Death Bed (16 page)

I
t was late morning when Geraldine received a call from South Harrow police station.

‘William Kingsley’s here, ma’am. You wanted to know what happened at the identity parade?’

Geraldine felt a glimmer of hope until she heard the sergeant sigh down the phone.

‘We haven’t got anything out of him I’m afraid, ma’am. I think he’s done his best. He arrived on the dot of nine but he hasn’t recognised anyone. We’ve got him looking again but he says it’s impossible. They all look and sound the same to him, and he doesn’t seem able to remember the man he sold his car to anyway. I don’t think he’s being deliberately obstructive, he genuinely can’t help. First off, Kingsley picked out one of the officers making up the numbers in the line up. He kept on about how he’s no good with faces. We could try an E-fit, but I think it’ll be a waste of time. Kingsley’s keen to get away and I suspect he’ll soon be ready to agree with anything, just to get finished. He’s more interested in the insurance claim. He’s making a hell of a stink about it, seems to think we should sort it out for him.’

‘Insurance claim?’

‘Yes. He said he didn’t want to mention it in front of his wife but he received a letter from an insurance company.’

‘What letter?’

‘The BMW was involved in a minor traffic incident after he claims he sold it.’

Geraldine was suddenly alert.

‘Has he got the letter with him?’

‘Yes, but there’s nothing we can do about it. It’s between him and the insurance company. And if the car’s still registered in his name - ’

‘Don’t let him go. I’m on my way.’

‘But he wants to - ’

‘Don’t let him leave before I get there.’

Geraldine hung up without waiting for a reply and drove straight to South Harrow police station. She found William Kingsley looking agitated.

‘You can’t keep me here,’ he complained as soon as she entered the interview room. ‘I’ve been stuck here for hours and I really need to go. I’ve got a job waiting.’

Geraldine sat down.

‘Mr Kingsley, my colleague mentioned an insurance claim? Please.’

She gestured at the chair opposite her and he sat down, mollified.

‘At last someone’s listening to me. Only it could affect my premium, couldn’t it? It’s not just the money. If my wife finds out – she’s already mad at me for forgetting to send those papers off to the DVLA.’

He pulled a letter out of his pocket. Geraldine took the crumpled paper from him and unfolded it.

‘I’d already sold the car so I can’t be liable, can I? If the bloke who bought it from me had an accident, that was his fault, wasn’t it? I mean, I know they’ll say it was still technically my car, but I’d sold it, the money had changed hands, so legally it’s nothing to do with me. You can tell them that, can’t you? They’ll listen to you.’

Geraldine scanned the letter. The BMW had been involved in a minor accident with another car a week after William Kingsley claimed to have sold it. No one had been injured but the other vehicle had sustained some slight damage. According to Arthur Jones, the driver who had made the claim, the driver of the BMW was at fault.

‘It can’t affect my insurance, can it?’ William Kingsley persisted.

‘I need a copy of this,’ Geraldine said.

William Kingsley claimed to have sold the BMW before it was involved in a minor traffic accident. If that was true, the likelihood was that whoever had caused the accident was the killer of Jessica Palmer and Donna Henry.

Back at Hendon she told the detective chief inspector about this latest development.

‘So the car William Kingsley claims to have sold - ’ Reg Milton began.

‘To the killer,’ Geraldine added.

‘Let’s make that assumption for a moment,’ he agreed cautiously. ‘The car was parked in Bruton Place in central London on Saturday the twenty-first, a week after it was allegedly purchased from Kingsley. Let’s hope the other party can give us a better description of the driver than Kingsley’s been able to come up with.’

‘Sometimes people remember these incidents very clearly,’ Geraldine replied.

Their eyes met. She was voicing an optimism she didn’t really feel but the detective chief inspector’s face was glowing, his confidence restored.

Arthur Jones was a stout man in his late sixties, white-haired and ruddy faced. He spoke in a loud forceful tone, like a retired military man.

‘I was driving along Bruton Place and some idiot in a black BMW pulled out right in front of me. He just didn’t look. I swerved but couldn’t avoid a prang. Of course I jumped out straight away but the bugger simply drove off. Yes, shocking, isn’t it?’ he added, misunderstanding Geraldine’s dismayed expression as she realised he might not have had a clear view of the BMW’s driver.

