DS Jessica Daniel series: Locked In/Vigilante/The Woman in Black - Books 1-3 (29 page)

So far no links for any of the three had turned up and the situation with Nigel Collins was even worse. It was as if he had dropped off the face of the earth the day he walked out of hospital.
They had checked the housing association records for the address he had been living at when he ended up in hospital but the association said he never returned. There were forty-seven Nigel
Collinses living in the country and a team was currently working on bringing that number down based on age. It had already been established there were no Nigel Collinses fitting the age bracket
living locally. That was the first thing they had checked.

‘Great,’ Jessica said, before telling the officer she was on her way back with Cole.

Jessica told their taxi driver they were both CID and that she was giving him her permission to do whatever it took to get them back to the police station as soon as possible. Cole simply raised
an eyebrow as if to point out she couldn’t authorise speeding in a private vehicle like that but she wasn’t bothered. The driver was good and, after they arrived, she gave him a
twenty-pound note without asking for a receipt or change and ran into reception.

There was no particular reason for the hurry – the team knew what they were doing and there wasn’t an awful lot more she could add. Jessica wanted to feel part of things now they
finally had a lead they had waited so long for and bounded past the front desk, past her office and onto the main floor where . . . everything seemed normal. Officers were on the phone and doing
their jobs. She didn’t know why she thought things would be different just because they were onto something.

Rowlands approached her. ‘All right?’

‘Yeah, what’s going on?’

He told her that one of their three Scotts had been ruled out. Scott Barry had been found. He and his family had moved to a place in the Bristol area not long after he had finished school. He
had become an auctioneer and one officer had struck lucky simply by searching for his name on the Internet. A quick phone call had established he was the person they were looking for and that his
parents were alive and well living in Portugal.

That left Scott Hesketh and Scott Harris to track down. Apparently police officers had been to both addresses given on the school records. At the address they had for Scott Harris, there was no
answer but the house was registered to a Paul and Mary Keegan according to the land deeds. At the other, whoever had answered said they had never heard of anybody with the last name
‘Hesketh’. The occupants had only lived there a few months themselves.

‘Has anyone been able to get hold of James Christensen?’ Jessica asked.

‘What do you think?’

Jessica went upstairs to tell Aylesbury what had happened that morning to find Cole already there. She had given him a reasonable outline over the phone but things still had to be done
officially. As they were speaking, a call came through to say they had finally been able to get hold of Yvonne Christensen’s son in Bournemouth. There was nothing sinister going on, he had
been in lectures and had his phone off. His classmates would have had quite a spectacle as he was hauled out to be spoken to by police officers.

The call was patched through to the DCI’s phone but he allowed Jessica to take the call. ‘Is that James?’ she asked.

‘Yes, who’s this? No one’s told me anything here.’

‘James, this is Detective Sergeant Jessica Daniel. I’ve been working on the case regarding your mother’s murder.’

‘Oh right,’ the voice said sullenly, then quickly: ‘No one’s hurt my dad, have they?’

‘No, your father’s fine but I have to ask you about something that happened a few years ago.’

‘Okay . . .’

‘Does the name Nigel Collins mean anything to you?’

There was silence.

‘James?’

‘No,’ he said.

‘James, this is very serious. We can come back to Nigel another time but I need to ask about your friend Scott. What was his last name?’

The voice was quavering at the other end of the line. ‘Scott? Oh God . . .’

Jessica spoke quickly, her heart racing. ‘I’m sorry but you have to be calm, okay? Do you remember what Scott’s last name was?’

‘Oh God. Harris. It was Scott Harris. Am I . . . Am I in trouble?’

Jessica handed the phone over to the DCI, who would explain to James that nothing had been decided but he might want to get a lawyer. Jessica bounded down the stairs two at a time, charging
through to the main floor where everyone was working.

‘It’s Harris,’ she shouted. ‘Forget Hesketh, find Harris.’

They knew the place he used to live was now owned by a family whose name was Keegan, so finding out where they worked was crucial too. The officer who had knocked on the door had been left
outside the property in case anyone returned.

