Death Call (19 page)

He had told her many times that it didn’t matter if she was incontinent, but Sarah had simply clammed up and refused to discuss the subject. Apart from finding the discussion of sex embarrassing, she thought that her incontinence was unforgivable. And because of these factors, their sex life had disappeared.

She often wondered if he had slept with other women in the last couple of years. It was something that she preferred not to think about, but it was one of those questions that occasionally reared its ugly head as she sat alone in the darkening light of the kitchen, watching American chat-shows on TV. Sure, like any man, he needed sexual release, but somehow Sarah believed that he wouldn’t be unfaithful to her. Not after twenty wonderful years of marriage. And indeed she was right – until recently, that was.

She had grown suspicious of Dan’s recent behaviour owing to his seeming air of guilt, his change in tone, and the fact that he hadn’t looked her straight in the eyes for a few days. Something had happened recently – of that she was sure. But although she knew that something had happened, she could in no way blame him. She loved him too much.

Dan arrived home at ten thirty five, with the smell of drink surrounding the breath of fresh air that he brought into the kitchen. It had been raining all day long, and his overcoat was soaked right through.

‘I think you should get out of those clothes as quick as you can, or you’ll catch your death,’ Sarah said, softly.

‘It’s just a little rain – it won’t kill me. It’s stronger stuff I’m made of....’ Dan replied, hanging his coat over the edge of the radiator.

‘There’s a bit of salad in the fridge and you can put on a few chips if you like. I haven’t been feeling the best today.’

‘Why, what’s wrong? Is it getting worse? Have you seen the doctor, or should I ring him for you?’ Dan asked, anxiously.

‘Calm down. I went to have a CSF examination last week. And before you say anything, I didn’t want to alarm you. It’s just a simple procedure, and you’ve been very busy with your work recently....’

‘But I would’ve taken some time off and brought you to the hospital....’

‘There was no need. Besides, I know how much you hate hospitals. Remember coming in drunk the other night with those stitches in your forehead? I don’t think I could repeat what you called that poor young doctor who dealt with you....’

‘So, what happened?’

‘The results were phoned over to me the other day, but I could’ve saved them the time and money. My symptoms are getting worse again. My hands are shaking nearly all the time now, and I’ve lost a lot more feeling in my legs. The left one is almost paralysed, like the right one....’

‘Well, let me know what’s happening in future, will you? I feel as if you don’t want to let me know what’s going on.’

‘I don’t, sometimes. But then, neither do you.’

‘But it’s just work – it’d bore you to tears. And we’ve still only got a few leads for the case I’m on at the moment....’

‘The doctor said he’d be putting me on a new drug that has come on to the market. It’s called Interferon, Beta Interferon. It’s supposed to help the immune system and reduce the severity of the attacks....’

‘Well, it certainly sounds good,’ Dan said, leaning down to kiss his wife on the lips. ‘What is it, a course of pills?’

‘No – it comes as weekly and daily injections. They’re going to teach me how to do it myself, so I don’t need a nurse visiting every day.’

‘I don’t fancy that,’ Dan said, removing the chip pan from the oven, where it lived between fry-ups.

‘Well, if it makes me feel better then it’s worth a try....’

‘And it’s been properly tested?’

‘Oh, God, yes. But they say that there can be some side-effects, like depression.’

‘Ah, you never suffer from depression, do you?’ Dan exclaimed, as he rooted through the freezer in search of a bag of frozen chips.

‘They’re on the top shelf,’ Sarah said.

‘We’ve made some ground on the investigation. Nothing special, but it could prove very useful over the next few days. We think the killer might be a soldier – or ex-soldier. You see, there was a woman attacked down at King’s Cross recently by a guy who fits our description.’

‘Have you given a description to the media yet?’

‘That’s not up to me. If it was they’d have had it ages ago. I don’t for the life of me know what they’re waiting for. It’s as though they want him to strike again so we’ll have more clues to go on. It’s madness. We’ll catch him – it’s just a matter of time, that’s all.’

‘So you’re confident?’

‘We’ll get him.’

‘When you say we, I assume you mean Grant and yourself. How are you getting along?’

‘I dunno. The guy’s a mystery. He has such a weird by-the-book approach to working it’s amazing that he ever made detective constable. Most guys who make it to DC only do so because they have a bit of flair for the job – but Grant has as much flair as an eighty year old nun.’

‘Give him time, he’s probably only just getting used to you, that’s all.’

‘Maybe, but I’m sure as hell not getting used to him,’ Dan said, opening a can of beer that he had found in the fridge.

Chapter 20

A purple estate, with two aerials, driven by a blondish man who could be in the army. Sounds simple enough. Except, without the registration you would have to go through hundreds of cars, and then cross-match the cars with the owners, the owners with army records. And to top it all off, the SAS were not likely to give a humble police force information on a member of the service. At least not a serving soldier.

So Eileen had gotten into the car and had been forced to give the guy a blow job. Why had he not tried to kill her? Why had he killed the other two and not Eileen? Was it because he was in his car? Was it, perhaps, because he liked what she had done? Maybe he was sick of killing hookers – who could tell. But then he did still have the knife with him, Carroll thought, sitting back in his chair. He knew that the search had to begin somewhere, and it was at the Ministry of Defence that he would make his first tentative inquiries.

Grant had taken it upon himself to start the vehicle check, obtaining a list of all recent model purple estate cars in the area. And as the car in question had a second aerial, he checked all cars operating on a hackney or taxi basis listed as well. If the guy was using a two way radio he was either a CB enthusiast, a courier or a hackney driver, of some or other description.