‘Did you see who was driving the other car?’

‘The driver? No. But I got his number alright.’

‘Think carefully, Mr Jones. This is very important. Can you tell me anything at all about the driver of the BMW?’

‘I can tell you the damn fool shouldn’t be allowed behind the wheel of a car.’

‘Is there anything else at all you can tell me about him?’

‘No. I told you, he drove off.’

‘What about the car?’

‘Bloody inconvenient. The nearside headlight’s smashed and it’s going to need a new bumper.’

‘And the other car? Did you get a clear view of it?’

Arthur Jones looked puzzled.

‘Surely you can trace it from the registration number? I definitely got that. Wrote it down at once. He drove off but I wasn’t going to let him get away with it.’

He gave a satisfied nod.

‘Which direction did he drive off in?’

‘He turned left at the first corner. By the time I got back in my car, he’d gone.’

‘And you say he pulled out from the kerb?’

‘Yes. Pulled out right in front of me as though the traffic was going to stop for him. Well, I did my best but I couldn’t avoid him altogether. It wasn’t possible.’

‘Can you tell me exactly where he was parked?’

Arthur Jones was explicit about what he had witnessed. It was only a pity he hadn’t seen the driver. Scene of crime officers were despatched to check the parking space and the area around it, but ten days had passed since the BMW had been there and with the passing traffic, pedestrians and rain, they couldn’t realistically expect to find anything that could be linked to the driver or the car. All Geraldine could do was send a team of uniformed officers to ask people working in Bruton Place if anyone had seen the car, or knew of someone who had recently acquired a black BMW, with the registration number Arthur Jones had taken down. The constables all came back with nothing.

Uniformed officers questioned assistants in the shops off Bond Street, all around the area where Arthur Jones had seen the BMW parked. They showed photographs of Jessica Palmer and Donna Henry wherever they went, but no one recognised either of the victims. Geraldine knew the search would be called off by the end of the day. Although it would probably turn out to be a waste of time, she decided to spend the latter part of the afternoon looking around the area herself.

She took the tube to Bond Street and set off, traversing narrow side streets. The elegant buildings were tall but didn’t seem overpowering because of their variety: red brick, stone carvings, gothic towers, green roofs – the area had no consistent style, which gave it a vibrant style of its own. She passed expensive dress shops and jewellery stores, the pavements heaving with women in high heels and men in smart business suits, all hurrying along, eyes disengaged from their environment. The air smelt dry and dirty, flags flapped from buildings, the roads were packed with vehicles, cranes hung aloft and at every intersection she had to pause for traffic lights. Her spirits sank at the enormity of the task, searching for an evil killer in this teeming metropolis.

G
eraldine passed boutiques of women’s clothes, with striking and often outlandish outfits displayed in the windows, but resisted the temptation to go in. The majority of staff working in them were women. Looking for a tall male suspect, she began with expensive shoe shops and menswear outlets.

A well-spoken man with dark brown hair approached her in the first men’s shoe shop she entered. A faint smell of leather permeated the store.

‘Can I help you, madam?’

Geraldine enquired whether he or any of his colleagues had recently bought a black BMW. He shook his head, his face a mask of good manners.

Virtually every shop she tried employed at least one tall, dark-haired man with an educated accent and the question received a similar response wherever she went. No one admitted to having recently bought a black BMW and no one in any of the shops had seen a colleague driving a car matching that description. In the last shop she tried, a tall dark-haired man tried to sell her a shirt.

‘We have these in just this week direct from Paris.’

‘I’m not looking for a shirt, I’m a police officer.’

Geraldine asked him if he had driven a black BMW recently and he responded with a cautious shake of the head.

‘I’m afraid not, madam.’

Another customer entered the shop and he excused himself. Geraldine sighed. She had no idea what she was looking for and decided she might as well abandon her plan of looking for the killer in the vicinity of Bond Street. She could have passed him several times on the pavement, even spoken to him, and she wouldn’t be any the wiser. There was no point wasting any more of her afternoon on futile questions. The streets were packed with tiny art galleries. While she was there she decided to look for ideas for an inexpensive print for her living room.