Jessica suddenly had a thought and went to stand behind Rowlands, who was nearby working on a computer. ‘Did someone check the birth, death and marriage details for those names and
addresses we had?’ she asked.

‘We got the birth certificates for all three of them.’

‘What about the marriage records?’

‘No, why?’

‘Just check to see if there’s any record of a Harris getting married in the past six or seven years.’ Rowlands put the search into the computer and a list of a few hundred
names came up. ‘Now see if any of those Harrises married a Keegan.’

The constable tapped a few more buttons on the keyboard which left them just one name. He used the mouse to double click and bring up the full record but Jessica already knew which address it
would throw up.

They’d had a police officer standing outside it for the past two hours.

Once they knew the Keegans were the family they were looking for, things moved quickly. Whether he was called Scott Harris or Scott Keegan, the son wasn’t an instant
priority. No decision had been made about reopening the Nigel Collins case but, given everything they knew, his parents could be in danger and getting them to safety was the first thing that had to
be done. Jessica spoke to the officer at the scene to tell him to try the front door on the off-chance it was open and then to check around the back and look through the windows to see if anything
was visible.

They discovered mobile phone numbers for both Mary Keegan – formerly Harris – and Paul Keegan. As she was being driven in a marked car to the house, Jessica tried both numbers.
Mary’s rang out with no answer but Paul Keegan answered to her silent relief.

It was now mid-afternoon and Mr Keegan told her he was at work in the council offices. Jessica didn’t explain much but asked if he could return home to meet them. His instant question was:
‘Is everyone all right?’

Jessica had no idea how to answer and didn’t want to lie by giving a definitive ‘yes’, so simply said, ‘We hope so.’ It was a horrible way to reply and Jessica knew
the poor guy would be frantic on his way home but there wasn’t much else she could say. At best she would apologise in person if everyone was safe and well.

At worst . . .

The Keegans’ house was once again in the same Gorton area as those of the first three victims. All four properties were within a mile’s radius. The journey wasn’t too far from
the station but Jessica kept trying Mary Keegan’s phone over and over. Every time it rang out. The car arrived and parked up on the road outside the Keegans’ house behind the first
police car. The officer who had been sent earlier was waiting for them.

‘Any luck?’ Jessica asked, wondering if he had been able to get in or at the very least see something.

‘No. It’s all locked up with the curtains pulled. I noticed a few neighbours taking an interest but nothing.’ Jessica went to walk past him but his next throwaway line sent a
chill down her spine. ‘I’ve just been hearing a phone ring inside non-stop for the last ten minutes or so.’

‘Shit.’

A third marked car pulled in behind them which would be bringing Cole and more uniformed officers. Jessica eyed the property. It was much the same as Yvonne Christensen’s, a standard
semi-detached house with strong imposing double-glazed doors and windows. The front garden was immaculate, surrounded by a small fountain and pond with lush trimmed grass. The Keegans were clearly
very house-proud. Even the surrounding hedges were cut neatly, in stark contrast to some of the other properties on the street. Jessica walked down the path to the house and opened the letterbox.
There were thick black bristles on the inside obstructing any view she might have. She used her fingers to try to push them aside but could see nothing. She next went to the bay window to the right
of the front door and used her hands to shield her eyes from the glare to peer through. A thick net curtain meant she could see nothing of note.

Within a moment of calling Mary Keegan’s phone again, Jessica could hear a muffled ringtone coming from the inside of the house. She leant with her forehead on the cool glass of the window
and hung up.

She knew what they were going to find inside.

Jessica heard a vehicle screeching from somewhere nearby and moments later a large silver car pulled up in front of all three police cars. She saw a man quickly get out from the driver’s
side and run along the pathway towards her. ‘Mr Keegan?’ she said.

‘Yes. What’s wrong?’

Jessica ignored the immediate question. ‘Do you have your house keys with you?’

The man was wearing black suit trousers and a white shirt with a blue criss-cross pattern. He was somewhere in his fifties and a few inches taller than Jessica, unshaven with carefully combed
dark hair that was greying around his ears. He put his right hand in his trouser pocket and pulled out a key ring. ‘Here. What’s going on?’