Carroll’s efforts were met, at every hurdle, with red tape. The sort that only the civil service can provide in such abundance. The Ministry of Defence was, to say the least, sceptical of the man on the phone trying to make an appointment to see someone in charge of personnel. Particularly when he mentioned the Special Air Services.

Having been transferred from one desk-bound war-hero to the next, Carroll soon found himself talking with what he imagined to be a Sandhurst man. The tone in his voice gave away an air of the upper classes, while his approach and confidence in conversation exuded power and influence. Must be a Major of some description, Carroll thought, introducing himself.

‘My name is Detective Sergeant Dan Carroll, Metropolitan Police. Who am I talking to?’

‘Major Reginald Whalley, I’m head of the personnel section attached to these offices.’

‘Major Whalley, I’m trying to establish the whereabouts of one of your men,’ Carroll said.

‘And why, may I ask, are you looking for one of our servicemen?’

‘It’s in connection with a police matter that I’m currently investigating.’

‘What is the name of the individual you’re looking for, and what regiment is he attached to?’

‘Well, you see, that’s where we start to get into difficulty. I don’t actually have a name as such, but I believe he would be an SAS or ex-SAS man aged between thirty and thirty five.’

And you don’t have any name or information as to where he was stationed?’

‘Not at present, I’m afraid.

‘Well, Detective Sergeant Carroll, I’m afraid that there is precious little that we can do for you. Unless you have his service number, regiment and name then you could be looking for years....’

‘But there can’t be that many serving in the SAS, Major....’

‘Well, that’s something I can’t discuss – especially over the telephone. As I’ve already said – unless you have some details, like a name or service number, then there’s no hope of finding the man or woman you’re looking for. Now if that will be all, I’m very busy this afternoon....’

‘I need to get in touch with whoever it is that deals directly with the regiment, as I’m going to have to go through their records,’ Carroll said, vainly hoping that he would get a name, maybe a phone number.

‘I’m afraid I can’t give you that information over the phone. I’m sure you understand....’

‘I’ll be over to your offices in an hour and you can give me the information in person, Major.’

‘Well, I’m afraid....’

Carroll put the receiver back down onto the cradle, rubbed his jaw and looked across at Sam, who was staring blankly at the computer terminal in the squad room.

According to the vehicle registration records, there were over five hundred purple estate cars to be found in London at any given moment. Of the five hundred, there were approximately three hundred in North London. And of the three hundred, there were ten listed as either company fleet vehicles or registered hackney cabs. There was no way to check how many of the three hundred purple estate cars in North London had a CB radio on board.

Grant looked across at his partner and sighed.

‘Well, we’ve cut the field down a bit, anyway, I suppose. There’s only ten purple estate cars registered in North London that are used as commercial fleet or hackney vehicles. I’ll get the list printed out,’ Grant said, hoping that Carroll may have another morsel of information with which to progress the investigation. By the look of him, Grant thought, he didn’t have anything new.

‘The MOD is tight-lipped, to say the least,’ Carroll said. ‘They seem to have a slight problem with telephones, so I’m gonna have to take a run over there myself. Fancy coming along for the ride?’

‘No, I’ll get to work on this list and see if I can’t make a little headway on who might own the car.’

‘Hey Ho Silver! See you later, Tonto!’ Carroll said with an air of fatigue in his voice.

Grant didn’t look up from what he was doing.

****

There was never anywhere to park in central London. Despite the large number of parking meters and traffic wardens, there was always a distinct lack of parking spaces. This didn’t bother Carroll too much. All he needed to do was make it obvious that it was a CID squad car and it would be left alone.

Getting past the security man on the front door was the first obstacle. But on presenting the guard with his badge, all was quickly sorted out. A quick phone call from the security booth, and Carroll was sent up in the elevator to the third floor.

As the elevator door opened, Carroll saw a long line of doors stretching down a hallway that seemed to go on forever. Everything looked the same. The only indication that there was any life in the building came from the little black and white nameplates which were stuck on each door. The nameplates read like a military role of honour. Major this, General that, and then into the civilians, draughted in, Carroll thought, because the soldier boys couldn’t quite manage all of the paper shuffling on their own. Just like the Met, he thought, smiling.

Carroll continued walking down the hallway until he came to room 101, where he saw the nameplate for Major Reginald Whalley. He knocked loudly, and the door was at once opened by a young woman in a rather worn looking wool suit.

‘Detective Sergeant Carroll?’ she asked, politely.

‘That’s right. Major Whalley is expecting me.’

‘I’m afraid the Major couldn’t wait for you. He’s in a meeting right now,’ the young woman said, smoothing down her skirt with her hands.

She was married, according to her ring finger. And her eyes told Carroll that she didn’t like her routine being interrupted by the police.

‘But I told him that I was coming over,’ Carroll said, with a tinge of exasperation in his voice.

‘He left you this,’ the young woman said, handing Carroll a sealed brown envelope.

‘I really would like to talk to the Major. When will he be free?’

‘You’ll have to make an appointment. Next week would be the earliest,’ she said, eyeing the diary on her desk.

‘I’ll have to get back to you. Thank you for your help,’ Carroll said, turning on his heel and heading for the door.

Once outside the Ministry building, Carroll opened the brown envelope that the secretary had given him. It contained some MOD headed note paper on which was scrawled the name Major Peter Lewis, and a phone number.

Well, Carroll thought, looking down at the piece of paper, at least it’s a contact....

Grant had the list of ten cars and their owners printed out. The next step, he thought, was to establish where each of the cars were, who drove them on a regular basis, and where they had been at the time of the killings. It would mean interviewing quite a few people – but it had to be done. The only thing that they had on their side, Grant thought, was a description of the killer. That, he thought, should make matters a little less complicated.