The first gallery she entered displayed sheets of black and white images of faces, among them several iconic celebrities and politicians. A few square white pillars created an illusion of alcoves, the floor was mottled grey marble, the walls and ceiling white. There was a shelf of art books behind a counter on which a signing-in book lay open with a fountain pen attached to a chain. Gazing at repetitive images of unseeing faces staring back at her from the walls reminded Geraldine of photographs on the wall of the Incident Room, and the reason why she had come to Bond Street.

A girl with short white blonde hair was gazing at a magazine. She glanced up as Geraldine approached.

‘Feel free to look around,’ she said and Geraldine nodded. ‘Would you like to sign the visitors’ book?’

Geraldine declined.

The second place she looked in had the same white walls and ceiling, but the floor was pitted polished wood. The space displayed large, garish canvases slashed across with bright stabs of colour, bold, vibrant and ugly. A young man looked up from behind the reception desk as Geraldine entered. Gangly, with bony fingers, he seemed very young and eager. He explained the set-up at the gallery, which had opened in 2005 and exhibited both acquisitions and loans. Names of artists Geraldine had never heard of tripped off his tongue. She enquired about a painting of a skeleton depicted in neon colours and wearing a peculiar contraption of feathers on its skull, and the young man told her it was a composition by an up-and-coming young French artist. She went around the entire place without seeing a single canvas she liked.

In the next gallery spotlights focused on elegant classical Greek and Roman artefacts displayed in glass cases on top of white plinths. It was like a museum. Sprucely dressed in a navy blazer, the owner gave an impression of quiet confidence.

‘My most valuable possessions are kept on the lower floor,’ he told her.

‘These are yours?’

He inclined his head and led her down a staircase into a basement where a collection of Greek vases were housed.

‘They’re lovely.’

She meant it.

The gallery owner pointed to a verse hanging on the wall.

‘That’s the one I’m looking for.’

Geraldine read aloud: ‘ “She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, for ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!” That’s Keats’ Ode to a Grecian Urn. I studied Keats at school.’

He smiled in acknowledgement and indicated a mottled green bronze urn about seventeen inches high. The price tag read £75,000.

‘This one’s from the fourth century BC, nearly two and a half thousand years old.’

He touched it reverently with the tips of his fingers as he spoke.

‘Unlike us, art is eternal.’

After half a dozen more visits to galleries Geraldine went into a coffee shop, weary and discouraged. She certainly wasn’t going to find a print she could possibly afford anywhere around Bond Street. Walking between the galleries she hadn’t been able to stop herself making a mental note of people who matched the description of the man they were looking for, but it hadn’t helped. Tall, dark-haired, smartly dressed and well-spoken described almost every man she had encountered that afternoon.

The café was busy and noisy, and it was a relief to return to an atmosphere of normality. After queuing for a coffee she sat on a bench and sipped her hot drink, scanning the hurried notes she had scribbled after each visit to a shop or hushed gallery. She decided not to bother entering all the details of her outings on the central computer as none of it seemed relevant.

‘How did you get on?’ Sam asked her when they passed each other later in the Major Incident Room.

Geraldine shook her head.

‘Waste of time. I ended up looking round some of the galleries.’

‘Did you see anything interesting?’

Geraldine shook her head again.

‘Modern art doesn’t do it for me.’

R
eg Milton was reviewing the case so far.

‘I can’t help feeling we’re missing something,’ Geraldine mumbled, not for the first time.

‘What about Donna Henry’s ex, Geoffrey Hamilton?’ the profiler suggested. ‘He’s tall and dark-haired, with an educated voice, isn’t he?’

‘Well? How about it?’ the detective chief inspector demanded. ‘Who questioned him?’

‘I did, sir,’ a detective sergeant replied and proceeded to read out his notes.

‘He was alone all night when Donna was abducted, but he seemed pretty harmless,’ he concluded.

‘He certainly doesn’t sound like the killer,’ Geraldine agreed.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Reg Milton asked.

‘From what Lily told us, he seems to have really cared about Donna - ’

‘He doesn’t have an alibi.’

‘That’s true, but - ’

The profiler smiled at Geraldine and spoke slowly, as though explaining a lesson to a child.

‘You summarily rejected Robert Stafford as a suspect - ’

‘I’ve given the matter a great deal of thought and I don’t think he’s the killer.’