‘Do you mind if I borrow them for a moment?’

The man handed them to her and repeated, ‘What’s happening?’

Jessica said nothing but nodded to Cole and the waiting officers at the end of the path. Cole stood next to Mr Keegan as Jessica pulled a pair of thin blue rubber gloves out of her pocket. She
put the key in the front door’s lock and turned it.

‘Mrs Keegan?’ she called as she entered with two uniformed officers following behind. There was no answer.

The door opened into what looked like a living room with a set of stairs immediately on her left. The room was spotlessly tidy with a neat pile of mail on top of a small table immediately on her
right. At the other end of the room was a door that Jessica motioned the two officers towards as she went upstairs.

The stairs were made of wood, each one creaking noisily as she stepped on it. It was one flight to the top, which opened onto a hallway with three doors to choose from, two on her right and one
straight ahead. She opened the door in front of her that led into a bathroom. As with the rest of the house, everything was immaculate, the white bath and shower cabinet gleaming as sunlight came
through a small window. There was nothing else to see.

The next door opened into a bedroom. Posters of footballers and girls in bikinis were on the walls but the bunk beds directly across from the door were made in pristine fashion, the corners
tucked and the blue duvets perfectly central. There were a few action figures on cabinets and dressers around the room but otherwise it was as tidy as the other rooms. Jessica wondered if this was
Scott’s room. Was this where he returned to after torturing Nigel Collins? She pulled the door shut, the bottom of the wood rubbing on the carpet as she heard one of the policemen’s
voices from downstairs. ‘Clear here.’

One more door and she would be able to say the same. Jessica rested her hand on the final handle, held her breath and closed her eyes. She pulled it down and pushed the door open, forcing it
against the bristle of the carpet. She breathed out and opened her eyes. ‘No . . .’

On the bed was a woman’s body face-down. Aside from the room’s colours the scene was almost identical to what Jessica had witnessed at Claire Hogan’s flat. Instead of a sprawl
of bleach-blonde hair discoloured by dark blood spread across the bed sheets, Jessica could see long dark brown hair splayed out in a similar way. The yellow curtains were drawn and the room dim
but Jessica could see the matching double-bed linen was stained by blood.

Jessica didn’t need to see any more; four dead bodies were enough. She turned around and pulled the gloves off her hands, walking down the stairs back to the front door. The other two
officers were standing in the living room, both looking at her.

‘Don’t go up,’ she said, before adding, ‘Someone call the Scene of Crime team.’

Jessica took it upon herself to tell Paul Keegan there was a dead body upstairs on their bed, likely his wife. She spoke slowly and gently but the man could only stare at her with his mouth
open.

In any other circumstance his response ‘Are you sure?’ would have been ridiculous. In this one it was heartbreaking. Jessica could tell from the tone of his voice that he loved his
wife enormously. Some people would have wanted to run past her into the house, race up the stairs and see for themselves. Paul Keegan didn’t move from the spot on his front lawn. Jessica saw
tears in his eyes and reached out to put an arm on his shoulder, before fully embracing him and letting the man cry on her shoulder.

After a few moments, he pulled away and tried to straighten his shirt. He wiped his eyes but the tears hadn’t really stopped. ‘Was it him?’ he asked.

‘Who?’

‘Houdini.’

Back at the station things had been moving quickly. Jessica hadn’t given Paul Keegan a yes or a no answer. Although it seemed likely, they weren’t absolutely
certain and they now knew Houdini was most likely Nigel Collins.

Paul Keegan hadn’t wanted to go into the house but had agreed to an identification at the scene. It seemed harsh but for completeness’ sake it was better being done there, rather
than finding out a few hours later his wife was alive and well and some other dead body had been dumped in his house. He had clearly been upset at the brief look but had willingly come with them to
the station for interview. Grief did odd things to people. Some reacted like Sandra Prince and were unable to communicate. For others, like Paul Keegan, it seemed to have the opposite effect,
driving them to remember things they might not normally and to think with a level-headedness they might not usually have.