeter fence. If he reached it before backup arrived he'd be able to climb over, concealed in the mist. Once out of the park it was still possible he might give them the slip. He knew how to hide in the shadows, like an animal.

  Peterson had disappeared into the darkness. Geraldine walked silently across the grass. Jim Curtis had been there, a black shape in the moonlight. She felt her ears and eyes straining in the mist. She heard water lapping. In the distance a car sped by. The minutes seemed to stretch endlessly. She tried not to imagine how it would feel to read about his next victim in the news.

  When strong hands seized her arms they held her so hard it hurt. She yelled but already both her wrists were clamped in a vice like hold, and another hand was slapped over her mouth. She felt a rough texture on her lips. A pungent stench of leather and sweat was in her nostrils as she struggled to breathe. Adrenaline rushed to her head, making her dizzy. Even if Peterson had heard her stifled scream, he'd never find her in the shadowy morning mist. She was alone with the killer.

  Swiftly she manoeuvred one foot behind her assailant's calf to trip him up, but lost her footing as he dragged her across the grass. Her arms felt as though they were being wrenched from their sockets and she was afraid her neck would snap. Through her pain and terror, she found herself analysing the assault. He was using only his gloved hands. There was no time for anything else. She thought of Angela Waters, Tiffany May and Jacqueline Ross and was glad it would be over quickly. DI Geraldine Steel killed in the course of duty. Geraldine Steel, lying naked on a table in the mortuary. Panic gave way to rage and she kicked out in a violent frenzy. Her assailant yelled. Good, she thought as she kicked him again. At least she could hurt him before she died. He cried out once more and tightened his grip on her face.

  She was pushed backwards onto the grass, her arms pinned beneath her, crushed by the weight of his body. One hand continued to press against her mouth, forcing her lower jaw painfully backwards. His other hand felt for her throat. Frantically, Geraldine's fingers scrabbled at the earth and she managed to wriggle one arm free. Ignoring a sharp pain in her shoulder, she seized a handful of greasy hair and yanked it as hard as she could. Her assailant hollered, and loosened his grip on her throat. She gasped for breath.

  She tried to gather her energy for another tug when the load pressing down on her suddenly lifted and her jaw was released. There were sounds of a scuffle immediately above her. She rolled to one side, and struggled to her knees, propping herself up on shaking arms. One shoulder jarred painfully as her palms slid on the wet grass.

  'You all right, gov?' a familiar voice grunted somewhere above her head.

  'You took your time,' she croaked, her thoughts spiralling out of control with shock and pain. Shivering and sobbing she clambered to her feet, struggling to control her hysteria. She couldn't breathe. She'd dropped her torch in the struggle and could barely see Peterson holding her assailant in a headlock, one arm twisted behind his back. Jim Curtis was crying like a child.

  'Let go,' he sobbed. 'I hate you. I'm not playing any more.'

  'Easy, Serge, you'll strangle him.' Her voice sounded hoarse and distant in the darkness.

  'No more than he deserves. Slap the cuffs on him for God's sake. He's strong as an ox.' Fumbling, Geraldine handcuffed the man's hands behind his back. In the darkness his features were shrouded in hair. He remained a shadowy figure.

  They heard the chopper circling overhead, bathing the scene in light, as dozens of uniformed officers charged towards them out of the dispersing mist. Geraldine nursed her sore shoulder. It was all over.

  'We got him,' she began but had to stop. Shaking uncontrollably, she turned her back on the melee of uniformed officers and walked away, struggling to regain her compo sure. She hoped her outburst had passed unnoticed in all the commotion. It was hardly appropriate conduct for a DI.

  A thin voice whined from the dark huddle of figures on the path. 'You're mean. I'm going to tell on you. It's not fair.'

  The words checked Geraldine's hysteria like a slap in the face. Jim Curtis was right. It wasn't fair. She took a deep breath and stepped forward. 'James Curtis,' she called out. The babble of voices fell silent. 'I'm arresting you on suspicion of the murders of Angela Waters, Tiffany May and Jacqueline Ross, and the attempted murders of Heather Spencer, Melanie Rogers and …' She paused. Her mouth felt dry. 'Geraldine Steel. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court.'

  Behind her, in the gathering light, she heard cheering.

64

Interview

'What the hell do you think you were doing, running around in the park like that, before backup arrived?' Kathryn Gordon stormed at Geraldine. They were in the DCI's office with the door shut, but Kathryn Gordon was shouting so loudly they could probably hear her upstairs in the canteen. Geraldine clenched her fists, pressing her nails into her palms, and winced as the tension in her arms caused a painful spasm in her neck.

  The DCI lowered her voice. 'Your carelessness could've got you killed. Don't you realise the danger you put yourself in?' Geraldine lowered her head gingerly. She'd been to casualty, at the DCI's insistence, and was mortified at having to wear a neck collar despite her assurances that she felt fine. 'I'm going to keep a very close eye on you in future, Geraldine Steel,' Kathryn Gordon went on. She sat down, red faced with fury. Geraldine wondered if the DCI intended to put in a request for Geraldine to work on her team again. Right now, it didn't seem a pleasant prospect.

  'Yes, ma'am,' she replied, trying to sound repentant. 'Thank you ma'am and I'm sorry for being …' she paused, lost for words. With a disgruntled murmur, the DCI gave a nod at the door, allowing Geraldine to make her second escape of the day. At least her encounter with Jim Curtis had made the reprimand from Kathryn Gordon seem relatively tame, Geraldine thought ruefully. Avoiding the curious and sympathetic glances of colleagues, she scuttled to the relative privacy of a toilet cubicle. Perched on the edge of a seat she wept silently and without restraint, until her neck ached from the violence of her sobbing.

  When she returned to the Incident Room she found her colleagues huddled in groups, reading the local newspaper with varying expressions of amusement or outrage. The
Woolsmarsh Chronicle
ran an outsize headline above a photograph of a police helicopter.

STRANGLER ARRESTED

Killing Spree

Notorious Woolsmarsh Strangler arrested after killing spree claimed three lives.

  She scanned down the subheadings. There was a comment from Kathryn Gordon whom the paper was now praising. 'My team has worked tirelessly,' she was quoted as saying. Geraldine smiled at the editor's eagerness to share the glory.

DCI Gordon acknowledged the co-operation of
The Chronicle
whose public awareness campaign played an important role in helping to protect local residents.

Inside were features including interviews with the victims' families and friends, and a map showing the route the killer might have taken between the park and the alley. A table of victims read like a list of the wives of Henry VIII. Brief and mainly accurate biographies of the dead girls followed, accompanied by pictures.

  The story overshadowed news about the leader of the local council. A heading announced: 'COUNCIL LEADER CON.

  Geraldine caught Carter's eye and smiled as they turned to face the Incident Board where Kathryn Gordon stood, her pale face stretched in a broad grin.

  'Congratulations everyone, on a job well done.' There was a general murmur of appreciation. 'You've been a great team to work with.' Muted whispers swelled into loud cheering. Kathryn Gordon beamed and nodded her head as everyone dispersed to type up reports and clear their desks.

  A solicitor was on hand for the DCI to start the interview. The forensic team were gathering evidence for a watertight case. Clothes found in the shed had been identified as those worn by Jacqueline Ross on the night she died. DNA hadn't yet been confirmed, but a strand of her hair had been discovered in the shed and Jim Curtis's fingerprints were found on her shoes. The similarity in method was compelling proof that one man had committed all three murders. Melanie Rogers and Heather Spencer might identify him, forensics were re-examining the letters Heather Spencer had received, and he'd been arrested in the act of attempted murder.