‘And now you want to reject Geoffrey Hamilton because he cared for Donna. But that’s no reason to discount him. You have to understand that there’s a very fine line between love and fixation. Donna’s ex-boyfriend could have been dangerously obsessed with her to a point of jealous rage. It’s important to consider whether someone could be guilty before dismissing them out of hand.’

‘There’s nothing to connect Geoffrey Hamilton with Jessica Palmer,’ Geraldine objected, aware she was showing her irritation with Jayne’s simplistic psychology.

‘I’m not sure that’s altogether true. He might have killed Jessica Palmer because she reminded him of Donna Henry, as a rehearsal for killing Donna herself. It’s a recognised pattern of behaviour and if he is responsible for the deaths of these two victims, he could continue obsessively attacking women who resemble the object of his desire.’

The detective chief inspector beamed at the profiler as though she had presented him with the answer to a maddening conundrum. ‘Go on then,’ he said, turning to Geraldine. ‘It sounds as though Jayne’s pointed us in a useful direction.’

‘The DCI treats that bloody woman as though she’s some sort of oracle,’ Sam burst out as soon as she and Geraldine left the Incident Room.

‘Or is he lining-up another scapegoat?’

‘What?’

‘Oh never mind.’

It wasn’t just that Geraldine found the profiler infuriating. That wouldn’t normally have bothered her, but she had received a phone call from Sandra at the adoption agency. The social worker had refused to discuss the situation concerning Geraldine’s birth mother over the phone and that wasn’t good news.

Sam didn’t think Geoff Hamilton was a likely suspect either, but at least he was quite tall and dark-haired, and he had a relatively educated voice. In his tiny sitting room lined with books he discharged a series of questions at them.

‘What’s happened? Have you got any news? Have you arrested anyone yet? Was she - ’

He broke off, blinking rapidly, clutching his chin in one hand to conceal the trembling in his bottom lip.

‘Tell us about your relationship with Donna.’

‘I loved her. I mean, really loved her. She was something special, you know.’

He paused, struggling to control his voice.

‘I’d have done anything for her.’

‘How did you feel when she dumped you?’ Sam asked abruptly.

Geoff shrugged.

‘I’m just a librarian and Donna - Donna was amazing. You never knew her. She was beautiful. What did I have to offer? I mean, look at me. I work in a library. It’s not even a secure job these days.’

He spread his hands in a helpless gesture.

‘She could have had anyone. But we had the same sense of humour and we got on so well. We just clicked, you know how it is. I knew straight away we were meant to be together and I think deep down she knew it too. Sometimes you just know - when something feels so right. There’ll never be anyone else for me.’

He heaved a deep sigh.

‘I like to think she’d have come back to me in the end.’

He dropped his head in his hands.

‘So if this relationship was so right, how come she left you?’ Sam made no attempt to conceal her disdain. Geoff raised his head, his eyes watery. Geraldine watched a drip dangling from the end of his nose and wondered what had attracted wealthy, beautiful and fun-loving Donna to this sad, gentle young man.

‘She wanted to have some fun before we settled down,’ he replied seriously.

‘Settled down?’ Geraldine asked, interested in spite of her feeling that they were wasting time. ‘Were you and Donna planning to get married?’

‘Oh yes.’

He sounded so earnest it was hard not to believe him. Geraldine wanted to be clear.

‘Donna Henry agreed to marry you?’

‘No, not exactly.’

‘Had you actually proposed to her?’

Sam sounded incredulous.

‘I was about to, but then she said she wanted a break so the time didn’t seem quite right.’

For a second Geraldine was afraid the sergeant was going to laugh.

‘How long did your relationship last? Before she broke it off?’

‘It was about two months, but - ’

‘Two months?’ Sam burst out.

‘How did you meet?’ Geraldine asked.

‘At a club in Shoreditch.’

‘Do you often go out in Shoreditch?’

‘No. It’s not really my scene.’

He gave a nervous laugh.

‘I went there with a colleague from work. It was his birthday, you see, and he said it would be fun. He thinks I ought to get out more, but it wasn’t my kind of thing, not really. The music was so loud. I can’t say I enjoyed the experience, yet that’s where we met, that one time I went to a club. Do you believe in fate, Inspector?’

He leaned forward, staring intensely at Geraldine.

‘My beliefs aren’t relevant. Now, just a couple of other questions before we’re done, Mr Hamilton. Do you ever go to a massage parlour?’

He sat upright, raising his eyebrows as though she had made an indecent suggestion.

‘A massage parlour? No. I’ve never done anything like that.’

‘And can you confirm where you were last Thursday night?’

‘Thursday night?’

‘Yes. Where were you?’

‘I already told your colleague, I was here. This is where I am at night. What time are we talking about anyway?’

‘After midnight.’

‘Oh, I’d definitely have been here then. I have to be up early for work. I’m usually in bed by ten-thirty.’

‘Can anyone confirm that?’

‘What?’

‘That you were here at midnight on Thursday? Was anyone else with you?’

‘Gracious, no. I was here on my own, like I said before.’

‘Did you speak to anyone on the phone at all that evening?’

‘No, I don’t think so, Inspector.’

‘Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to harm Donna? Did she ever mention anyone?’

‘No. We didn’t talk much about other people she knew. We didn’t talk much about anything.’

Unexpectedly, he blushed.

‘Did you have sexual relations with Donna Henry?’

‘Yes. Yes I did. She was so full of life, so exciting to be with. It was impossible not to fall in love with her.’

‘One night of passion, was it?’ Sam blurted out.

Geraldine glared at her and the sergeant rolled her eyes and looked away.

‘Do you mind if we take a quick look around, Mr Hamilton?’

He turned red, suddenly flustered.

‘I’d rather you didn’t.’

‘Is there any particular reason?’

‘I’m not hiding anything, if that’s what you’re thinking,’ he answered hurriedly.

‘You won’t mind if we take a look then.’

Geraldine was convinced they were wasting time, but as soon as they entered the librarian’s bedroom they understood his reticence to show them his apartment. One wall was plastered in photos of Donna Henry, a few deliberately posed, many apparently taken when she was unaware the camera was on her.

The lift was out of order in the dismal block of flats.

‘What a depressing place to live,’ Geraldine said as they reached the bottom of the stone staircase.

‘Lots of people live in blocks like this,’ Sam replied brusquely.

Geraldine thought about her own well-serviced flat and changed the subject quickly.

‘What do you think of our lovesick librarian? Could he be a spurned boyfriend, determined no one else would have her if he couldn’t?’

‘No way is he our killer. Can you imagine that wet bloke overpowering a woman like Donna Henry? She would have flattened him with one hand.’

Geraldine laughed.

‘He was certainly smitten.’

‘I’m guessing she was the first woman he’d ever screwed. He was like a teenager with a hopeless crush. Talk about deluded.’

‘Yes. She was never going back to him.’

‘The question is, why did she ever have anything to do with him in the first place?’

‘I don’t think we can completely write him off yet. Something doesn’t seem quite right. He was certainly obsessed with her, and what did you make of all those photos?’

‘Yes, that was a bit creepy, but he’s just a harmless crank with a crush.’

Sam dismissed Geoffrey Hamilton with a wave of her hand.

‘If we were only investigating Donna Henry’s death, he might have been worth a second look,’ she added. ‘But as for cutting off body parts, no way would he have done that. He’s probably a vegetarian. And he’s hardly the sort of man to go around dragging girls off the street.’

‘I don’t know that Jessica Palmer would have taken much persuasion,’ Geraldine replied, but she was inclined to agree. ‘He’s quite tall though. Going bald, but what hair he’s got is dark, and he’s quite well-spoken. He’d probably seem posh to Douggie.’

‘At least there’s a motive,’ Geraldine persisted as they reached the car. ‘Donna Henry ditched him. In a rage he killed a woman who looked a bit like her, acting out a fantasy, or perhaps confusing Jessica with Donna herself in his blind fury? Then he realised his mistake and went after Donna herself. Maybe he even discovered he enjoyed killing women and cutting them up. What do you think?’

‘I think you’re beginning to sound like our profiler.’

‘Oh dear. That desperate?’

They looked at one another for a moment before getting in the car. They wanted to find a connection between the victims, because if the attacks were random then the killer might be almost impossible to track down. And it didn’t take a psychological profiler to persuade them that someone who had committed two gruesome murders in quick succession might strike again very soon. Geraldine pictured the two mutilated bodies lying in the morgue and shuddered.